Page 85 of Rising Heat
The framed photograph catches my eye before I’ve consciously decided to look at it.
The framed picture catches me before I’ve decided to look at it. It’s tucked half behind the lamp on the far nightstand—two boys on a dock somewhere sunny, both sunburned and squinting hard against the light.
Tyler is younger but already completely himself, that grin so familiar it makes something tighten in my chest. Mack stands beside him, a few inches taller even then, his arm thrown around Tyler’s shoulders in the easy certainty of a boy looking out for his little brother for so long he probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it anymore.
Something in my chest tugs at that. I look away before I can decide what that feeling means, fold the note once, and tuck it into the front pocket of the hoodie.
The apartment below is empty when I creep downstairs.
The fire has burned itself out, but yesterday’s warmth still lingers in the room. The kitchen is mostly spotless. Beside the French press sits a clean mug, a tin of loose green tea, and another note.
You better plan on returning the mug in person.
—Ty
I smile to myself as I realize they thought to leave it out before I woke up. Which…
No.
People can be thoughtful without it meaning anything. They can also be attractive—those are two entirely separate things. I decide they are. Then I stand there in their kitchen wearing Tyler’s hoodie after sleeping in Mack’s bed, and realize I’m doing a terrible job of convincing myself.
I carry the mug upstairs and let myself back into my apartment.
It looks exactly the same.
The navy sofa. Gerald, thriving and entirely unbothered, as always. The white sage candle burned halfway down on the coffee table. Everything exactly where I left it yesterday morning before Mack knocked on my door and told me to grab my things.
The glass of water is still sitting on my nightstand. My toothbrush is still on the vanity where I dropped it while trying to get myself together. Tiny, ordinary things. Proof that less than twenty-four hours ago my biggest concern was whether the power would stay on.
Now I’m standing in my own apartment trying very hard not to overanalyze the fact that I woke up in one brother’s bed wearing the other brother’s hoodie after spending the night playing Never Have I Ever with two men who casually admitted they share women.
Perfectly normal Thursday.
The thing is, I know how this works. They don’t date the women they share. Tyler said as much. So if—and this remains an aggressively hypothetical if—they were ever interested in me that way, it wouldn’t be because they were looking for something serious.
Oddly enough, that should make this easier.
I just ended an engagement. I’m hardly in the market for forever.
Except…yesterday didn’t feel casual.
My eyes drift to the two notes sitting side by side on the counter, fingers tightening around the mug a little before I even realize I’m doing it.
Maybe they’d have done the same thing for anyone who got snowed in. I’ve been pondering that explanation ever since I woke up because it should fit. But if this was only about sex, last night feels like it would’ve gone very differently.
I set Tyler’s note on the counter next to Mack’s and stare for two seconds too long.
Bex would know what to do with this. Bex would have a whole framework, a spreadsheet, and probably a pros-and-cons list with a tiebreaker column. My thumb lingers over her name for a second before deciding to put the phone down. Because the second I tell Bex, it becomes a thing, and right now it’s still just mine.
Quietly, confusingly, inconveniently mine.
Mack was right about the snow. If I wait too long, it’ll freeze into a solid ridge and I’ll be chiseling my way out with an ice pick by dinner. So, I layer up until I look like someone attempting Everest via Commonwealth Avenue, catch my reflection in the hall mirror, and sigh.
This is sexy.
My inner Bex, immediately chimes in.
No, what’s hot is the fact that you’re wearing one brother’s hoodie under your coat and you can still smell the other one’s pillow in your hair.
