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mine at midnight — zayne + caleb

Ten. Nine. Eight.

“You pick.” Caleb’s gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up. “Who gets your kiss.”

Seven. Six. Five.

Zayne and Caleb both move at once, until they’re close enough to touch you. Close enough to ruin you.

Four. Three. Two.

Their shoulders brush, but neither backs down. You could say a name, could stop this. But you don’t.

One.

“Happy New Year, meimei.”

synopsis: zayne only invites caleb over to be polite. then a snowstorm hits. now you're spending new year’s tangled between them, begging for something none of you were ever supposed to want.

tags: nsfw, pseudo-incest, threesome (no m/m), slow burn, angst and fluff and smut, drinking games, hurt/comfort, jealousy, possessiveness, kissing, vaginal fingering, oral sex, vaginal sex, creampie (x2), praise kink, love confessions, brat tamer zayne + brat enabler caleb

wc: 17.6k / ao3

a/n: there’s just something about snowapple, huh……..

The holidays don’t feel like they used to.

When you were little, you loved everything about the season—going to the winter markets, drinking hot chocolate, ice skating in the park. As the years went on, the magic faded little by little. Gran stopped hiding presents around the house. You didn’t have time to make your favorite cinnamon cookies. And when your older brother, Caleb went off to the Aerospace Academy, you started hating the holidays altogether.

This time of year is all about family. Spending time with the people you love, feeling grateful for all that you have. You don’t feel fortunate this year, though.

It’s your first winter since Gran’s passing, and you haven’t heard from Caleb since the funeral. You don’t blame him for his radio silence—his duties as Colonel in the Farspace Fleet certainly outweighed making gingerbread houses with his kid sister. Still, it doesn’t make you feel any less lonely as the days get shorter and the nights grow colder.

A knock at your bedroom door snaps you out of your self-pitying thoughts.

“Hey,” Zayne says, opening the door just a crack. “Is it alright if I come in?”

The question almost makes you laugh. It's no question he’s welcome inside—it’s his home, after all.

You do have one thing to be grateful for this year, you realize. If Zayne hadn’t taken you in after Gran’s passing, you weren’t sure where you’d be right now. It wasn’t easy at first—hells, it still was far from easy—but you and Zayne had grown into a comfortable rhythm of living together. You’d learned how he likes his tea (extra sugar), found a television program you both can agree on (that one ridiculous children’s cooking competition), and had even finally come to a compromise on the air conditioning temperature (warmer during the day for you, cooler at night for him).

“Of course,” you respond. “Come in.”

He’s still in his work clothes, tie loosened, dark hair a little disheveled. It always looked like that after he’d run his hand through it a few times. And he only ran his hand through his hair when he was thinking about something serious.

“Is everything okay?” you ask, sitting cross-legged to make room for him to have a seat at the foot of your bed.

He doesn’t respond at first, just hands you a glass of water, watching intently as you gulp it down. It’s almost routine now, the way he checks in on you each night when he comes home from the hospital. He hates leaving you alone all day, hates that he can’t take care of you all the time. He won’t admit it to you, though. Not with words, anyway.

But you see it in the glasses of water. The cash he secretly places on your dresser so you can do something fun. The fresh-cut fruit he leaves in the fridge for you because he knows you won’t prepare it for yourself. Little things that are easy to take for granted. But thinking about them altogether, seeing the way he studies you now, like he’s trying to solve whatever is making you upset…it makes your chest ache.

“Everything is fine,” he responds, only after you’ve finished the water. He takes the now-empty glass from your hands and sets it on your nightstand. “I just wanted to see how you’re feeling. I know the holidays can be hard after loss, and I’ve been working a lot of late nights, and I just—“

He lets out a shaky sigh, running a hand through his hair once more.

“I need to know that you’re okay. More than okay,” he says. “And if there’s anything you need, anything you want, I need to know that you’ll tell me, alright?”

You grab his hand without thinking, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Zayne, please don’t worry about me,” you tell him. “I am more than okay.”

He nods once, but doesn’t let go of your hand.

“There’s something else,” he says finally, voice lower now. Almost hesitant.

You tilt your head. “Okay…”

He clears his throat, thumb brushing the edge of your palm.

