I think I'm in love with my stepbrother. Madly, hopelessly, ridiculously in love.

And the worst part? He still reminds me to wear a jacket.

At seventeen years, eleven months, and sixteen days old, I had developed an embarrassing talent for pretending Adrian Hayes was ordinary.

He wasn't. Ordinary people didn't remember exactly how much cinnamon I liked in my oatmeal. They didn't fix broken headphones at midnight.

And ordinary people definitely didn't look unfairly handsome while reading the electricity bill.

“Ethan,” Adrian called from the kitchen. “Your toast is burning.”

“It's artisanal.”

“It's on fire.”

I sprinted downstairs and discovered smoke curling from the toaster. Adrian stood beside it in a white work shirt, looking disappointed in humanity.

He unplugged the machine before I could reach it.

“Breakfast,” I announced, presenting the surviving eggs. “Made with love and questionable safety standards.”

“Should I call the fire department before eating?”

“Only if you want them to see you in those pajamas.”

He looked down at his plaid pants. “What's wrong with them?”

“Nothing. They're devastating. I'm devastated.”

Adrian laughed, the quiet laugh that made every stupid joke worthwhile.

We'd shared a home since our parents married eleven years ago. Mom and Daniel were away visiting relatives in Seattle this week.

That left me, Adrian, and the enormous problem of my feelings.

I pushed his coffee toward him. Two sugars, almost no milk. He took a sip and raised his eyebrows.

“You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you.”

He smiled without understanding what that confession cost me.

“Then remember to finish your college application essay.”

“Romance is dead,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. What's your type?”

He lowered his mug. “My type of what?”

“Person. Someone you'd date.”

“That's an abrupt subject change.”

“I'm conducting research.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Only if your answers are disappointing.”

Adrian considered the question with his usual maddening seriousness.

“Someone kind. Funny. Someone who notices when other people need help.”

“That's literally me.”

“That's also a pretty good description of a golden retriever.”

I clutched my chest. “You wound me.”

“Finish your eggs, golden retriever.”

His phone buzzed. He checked it, frowned, and typed a response.

“Work?” I asked.

“Ryan. The presentation moved up.”

“You're supposed to help me buy my graduation suit today.”

“I know.”

I tried to look casual. “We can reschedule.”

He glanced at me. “I already moved my meeting. We have an appointment at eleven.”

I stared. “You did?”

“You've been talking about this suit for three weeks.”

“I've been talking about lots of things.”

“I know. You talk constantly.”

He flicked a dish towel at me. I caught it and threw it back.

By eleven, we were inside a clothing store in Santa Monica, surrounded by mirrors and expensive fabric.

Adrian selected navy. I selected something burgundy and catastrophic.

“You look like a magician who lost his rabbit,” he said.

“That's the look.”

“The look is unemployed.”

I changed into the navy suit. The jacket fit my shoulders, but the tie refused to cooperate.

“Help?” I asked through the fitting-room curtain.

“Come out.”

I stepped into the mirror-lined hallway. Adrian looked up from his phone and stopped scrolling.

For one extraordinary second, he said nothing.

“What?” I asked, suddenly uncertain.

He stood. “You look great, Ethan.”

Not cute. Not adorable. Great.

I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.

Then he straightened my tie, stepped back, and shook his head affectionately.

“I can't believe my little brother is growing up.”

There it was. The invisible wall, rebuilt with six harmless words.

I examined my reflection and tried not to let my face change.

“Maybe you should start believing it.”

His expression softened. “I do. It's just happening fast.”

The sales associate returned with a price tag that nearly made me choke.

“Absolutely not,” I said.

Adrian looked at the number. “It's fine.”

“It's more than fine. It's rent.”

“Consider it an early birthday present.”

“I wanted to buy my own.”

“You can pay me back by showing up to graduation wearing it.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

Outside, the ocean wind caught my hair. Adrian reached for the collar of my jacket, then hesitated.

“You're cold,” he observed.

“I'm alive. Similar symptoms.”

He offered me his spare hoodie from the car. I took it because refusing would be stupid.

It smelled like laundry soap and the coffee he'd spilled last week.

On the drive home, he played the playlist we'd made when I was thirteen. I remembered every song and every argument about them.

“Still hate this one?” he asked.

“Passionately.”

“You sing every word.”

“It's hate singing.”

At a red light, he looked over. “You seem quiet.”

“I'm thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“About what happens after graduation.”

“College, hopefully.”

“And after that?”

He thought a moment. “Whatever you want. You get to decide.”

I wanted to ask whether his future had room for me in a different way.

Instead, I asked if he'd come to my graduation even if work got busy.

“Of course,” he said immediately.

That certainty was wonderful. It was also the reason loving him felt impossible.

That evening, Noah Bennett called while I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Tell me you finally asked him out,” Noah said.

“No.”

“Then tell me you finally told him.”

“Also no.”

“Ethan, your love life is a waiting room with terrible magazines.”

“I'm waiting until my birthday.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be certain I'm speaking as an adult, not as the kid he raised alongside.”

Noah grew quiet. “And if he doesn't feel the same?”

“Then I respect that.”

“Even if it hurts?”

“Especially then.”

He sighed. “That's annoyingly mature.”

“Don't spread it around.”

After we hung up, Adrian knocked and entered carrying a small paper bag.

“You forgot your tie at the store.”

“I was hoping to escape it.”

He placed it on my desk. “You'll look good at graduation.”

“Will you cry?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Liar.”

“Possibly.”

The next morning at school, my guidance counselor asked what I wanted my future to look like. I told her I wanted to study communications and write stories people couldn't

put down.

She asked what had inspired me. I almost said Adrian, because he'd read every ridiculous story I wrote at twelve and never laughed at the serious parts.

Instead, I said I'd been lucky to grow up around someone who listened. She smiled and wrote something in her notebook.

After class, I called Adrian to ask whether he still had my old notebook. He said it was probably in the hallway cabinet with the family photographs.

I found it that evening. Between stories about pirates and haunted elevators was a note in Adrian's handwriting: Keep writing. You're getting better.

I sat on the floor with that notebook in my lap and remembered how much of my confidence he'd helped build without ever asking for credit.

Loving him wasn't only about his smile. It was about the way he made the world feel possible, even when I doubted myself.

That realization frightened me more than the idea of being rejected. I didn't want my confession to turn years of kindness into an obligation.

I returned the notebook to its shelf and decided I would tell him that, too. He deserved to know his answer could be no.

He turned toward the door, then paused. “And Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm proud of you.”

The room went strangely quiet after he left.

I opened my phone and created a new note.

Fourteen days until I'm eighteen.

Fourteen days until I tell Adrian the truth.

I stared at the words until they stopped looking like a joke.

Then my phone buzzed with a message from him downstairs.

Don't forget your jacket tomorrow, troublemaker.

I laughed into my pillow.

Fourteen days suddenly seemed impossibly far away.