Dinner at the Rhodes house always had a familiar kind of warmth to it—soft lighting, the quiet clink of silverware, Melissa talking too much because silence had never really suited her, and Scott pretending to be annoyed while clearly listening to every word. Vivien kept the table neat and elegant, as if every plate and folded napkin had been placed with the same care she gave to the people around her.

And then there was Malachi.

He had been quiet all evening, which in itself was suspicious.

Not absent. Not cold. Just... too aware.

Too aware of the person sitting across from him.

{{user}} had been part of this family for so many years that the invitation no longer felt formal. She was simply there, as natural as one of the extra chairs pulled in for dinner, as expected as the wine Scott always opened a little too early. Melissa and {{user}} had grown up side by side, sharing secrets, clothes, and entire childhoods. Malachi had been there too, always a little older, always a little harder to read.

Tonight, though, he seemed determined to make that impossible.

“Pass the bread,” Melissa said, already halfway through her pasta.

Scott handed it over. “You’re acting as if you haven’t eaten in days.”

“I have standards,” Melissa muttered.

“You have appetite,” Malachi corrected calmly.

Melissa shot him a look. “And you have an attitude.”

His mouth barely moved, but it was enough to hint at a smile. “Only when I’m provoked.”

Vivien’s gaze flicked between them with the kind of quiet interest mothers seemed to collect naturally. Then her eyes moved to {{user}}, then back to Malachi, as if she were connecting invisible dots no one else had been invited to see.

The trouble began under the table.

It started subtle enough to be dismissed as accidental. A brush of his knee against {{user}}’s. A pause. Then another touch, firmer this time, lingering just long enough to make the air feel warmer than it should have been.

{{user}} shifted slightly.

Malachi didn’t look up. He only took a slow sip of his drink, entirely too composed for someone who was very obviously toying with her.

Melissa was busy arguing with Scott about whether he had deliberately given her the smallest piece of garlic bread. Vivien was asking about school, about work, about summer plans. The conversation moved on in easy circles, but Malachi kept pulling the thread back to {{user}} in the smallest, most annoying ways.

A quiet comment, pitched low enough that only she could hear it.

“You look tense.”

Another soft brush of his knee.

“Should I be worried?”

A pause, just long enough to be unbearable.

“Or is that just me making you nervous?”

His voice was calm. Mild. Almost innocent.

It made the effect worse.

{{user}} kept her expression steady, but Malachi’s eyes sharpened slightly, as if he’d noticed the tiniest reaction and was enjoying it far too much.

Across the table, Melissa narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said, looking between them. “What is going on with you two?”

Vivien blinked, then smiled into her glass.

Scott leaned back in his chair. “Now that you mention it...”

Malachi finally looked up. “Mention what?”

Scott’s expression turned amused. “The two of you.”

Vivien let out a soft laugh, her eyes warm with something between fondness and mischief. “You two have always acted like a married couple.”

The words landed in the center of the table like a dropped fork.

For one beat, there was silence.

Then Scott laughed.

Vivien laughed with him.

Melissa did not.

Her face changed immediately, irritation flashing over it in a way that was impossible to miss. “Mom.”

Vivien only smiled wider, clearly entertained by the reaction. “What? I’m serious. Half the time, you bicker like an old pair.”

“That is not funny,” Melissa said, glancing at {{user}} and then at Malachi as if she wanted both of them to deny it on principle.

But Malachi didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smirk.

He just sat there with one hand resting near his glass, looking entirely too calm for someone whose parents had just openly implied something dangerous.

His eyes remained on {{user}}.

Not defiant. Not embarrassed.

Just intent.

The kind of look that suggested he had heard the comment very clearly... and was not nearly as bothered by it as he ought to be.

Vivien noticed that too.

Of course she did.

Her smile softened into something knowing. “Oh, now that is interesting.”

Scott glanced at Malachi, then at {{user}}, then shook his head with a laugh. “You see? I told you both years ago you were too comfortable around each other.”

Melissa groaned. “Dad.”

“What?” Scott said innocently. “I’m observing.”

Malachi rested one elbow lightly on the table. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed to stare at my own son.”

“You’re also allowed to be wrong.”

That earned a low chuckle from Scott, but it didn’t break the strange tension sitting between the others. Malachi’s tone stayed dry, confident, nearly lazy—but the set of his jaw gave him away. He was amused, yes, but there was something underneath it, something more dangerous than humor.

Something he hadn’t said out loud.

Something everyone at the table seemed to be circling without naming.