“I spoke to Caleb.”

“Caleb?” You nearly choke on air. “Like… Caleb, Caleb?”

“Yes, Caleb Caleb,” he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“He called a few nights ago. I didn’t tell you right away because I wasn’t sure if…” His words trail off. He sighs. “I wasn’t sure if it would make things better. Or harder.”

Your breath catches, just for a second. Caleb. You’d thought about calling him yourself a hundred times since the funeral. Maybe a thousand. But you never did. Because you were afraid he wouldn’t answer. Afraid you’d just be annoying him.

Zayne shifts, his knee brushing yours. “He asked about you.”

You look down at your hands, still joined. “What did you say?”

“I told him you’re strong. But lonely. That you’ve been trying to carry all this weight by yourself.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t mean to go behind your back,” he adds, quickly. “But I invited him to stay for New Year’s. Here, with us. In the guest room.”

Your head snaps up. “You what?”

“I know it’s last minute. And I know you’re still… processing. But I thought maybe—just maybe—it’d be good for you to have family around. Someone from…before.”

Before Gran died. Before you started waking up in this house. Before everything changed.

Your voice is quiet. “And what if I’m not ready to see him?”

Zayne’s expression softens.

“Then he doesn’t come through the door,” he says. “Not unless you want him to.”

Your chest twists. You nod slowly, lacing your fingers through his.

“I want him to come,” you decide. But the tone of your voice isn’t entirely convincing.

Zayne is patient, though. He always is. He waits for you to continue, giving your hand a calming squeeze.

“It’s just…” you start, clearing your throat. “You’ve already done so much for me. And I don’t want to take up more space than I should.”

His jaw tics, like the words physically hurt him.

“Don’t say that.” He says softly, but there’s an edge to it. “Don’t ever act like you’re some kind of burden. Not to me.”

He holds your hand tighter.

“You’re not taking anything I wouldn’t give,” He looks at you like he’s trying to will it into your bones. “This is your home, too. You belong here, with me. Whether you believe it yet or not.”

The words hit you, and it’s all too much. Too generous. Too thoughtful for someone who was just meant to put a roof over your head.

You look away, let go of his hand before you can overthink his words. The air shifts back to neutral.

“So,” you say, trying to make things lighter. “When’s he getting here?”

Zayne lets you have the out. “Tomorrow night.”

You nod, heart thudding.

Tomorrow, everything changes.

—

You don’t realize how long you’ve been pacing until Zayne speaks behind you.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.”

You turn. “Sorry. Just—nervous.”

He nods once, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater. No lab coat today. No stethoscope. Just…Zayne, in socks and sweatpants. And still, somehow, the most intimidating person in the room.

“He’s your brother,” Zayne says. “You’ve missed him.”

You chew your lip. “I have.”

Before either of you can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door.

You freeze. Zayne doesn’t. He crosses the room and opens it in one smooth motion.

“Colonel,” he says in greeting.

And just like that, Caleb’s standing in the doorway—coat half-unzipped, snow in his hair, duffel slung over his shoulder. He’s taller than you remember. Stronger. Sharper, too. But when his eyes land on you, they soften.

“Hey, pipsqueak.”

Your heart lurches. “Hey.”

You expect him to hug you right away. But he steps inside slowly, looking past you. Around the room. At the cozy living space filled with things that aren’t yours, but feel like yours now. At your shoes, tucked next to Zayne’s by the door.

At Zayne, who hasn’t moved. At you and Zayne. The space between you. The space that isn’t quite enough to be completely innocent.

Something unreadable flickers in Caleb’s eyes.

Then he hugs you.

His arms wrap around you, solid and warm. The way they always used to. But this time, it’s slower. Lasts a little too long. His hand finds the back of your head, thumb soothing against your hair like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You feel the breath he lets out, quiet but heavy. One it seemed he'd been holding for days. Weeks. Months.

And when you start to pull back, he doesn’t. Not right away.

His hand slides down to your shoulder.

“You holding up okay, meimei?” he asks, voice low, too close to your ear.

You nod, because you are holding up okay. You just feel…guilty.

Guilty that you’re standing. That you don’t spend your nights grieving anymore. That you’ve found some version of safety again, and it doesn’t look anything like your life before—the one where Caleb was the only boy you’d ever trusted.

