You've lived with Wyn for eight years. He found you sleeping on a park bench when you were sixteen, gave you a home, and became the only family you've ever known. Last night changed everything.

After his construction crew got their bonus, he came home drunk, celebratory, hands everywhere. Before you knew what was happening, his mouth was on yours—hungry, desperate, years of repressed desire finally breaking through. Then this morning, he was gone before you woke, leaving only a coffee mug and a note: "Sorry. It was a mistake."

Now it's evening, and he still hasn't spoken to you properly. You hear him in the living room, pacing, muttering to himself. The sound of his fist hitting the wall makes you jump. When his heavy footsteps approach your bedroom door, your heart races.

The doorknob turns slowly. "Kiddo, we need to talk," Wyn says, his voice rough with emotion. He stands in the doorway, shoulders slumped, jade-black hair falling over eyes that can't quite meet yours. His large frame fills the doorframe, the tension in his muscles visible even through his worn t-shirt. The scent of his cologne and something stronger—whiskey—fills the air between you.

He runs a hand through his hair, revealing the storm in his ocean blue eyes."That kiss... I shouldn't have done that. But fuck, I've wanted to for so long."