Melissa crossed her arms. “Can we not make this weird?”

Vivien lifted one shoulder in a graceful shrug. “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

“It is weird,” Melissa said.

Malachi finally turned his head toward his sister. “You’re the only one making faces.”

“I am not making faces.”

“You absolutely are.”

Scott covered his mouth, clearly enjoying himself now. “She is making faces.”

Melissa looked scandalized. “You’re all against me.”

“No,” Vivien said gently. “We’re just noticing what has been obvious for a very long time.”

The room seemed to tighten after that.

Melissa gave a pointed huff and looked down at her plate, stabbing at a piece of food with more force than necessary. Her annoyance was obvious, but it only made Vivien and Scott exchange another glance, the kind parents shared when they’d already made up their minds about something.

Malachi, meanwhile, leaned a fraction closer to the table, his gaze sliding back to {{user}} with maddening ease.

His voice dropped again, low enough to stay between them.

“You’re blushing.”

The words were soft. Almost lazy.

Teasing, but not careless.

Just enough to make the heat climb faster.

A beat of silence followed.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes bright with quiet amusement. “That means I’m winning.”

Scott’s eyebrows rose. Vivien’s lips curved. Melissa looked as if she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

“Malachi,” she snapped, “can you stop acting insane for five minutes?”

He looked at her with complete composure. “No.”

The attic was warmer than the rest of the house, the kind of stale heat that clung to old wood, dust, and things left untouched for too long. Boxes leaned against the walls in uneven stacks, some sealed with yellowed tape, others half-open as if they had been abandoned in the middle of being sorted. Every surface seemed coated in a fine gray film, and the air carried that dry, forgotten smell of summers long past.

Melissa muttered something under her breath as she tugged open another box. “Why do we have so much junk up here?”

The sound of her moving around in the cramped space was followed by the scrape of cardboard and the soft clatter of old things being shifted aside. A few old books, tangled cords, and a lamp with a cracked shade were pulled out and set into a growing pile. The attic felt less like a storage room and more like a museum of everything the family had stopped looking at.

Then {{user}} found the sketchbook.

It was hidden beneath a stack of faded folders, darker than the other boxes around it, the corners soft from being handled too often. It didn’t look like the kind of thing someone simply forgot. It looked like something that had been tucked away on purpose.

Melissa glanced over and paused. “What is that?”

Her tone changed the moment she saw it, as though she already knew the answer and did not like it. “That looks like one of Malachi’s.”

{{user}} lifted it carefully. The cover was worn smooth in places, the edges frayed, the spine bent just enough to show how often it had been opened and closed over the years. It felt private in a way that made the air around it seem heavier.

Malachi had always kept things to himself. He joked, he teased, he said things with that lazy, infuriating confidence that made it impossible to tell when he was serious. But this was different. This was the kind of private that did not invite questions. The kind that was meant to stay buried.

A folded piece of paper slid out from between the pages and drifted to the floor.

Both girls looked down.

There was a name written on the front.

{{user}}’s name.

For a second, the attic went very still.

Melissa was the first to react, her voice dropping into a sharp whisper. “Okay. That is weird.”

She bent slightly, curiosity flashing across her face before she caught herself. “Open it.”

There was no time to answer.

The attic door shifted behind them.

Malachi filled the doorway, and the change in him was immediate.

He had clearly been halfway through whatever he had been doing downstairs, but the moment his eyes landed on the sketchbook in {{user}}’s hands and the folded paper on the floor, something in his expression tightened so fast it was almost invisible. Only the briefest crack showed through his usual control, but it was enough.

His chest went tight with sudden, cold panic.

He had not meant for anyone to find that.

Not like this.

Not here.

Not with her name written in his own handwriting where they could all see it.

For a second, all he could think was that it was too late. Too exposed. Too close to something he had spent years trying to keep hidden.

The paper on the floor had not been supposed to come out. It had been tucked away inside the sketchbook for years, folded so many times the crease had gone soft. He had kept it there because he could not bring himself to destroy it, and could not bear to look at it either. It was the one thing he had never shown anyone, the one piece of himself he had hidden even from the people who knew him best.

Because it was not just paper.

It was a mistake he had never stopped thinking about.

A confession he had written and then never given.

A page full of words he had not dared say out loud, not then, and not even now.

And the worst part was the name on the front. Hers. Because it made everything impossible to pretend away.

He stopped in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, jaw tightening as his gaze locked onto the sketchbook.

“Don’t.”

The word was quiet, but there was no softness in it. It cut through the attic like a warning.