Zayne leaves the two of you alone, and you’re not sure if that makes things better or worse.

You swallow the lump forming in your throat and force yourself to move. You attempt to grab your brother’s duffel bag, but he just raises an eyebrow.

“I’ve got it,” he says, slinging it over one shoulder like it’s weightless. “I’m still stronger than you, last I checked.”

“Barely,” you mutter, but it makes your heart ache a little. Because he used to say that kind of thing every day. Used to ruffle your hair and annoy you on purpose, just because he could.

“I’ll show you to your room,” you say, already leading the way.

He sets his bag down with a thud at the foot of the guest bed, looking around the room with that quiet soldier’s habit of scanning for exits, sightlines, vulnerabilities.

“It’s not much,” you say, hovering awkwardly by the door. “Zayne’s been meaning to repaint it.”

Caleb doesn’t comment. He crosses to the window, peering out at the quiet street below.

“You’ve changed,” he says finally.

You blink, taking a few steps into the room. “Is that a good thing?”

He turns to face you. “Didn’t say it wasn’t.”

There’s a pause—long enough for the air between you to grow heavy. You cross your arms, shifting under his stare.

“Just say what you want to say, Caleb.”

He exhales through his nose. “It’s a nice place. He takes care of you.”

“Yes,” you agree. You refold the spare blanket at the end of the bed, despite folding it three times today already.

“But?”

You lift your chin. “There is no but.”

His jaw works, studying your reaction. “I just worry, alright? It’s not exactly a standard arrangement.”

You bristle at that. “Gran trusted him. I trust him.”

“And what does he want in return?”

That one cuts deeper than you expect. Not because Zayne’s ever given you a reason to doubt him—he hasn’t. Not once. He’s done nothing but protect you, respect you, care for you with a kind of quiet loyalty that never asks for anything in return. But you can’t help that a part of you has wondered, late at night, what exactly Zayne is doing—what he’s waiting for. What will happen when he sees you’re not broken anymore, when he realizes he doesn’t need to take care of you.

You swallow. “He’s not like that.”

Caleb scoffs under his breath, not even trying to hide it.

“What?” you snap.

He crosses the room, grabbing your wrist to hold you still. You didn’t realize you were still smoothing the edges of the blanket absentmindedly.

“I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

Your stomach drops.

“He doesn’t look at you like you're some random roommate. Or a helpless child. Or whatever story you’re telling yourself to sleep at night.”

You try to escape his grip, but he just pulls you in closer. “You’re reading into things,” you tell him.

“Maybe,” he admits. “But I’m not blind.”

You turn away, and he lets you go. “Zayne’s never done anything to make me feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m not saying he has.” Caleb’s voice is calmer now, but it’s the calm that comes right before a storm. “But that doesn’t mean I’m just gonna sit back and pretend he’s not looking at you like you’re his.”

You shake your head. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“I know enough to ask questions,” he says. “And I know you.”

You fold your arms tight around your chest, suddenly cold. “Then you’d know you have nothing to worry about.”

"Right."

He watches you like he’s realizing he already lost you—and you didn’t even notice you were leaving.

“I’ll let you get some rest. Bathroom’s down the hall,” you murmur, already backing towards the door. “Goodnight, Caleb.”

You’re gone before he can say it back, missing the way his expression falls after you close the door behind you.

—

You wake up slow, heavy in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. The house is quiet except for the faint sound of something sizzling.

The smell is warm. Familiar. It makes something behind your ribs ache.

When you step into the kitchen, Caleb’s already there—sleeves pushed up, working a pan like it’s any other morning.

“Figured I’d make breakfast,” he says without looking up. “Your old favorite.”

There’s a plate on the counter already, piled high with pancakes dotted with chocolate chips and strawberries, maple syrup pooled on the side. Just like he always made when you were younger. You used to love them.

You stare at the plate, throat tight. “Thanks,” you manage, taking a seat at the counter.

You take a bite. It’s fine. Just a little too sweet. A little too much. But you chew quietly and don’t say a word.

Zayne appears a moment later, already dressed, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He doesn’t say good morning right away—he just looks at you, then the plate, and goes to grab something from the fridge.

