My Stepbrother, My Enemy {BL}

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I woke up to the soft gray light of a winter morning streaming through my curtains, casting a muted glow that made my room look like it was still half-asleep. For a brief moment, as I slowly emerged from sleep, I forgot about the mess I’d created the night before. But then, it all came rushing back.

Ethan’s quiet "I’ll wait," the way his voice cracked on that word, and the warm memory of that last kiss. My chest tightened as if someone had squeezed my heart in a fist.

Reaching for my phone on the nightstand, I saw it light up with notifications that frankly didn’t matter. No new messages. None from him, anyway. I found myself staring at the empty lock screen longer than I should have, waiting for that familiar buzz, the little "good morning, handsome" text that had become as routine as sunrise over the past few months.

Part of me knew I shouldn’t hope for it—not after I chose to freeze things, not after I had looked him in the eye and admitted I needed space because my feelings had turned into a jumbled mess I couldn’t untangle.

Still, the sting of disappointment hit hard and fresh. I mentally kicked myself as I dragged myself out of bed. You hurt him, Noah. You don’t get to miss him already. You certainly don’t get to sit here pining for a text like nothing ever happened. Get it together.

Going through my morning routine helped a bit—brushing my teeth until my gums tingled, splashing cold water on my face, and running a hand through my hair to tame the bedhead that I pretended looked effortlessly cool rather than sleep-deprived. I put on my warmest jeans, thick socks, boots, and an oversized sweater that practically swallowed me whole. Comfort clothes for whatever emotional chaos the day had in store.

Downstairs, breakfast was the usual quiet scene. Mom was already flitting about in silk pajamas and a robe that probably cost more than most people’s rent, sipping coffee and scrolling through her tablet. Dad...well, Keith—was probably shut away in his study, doing whatever mysterious billionaire things he did.

I poked at some yogurt and fruit, forcing myself to eat even though my stomach felt like a gymnastics competition was going on inside.

After that, I grabbed the backpack I’d hastily packed last night when insomnia and adrenaline teamed up against me. It looked innocent enough, the same one I took to school every day—but instead of textbooks and notebooks, it was crammed with snacks like I was preparing for the apocalypse: granola bars, gummy bears, trail mix, two bags of chips, a family-size chocolate bar I’d swiped from the pantry, and three bottles of water.