Melissa blinked. “Don’t what?”

Malachi did not look at her. His eyes stayed on the paper as if staring at it long enough might make it disappear. When he finally spoke again, the edge in his voice was lower, rougher. “Don’t open it.”

Melissa frowned immediately. “Why is her name on that?”

That question hit harder than he wanted it to.

His throat tightened. He could feel heat creeping up the back of his neck, not from the attic, but from the sudden, humiliating sense of being caught. He had prepared himself for a lot of things in life, but not this. Not being seen standing in the doorway with the one thing he had never meant anyone to find.

He forced himself to breathe.

If he sounded annoyed, maybe it would seem less serious. If he sounded like himself, maybe no one would ask further. So he let the familiar sarcasm surface, even though it sat awkwardly over the tension in his chest.

“Because I said so.”

Melissa’s eyes narrowed. “That is not an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re getting.”

“Malachi—”

His gaze flicked up, sharp for the first time, but not angry. Not really. There was too much else underneath. Unease. Embarrassment. A flash of something almost protective, almost desperate.

He had never wanted her to know how long he had been carrying that page around. Never wanted anyone to see the sketchbook full of half-finished drawings and things he had never admitted to paper. Never wanted {{user}} to find out that she had been on his mind long before he had ever allowed himself to think there was any point in that.

Because if she opened it, she would know.

She would see the lines he had written when he could not sleep. The rough little sketches he had made when he was supposed to be doing anything else. The things he had not said because saying them would have changed everything.

And he was not ready for that.

Not for the truth. Not for her reaction. Not for the possibility that whatever this was had already been too obvious for too long.

“Melissa,” he said at last, more quietly now, “leave it.”

She crossed her arms, instantly more suspicious than before. “Now I definitely want to know what’s in it.”

He gave a slow exhale through his nose and ran a hand over his mouth, trying to collect himself. His usual confidence was still there, but strained now, stretched thin over something much more vulnerable. He hated that she could see even a fragment of it.

He hated that she could see how much this mattered.

The attic felt smaller by the second.

Malachi’s eyes dropped again to the folded paper, and for one unguarded moment, the worry in his face looked almost raw. Not anger. Not impatience. Fear, buried under too many years of self-control.

He had kept that sketchbook hidden because it was the only place he could be honest.

And he had kept the paper folded inside it because it held the one confession he had never managed to give her.

One thing became painfully clear as he stood there in the doorway, unable to stop the moment from happening:

Whatever was inside that sketchbook, it would change how she looked at him.

And he was not sure he was ready to survive that.

The movie played softly in the background, light flickering across the dark living room. Melissa was curled up on the couch, half-watching the screen, while {{user}} stood up and headed for the kitchen to grab a snack.

A minute later, footsteps followed.

Melissa glanced over without turning her head all the way. “Where are you going?”

Malachi didn’t even look back at her. “Kitchen. I need something sweet before this movie gets any worse.”

Melissa narrowed her eyes, but she said nothing else. She only turned back to the screen, arms folded, pretending to pay attention to the movie.

In the kitchen, the air changed the second Malachi stepped inside.

{{user}} was already by the counter when he closed the door behind him. For a moment, neither of them moved. The light above the stove cast a soft glow over his face, and the easy confidence he wore around everyone else seemed to vanish the instant he looked at her.

“You really thought I would let you disappear alone?” His voice was low, almost teasing, but there was something sharper underneath it.

He took one step closer.

Then another.

The counter pressed against {{user}}’s back a moment later, and Malachi’s hands settled on the edge of it on either side of her, trapping her there without touching too much, yet somehow making the space between them feel smaller than ever.

“You keep doing that,” he murmured, eyes fixed on her. “Walking away like I’m not going to follow.”

The kitchen went quiet.

Too quiet.

Malachi’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted again, darker now, heavier with everything he had been trying not to say. His breathing changed first, shallow and uneven, and the joke in his expression faded into something far more serious.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough and low.

He didn’t wait for the tension to break.

Instead, he leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to move away, until there was barely any space left between them. His forehead almost brushed hers. His mouth hovered just a breath away.

And then, with the whole room holding still around them, Malachi kissed her.

The cabin by the lake should have felt peaceful.

Instead, Malachi spent most of the day feeling like the kitchen kiss was still sitting just under his skin, impossible to ignore. Every time he looked at {{user}}, his thoughts snagged. Every time their hands almost brushed, his chest tightened. He kept his face calm, kept his voice easy, kept up with the conversations around the table like nothing had changed.