He sets a container of lemon yogurt by your plate.

“I picked this up for you the other day,” he says, grabbing you a spoon. “Thought you might like it with pancakes.”

You blink at it, then at him.

“I do,” you reply. “Thank you.”

You swap out the syrup for the tangy coolness. It hits exactly right. You don’t look up, but you feel Caleb’s pause. Hear him flip the next pancake a little too hard.

“Guess I’ve got some catchin' up to do,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone. And it hits harder than you wish it did.

The next few minutes go by in tense silence, save for the tapping of Zayne’s fingers as he sends off some work emails and the scrape of your spoon against the plastic yogurt container. As soon as you’re finished, you toss it in the trash, as if hiding the evidence of Zayne’s care will wipe the look of disappointment off of Caleb’s face.

It doesn’t.

“So,” you try instead. “I was thinking…”

“Really?” Zayne doesn’t even look up from his phone before speaking. “That’s never ended well.”

You roll your eyes back so far it hurts.

“I was thinking ,” you repeat louder, stretching out the word, “that we could go outside, maybe check out the park across the street. Build a snowman or something.”

As soon as the thought leaves your mouth, it sounds stupid. Why would grown men want any business playing outside, rolling up snow and—

“Dibs on the middle,” Caleb announces. Nevermind, then. “He’s gonna have the best abs the Linkon snowpeople have ever seen.” He flexes his biceps, and you playfully swat his arm away.

You dare to look at Zayne, fearing he’ll say no. You shoot him the best puppy-dog eyes you can manage.

To your surprise, he tilts his head with a look that says Is that even a question?

“I’ll run to the store and get some supplies for his face,” he says.

You smile so hard that both of the men laugh.

“I’ll go find some clothes for him, then,” you tell them, already halfway to your room.

When you come back out, Caleb’s already at the front door, all decked out in snow gear. You have him carry some of the accessories you managed to find—a too-small hat, mismatched mittens, a hideous scarf. The two of you head out to the park, where Zayne said he’d meet you.

For now, though, it’s just the two of you.

The world outside is soft and white, the park nearly empty beneath the chill of the winter morning. Everything feels new, untouched since last night’s snowfall.

“This’ll be the spot,” Caleb says, already dropping to his knees in a patch of clean snow. “Optimal snowman real estate.”

His gloved hands move with ease, scooping snow up into a giant ball like he’s done this a hundred times before. He probably had, now that you think about it. You used to beg him to make snowmen with you at the sight of a single snowflake.

Some things haven’t changed.

You sniffle, rubbing your nose on the back of your sleeve. You try to be discreet, but Caleb catches the movement like a hawk.

“Cold already, huh?” he stops his work on the hip-height snowball, turning his attention entirely to you. “You always did forget how brutal snow is when you’re not just watchin' it from the window.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks sting, and your nose is definitely red if the look he gives you is anything to go by. His expression softens, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You’ve got frostbite written all over you,” he mutters as he removes his gloves one at a time. You try not to stare at the way he flexes his hands, getting them used to the cold air.

Then, without waiting, he reaches for the ridiculous plaid scarf you’d brought for the snowman—a hideous thing, probably meant for a donation bin. Caleb shakes it out, stands up, and steps closer.

You reach out a hand to grab it from him, but he ignores it. Instead, he wraps the scarf behind your neck himself, looping it once around your throat. When his hands linger on the fabric, warm knuckles brushing your jaw, you nearly forget how to breathe.

“Y’know, the weather in Skyhaven’s pretty nice this time of year,” he tells you, his breath forming small clouds between you. “You wouldn’t get cold there.”

Your heart sinks at what he didn’t say. At the thought of what life would be like had you not moved in with Zayne.

At the end of the day, though, it was Zayne who welcomed you into his home with open arms when your brother barely stuck around for the funeral. It was Zayne who Gran entrusted with your safety—not Caleb. And that meant something to you.

“I don’t mind the cold,” you tell him, looking down at your boots. “And I don’t think I could live in a place without snow.”

He ties the scarf tighter, just enough to force your chin up to look at him.

“You should’ve asked me,” he says, holding your gaze. He doesn’t need to explain what.

“You didn’t offer,” you reply.

