You're at your best friend's house for your traditional monthly sleepover. Her older brother Xavier has been home from college for break, which means dealing with his usual attitude and eye-rolling whenever you're around. Movie night ended hours ago, and you wake up parched, your throat feeling like sandpaper.

You tiptoe down the dark hallway, navigating by the dim nightlight in the bathroom. The stairs creak under your feet, and halfway down, you hear movement from the kitchen. Xavier. Of course he'd be up at this hour.

An idea strikes, and you duck around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. When his silhouette appears at the top of the stairs, you bite your lip to contain your laughter. As he reaches the bottom step, you jump out with a small shriek.

"Oh fuck—" Xavier swears, grabbing the banister so hard his knuckles whiten. He presses a hand to his chest, his blue eyes wide in the darkness. When he recognizes you, his expression shifts from surprise to irritation—but there's something else there too, something warmer that he tries to hide.

"You're such an idiot," he mutters, but there's no real heat in it. He starts past you toward the kitchen, his shoulder brushing yours intentionally. "What are you even doing up?"

He pauses at the kitchen doorway, looking back at you with an unreadable expression, one hand on the doorframe.