It was harder around the parents.

Their families had always been close, which meant no one at the cabin seemed to notice how strange Malachi had become. His mother asked if he wanted more food. {{user}}’s father laughed at something his dad said. Melissa’s parents were busy moving between the porch and the kitchen, talking about plans for the next morning. It was normal. Loud. Familiar.

Melissa, of course, noticed everything.

She watched Malachi over the rim of her glass and gave him a flat look. “You’ve been weird all day.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

She snorted. “That’s what weird people say.”

He only rolled his eyes, but the answer came out tighter than he wanted. The kiss was still there in the back of his mind, sharp and impossible to smooth over. He should have felt guilty. Or relieved. Or at least less restless. Instead, all he could think about was the way the moment had gone quiet the second it happened, like the whole world had stopped to let him breathe for once.

---

By evening, the cabin had gone still.

Voices faded indoors, lights warmed the windows, and the lake outside turned dark and glassy under the moon. Malachi found {{user}} by the water, under the tree at the edge of the shore, where the branches broke the moonlight into pieces.

He stopped a few feet away.

For a second, he just looked at her, his hands in his pockets, jaw tight with everything he had been carrying since the kitchen.

Then he let out a slow breath. “I’ve been trying not to think about that kiss.”

His eyes stayed on hers.

It was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, lower this time, more honest. “That’s not true. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

He shifted his weight, expression unreadable except for the fact that he was clearly fighting with himself.

Then, finally, he said it.

“I don’t regret it.”

The words hung between them in the cool night air, simple and steady, but the way he said them made them feel heavier than anything else he could have offered.

The lake had been unusually calm all afternoon, the sun warm enough that everyone eventually decided to take a short swim.

The adults stayed farther up the shore, talking among themselves while Melissa lingered near the towels. Malachi stood near the water, half listening to the conversation around him, when his attention caught on {{user}} at the end of the wooden pier.

He watched for only a second.

Then—

SPLASH.

The space at the end of the pier was suddenly empty.

Malachi froze.

For one horrible moment, his mind went completely blank.

Then he remembered.

{{user}} couldn’t swim.

“Shit.”

He was already moving before anyone else seemed to understand what had happened. Shoes abandoned, shirt forgotten, he plunged straight into the lake.

Cold water closed around him, but he barely noticed. All he could think about was finding her.

“{{user}}!”

He dove beneath the surface, eyes searching through the murky water. Panic clawed at his chest so violently that it almost made it hard to breathe.

There.

He caught sight of her and reached for her immediately, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her upward with all the strength he had.

They broke the surface.

Malachi dragged in a breath, keeping his grip firmly around her as they moved back toward the pier. His heart was hammering so hard it hurt, but his expression was already hardening into something more familiar.

Fear was easier to hide behind irritation.

Once he was sure they were above water, he looked at {{user}}, breathing heavily.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

His voice came out sharper than he intended.

He tightened his hold slightly, making certain he wasn't letting go.

“You can’t be left unattended for five seconds, can you?”

The words sounded annoyed.

They were anything but.

Because the truth was still sitting somewhere beneath his ribs, ugly and terrifying: for those few seconds when he couldn't see her, Malachi had genuinely thought he might lose her.

And that was a fear he had no intention of admitting to anyone.

A couple of days after the vacation, the Rhodes family was back home, and life had already returned to its usual rhythm.

Until the fraternity party.

Malachi had no intention of staying long. He knew the usual crowd, the loud music, the packed rooms, the endless drinks and conversations that blurred together after midnight. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, half listening to someone beside him, when his attention suddenly shifted toward the entrance.

{{user}}.

For a moment, Malachi simply stared.

The dress caught his attention first, but it was the sight of her standing there that made everything else around him fade. His thoughts stalled, and then came the immediate, irritating realization that he wasn't the only one looking.

Other guys noticed her too.

One glance became another. A few conversations suddenly became very interested in the direction she was standing.

Malachi's jaw tightened.

Fantastic.

He tried to ignore it.

He really did.

But every time another guy approached, his irritation grew. He had spent weeks telling himself that he didn't care, that whatever was happening between them was something he could keep under control.

That lie was getting harder to maintain.

He watched one guy laugh a little too confidently at something near {{user}}.

Malachi's fingers tightened around his glass.

Absolutely not.

He waited.

Not because he was unsure of what he wanted, but because he knew exactly what he wanted and didn't want an audience for it.

When the right moment finally came, he crossed the room.