His jaw tightens. “You didn’t wait for me to.”

For a moment, the world goes quiet. No wind. No snow. Just Caleb’s hands still on the scarf at your throat, his eyes searching yours like he’s afraid he’s already lost something he never got to keep.

“I didn’t think…” You hesitate, fingers brushing the end of the scarf. “I didn’t know that was something you wanted.”

Caleb doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

“Did you really not know? After everything?”

You hesitate, then shake your head no.

“It was never even a question. Not to me,” he says, voice steady and low. “I didn’t think I had to spell it out. I thought….I thought you knew I’d take care of you. That I always would. No matter what.”

He doesn’t move, but the scarf suddenly feels tighter.

“I didn’t offer,” he adds quietly, “because I didn’t think I had to. You were supposed to come to me.”

Your chest twists. “But you never said—”

“Neither did you.”

He exhales once, sharply, and finally lets go of the scarf around your neck—but he doesn’t step back. If anything, he leans in closer. Just enough that you feel the heat of his breath when he speaks again.

“I would’ve cleared out my whole apartment for you. Would’ve burned the whole fuckin' place to the ground if you’d asked,” he says, but he doesn’t raise his voice. That almost makes it worse. “I’d have built you a home brick by brick with my bare hands if it meant you’d stay where you belong.”

“Caleb…” you start, but there’s no end to the sentence. Because what can you say? Sorry? I didn’t know? I didn’t think I was allowed to belong to you?

“I know he’s the one who takes care of you now. The man who was there when I should’ve been. I get it,” he sighs. “But don’t act like it doesn’t kill me. Like I didn’t want you to choose me.”

His eyes dart to your lips, only for a second. Like he regrets it instantly.

“Would you have?” he asks suddenly. “If I had asked?”

You want to lie. To make it easier.

“I…” you whisper. “I don’t know.”

And it’s the truth. Even though it devastates you to say it. Even though it feels like betrayal—of Zayne, who’s been nothing but good to you. And of Caleb, who’s never asked for anything, but whose pain bleeds through every word right now.

You don’t know what your life would’ve looked like if you’d gone with Caleb. If you’d waited. If you’d known. If he’d said something sooner. If you had.

You don’t know which of them you want more. You don’t even know if you’re allowed to want at all.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, like he’s holding back—fury, desperation, maybe just the urge to touch you. And you’d let him, wouldn’t you? Just for a second. Just to feel it. Just to know what it could’ve been like.

But you can’t.

Not when he’s a guest in the home Zayne’s built for you. Not when he’s the only family you have left.

“You should’ve been mine,” he says as he steps back, so quietly you barely hear it. He pulls his gloves back on without another word, goes back to forming the base of the snowman as if he didn’t just tear your heart into pieces.

The wind picks up, but it’s not what makes your eyes burn.

“Thought I’d find you two out here.”

You turn at the sound of Zayne’s voice, heart hammering. Caleb doesn’t look up. You blink back your tears, praying that Zayne doesn’t notice the tension between you and your brother that’s so heavy it hurts.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Just hands you a paper bag filled to the brim with carrots and blueberries and buttons.

“I thought blueberries would make a nice smile. Buttons for eyes,” he speaks about the snowman supplies so seriously, you can’t help but smile. “And of course he’ll have a carrot nose.”

“Of course,” you echo, and immediately get to work.

Between the three of you, the snowman is finished in no time. Caleb drew a six-pack onto his stomach. You gave him a lopsided blueberry smile. And now Zayne carefully presses in the button eyes with surgical precision.

“Suppose we should give him a proper winter welcome,” Caleb’s voice calls from behind you.

Before you can ask what that means, something slams into your shoulder. Snow explodes. And Caleb’s already kneeling for another handful.

You yelp. “Oh my god—are we seriously doing this?”

Another snowball flies past you. Zayne dodges it without a word, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s indulging this. But he’s already packing one, too.

You can’t help it—you’re laughing, running behind the snowman for cover, breath sharp in your chest. The three of you hurl snowballs at each other like it’s war. It’s the most alive you’ve felt in days.

Zayne aims low. Caleb aims hard. Too hard.

You straighten just as he releases. A perfect throw, dead-center. You don’t even see it coming until—

Thwack.

It hits you square in the chest. Not the shoulder. Not the arm.

Your heart.

Everything goes white.

The cold hits you an instant later, but so does the dark. You feel your knees buckle. Hear someone shout your name. Someone else curses violently. Then nothing.

Just snow. Just silence. Just the sound of someone crashing through it, trying to reach you.

—

You wake to warmth—and raised voices.

“…you shouldn’t have thrown it that hard,” Zayne mutters, low but scathing.

“I wasn’t aiming for her,” Caleb bites back. “You think I’d do that on purpose?”

“She stopped breathing,” Zayne says quietly so as not to disturb you. But the strain in his voice tells you he wishes he could shout. “Blunt force like that could be fatal for someone with her condition.”

The words land like a slap. You don’t fully register them at first. Your brain’s still foggy, blurred by whatever knocked you under, but they hit you all the same. You think that Zayne can be dramatic at times about your heart problems—it was his job to worry as your cardiologist, after all—but something about this time felt serious.

“You think I don’t fuckin' know that?” Caleb’s attempt at keeping his voice down is less effective.

Your lashes twitch. They don’t notice.

“She collapsed, and you stood there frozen while I had to make sure her ribs weren’t shattered—”

“I wasn’t frozen—”

“You panicked.”

“Because I care!” Caleb snaps. “Because I didn’t think—”

“No. You didn’t.” Zayne’s voice is cold. “She could’ve gone into cardiac arrest from that kind of impact.”

His palm brushes your temple, fingers sliding back into your hair.

“She still might.”

That’s when you shift. It’s a microscopic movement, but Zayne’s hand is already there, steadying your forehead.

“Hey,” he says, instantly focused, the edge in his voice vanishing. “There she is.”

You blink once, then again—eyes adjusting to the soft lighting of the living room, to the deep ache in your chest, to the feel of something firm and warm beneath your cheek.

Zayne’s lap.

Your head is in his lap.

Behind him, Caleb stands stiffly at the foot of the couch, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he’s holding something back with every cell in his body.

You try to move, but Zayne stops you with a look.

“You passed out,” he says. “Don’t even think about sitting up.”

Caleb’s voice is tighter now, like he’s fighting to stay calm. “She can barely breathe and you’ve got her in your lap?”

“She wasn’t breathing,” Zayne replies evenly. “And her head needs elevation. So unless you suddenly have a medical license—”

“Fuck you,” Caleb mutters.

The silence is thick. Your throat aches. You try to speak, but all that comes out is—

“I’m fine,” you whisper, but it comes out scratchy.

“You’re not,” they both say at the same time.

You’re about to fight back, argue that you can’t feel a thing. But you blink down—and freeze.

You’re wearing one of Zayne’s shirts. One of his favorite medical school tees, oversized and soft with age. Definitely not what you were wearing outside.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Did…Did one of you—?”

Caleb’s already shaking his head. “Zayne did.”

Zayne’s jaw ticks. “You were soaked. You’d passed out. I wasn’t going to leave you in wet clothes to freeze.”

You blink again. You can feel the fabric brushing your bare thighs. Which means your jeans are gone, too.

Heat floods your face.

“I would’ve done it if it were anyone,” Zayne says tightly, misreading your silence. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t like that.”

Your hand strays under the blanket just to be sure. Thank the gods, your underwear is still on. And you chose to wear one of your favorite little black lace thongs this morning.

You’re not sure if that makes things better or worse.

You don’t say anything. Neither do they.

Then Caleb moves.

He drops to a crouch beside you, the cold fire in his expression finally flickering into something else. Guilt, maybe. Or shame. Or something messier than either.

He just stares—like he can’t believe what he’s done. Like he can’t stop replaying it. Like seeing you wrapped in Zayne’s clothes, curled into his lap, is some final punishment he deserves.

His voice is low. Not like before.

“You scared the shit outta me, pipsqueak.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, just folds his forearms on the edge of the couch cushion, fingertips brushing the blanket near your hip like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you.

“I thought you weren’t gonna wake up,” he says. “I—I thought I’d hit you too hard. Thought I’d…” His throat works. “Thought I broke something I couldn’t fix.”