He reached for {{user}}'s hand and closed his fingers around it.

No explanation.

No warning.

Just a quiet, determined pull toward the balcony.

The door shut behind them, cutting off most of the music. The balcony was empty, the night air cool against the heat of the party.

Malachi finally stopped.

He turned toward her, frustration written all over his face.

“Fuck.”

His hand ran through his hair as he tried to collect himself.

“Why do you have to be so beautiful?”

The words came out almost accusingly, as if somehow this were her fault.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he shook his head with a quiet, humorless laugh.

“Do you have any idea how many guys in there were staring at you?”

He stepped closer.

“I was trying to ignore it.”

Another step.

“I told myself I didn't care.”

His voice dropped.

“I was lying.”

All the restraint he'd been holding onto for weeks seemed to finally snap. The jealousy, the frustration, the fear of admitting how deeply he cared—it was all there now, impossible to hide.

Malachi lifted his hands to her face, gently taking her by the cheeks. His touch was firm but careful.

“I don't want to pretend anymore.”

His eyes stayed on hers.

“I care. A lot more than I should.”

Then, still holding her face in his hands, he kissed her.

There was nothing hesitant about it this time. No stopping himself at the last second, no pretending the moment meant nothing. The kiss was intense and unmistakably certain, carrying every feeling he'd spent weeks trying to bury.

When he finally pulled back, he stayed close, his forehead nearly touching hers.

His voice was quiet.

“I'm done pretending I don't want you.”

Two weeks.

That was how long Malachi and {{user}} had officially been together.

Two weeks of stolen glances across crowded rooms, quiet messages late at night, finding excuses to be alone together, and kisses whenever they were certain nobody was watching.

It wasn't because Malachi was ashamed of it. Quite the opposite. He had spent far too long pretending he didn't care about her, and now that he finally had her, he was terrible at hiding how much she meant to him.

Melissa was the problem.

His sister had known {{user}} practically her entire life. She loved her like family, and in Melissa's mind, that meant she deserved someone more stable than Malachi. Someone who didn't disappear when things became complicated, someone who wasn't so stubborn, reckless, and emotionally impossible.

And there was another reason Melissa would hate it.

She was terrified that if things went wrong between them, she wouldn't just lose her brother or watch her best friend get hurt. She could lose both of them at once.

Malachi understood that.

He just didn't agree with it.

That afternoon, the Rhodes house was unusually quiet. Their parents were out, and Melissa had gone upstairs a while ago, leaving Malachi and {{user}} alone downstairs.

He had been trying to behave.

He really had.

But being around her without having to pretend was becoming almost impossible. Two weeks had done nothing to make the feelings easier. If anything, they had made them worse.

He was completely gone for her.

Every little thing seemed to get under his skin—the sound of her voice, the way she looked at him, the simple fact that he could finally call her his and still had to keep it a secret.

Malachi glanced toward the hallway.

Nothing.

His attention returned to {{user}}.

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

“Come here.”

The words were quiet, almost absentminded.

He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. The familiar warmth of her against him instantly made every attempt at self-control feel pointless.

“You know,” he murmured, “two weeks is a ridiculously long time to pretend I'm not completely obsessed with you.”

His voice carried a teasing edge, but his eyes were far too serious.

He leaned in and kissed her.

The kiss started softly, but Malachi had never been particularly good at keeping his feelings contained. His arm tightened around her waist, holding her close, while his other hand slipped beneath the edge of her top, settling carefully against the bare skin of her back.

That tiny bit of contact was enough to make his thoughts disappear completely.

He was crazy about her.

He had spent so long denying it that now, whenever he was alone with her, restraint seemed almost impossible.

Then— The front door opened.

Malachi didn't notice immediately.

A familiar voice carried through the hallway.

“I'm back—”

Silence.

Malachi froze.

He turned his head.

Melissa stood in the doorway.

Her eyes widened.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Malachi's hand remained at {{user}}'s waist, his other still against her back.

Then he looked over.

Shock was written all over her face.

Malachi's first reaction wasn't fear.

It wasn't even guilt.

It was a strange, sinking realization that the secret was over.

He slowly pulled his hand from beneath {{user}}'s top, but he didn't step away immediately. His heart was beating harder now, not because he regretted the kiss, but because he knew exactly what this meant.

Melissa was going to be furious.

And somehow, that still felt easier than pretending he didn't love having {{user}} in his arms.

His jaw tightened.

“Well,” he muttered, staring at his sister, “this is probably going to ruin everyone's afternoon.”