You don’t know what to say. Especially when Caleb finally looks up, eyes rimmed red at the edges.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he murmurs. “I swear to god, if I could take it back—”

You reach out before you mean to, your fingers grazing his wrist.

He goes still. So does Zayne.

Caleb doesn’t grab your hand. He doesn’t speak again. He just stares at where you’re touching him like it hurts. Like it means more than he’s ready for. Then, gently—like you’ll break if he breathes wrong—he turns his palm over and curls his fingers around yours.

Zayne shifts behind you, and it’s only then you remember you’re still in his lap. Still wearing his shirt. Still in the middle of a war neither of them will admit you’re at the center of.

You look between them. Caleb, still crouched at your side like he can’t leave, like he won’t. Zayne, rigid but close, your head still resting in his lap like it belongs there.

And suddenly it hits you—how much they both care. How differently they care.

Zayne holds you like a duty he chose. Like a storm he’d rather face head-on than let touch you. Caleb looks at you like he just realized what it means to lose something he never claimed. Like he’d rip the universe into pieces if it meant he had a chance to make you his.

Your hand is still in Caleb’s. Zayne’s hand is still at your hip. And you don’t know which one is harder to let go of.

So you don’t.

You just sit there between them. Half in one world, half in the other. Threaded through with heat and guilt and things no one’s willing to say out loud yet.

Your throat aches with everything you can’t ask. Everything you want to. But all that comes out is a whisper, barely audible: “…I’m okay.”

And you close your eyes. Not because you’re tired.

But because it’s the only way to stop yourself from choosing.

—

You don’t ask why Zayne went out of his way to get tickets.

Not after the last day and a half—after the fall, the bruising, the tension that followed. No one said much, but everything they did was louder than words.

Zayne brought you tea before you could ask. Let you curl against his side while he worked, pulling a blanket over your legs like he’d done it a thousand times. He never mentioned the way you flinched—just checked your temperature twice and frowned when you tried to stand too fast.

And Caleb… Caleb acted like it was a full-time job to make sure you didn’t move. He teased you about milking the injury, sure—but still picked up your laundry basket with one hand and tugged your sock up with the other. Still sat behind you when he put on your favorite holiday movie, letting you lean on his chest like it didn’t drive him insane.

It wasn’t cold between the three of you. Just cautious. Like everyone was waiting for someone to say the wrong thing. Break the fragile truce. Tip the balance.

So when Zayne mentioned the party offhandedly over coffee yesterday morning—barely looked up from his laptop as he said, “There’s a New Year’s thing I thought we could go to. A rooftop party. Linkon skyline, open bar.”—you blinked.

Caleb had raised an eyebrow. You’d just blinked. Zayne doesn’t do parties. He barely does people. But he booked it anyway.

“Thought it’d be good to get out of the house.”

He didn’t say it, but you knew what he meant. After everything…maybe a night out wasn’t such a bad idea.

You don’t question it. You don’t dare. Not when he’s trying, in his own quiet way. Not when Caleb agreed with a shrug and said, “Can’t say no to a free open bar.” Not when it feels like maybe this is the night something shifts—good or bad, you’re not sure.

And maybe that’s why you reach for the dangerously low-cut evening gown that’s been collecting dust in the back of your closet. You thought it might stay there forever. But maybe some part of you always hoped they’d see you in it.

Tonight, you want to feel like more than someone they’re trying not to break. You want to feel like someone worth burning for.

And yeah, maybe you just want to feel hot. Just once.

Not pitied. Not protected. Just—wanted.

So you shimmy into the gown just before nine, smoothing the silky fabric down your hips and adjusting the neckline with a frown. The front dips lower than you remembered—it’s practically a threat.

The zipper, however, is the real problem.

You reach behind you, fingers struggling to tug it up past your waist, but the angle’s all wrong. You try once more, cursing softly under your breath, and—

“Need a hand?” Zayne’s voice is at your door.

You freeze, caught mid-reach. “I—uh—yeah. I can’t get the zipper.”

He says nothing for a beat. Then the door creaks open.

You catch his reflection in the mirror before you feel him. His tall frame comes to stand just behind yours, the scent of clean cologne and cool air curling around you. He’s already dressed, suit perfectly fitted, hair still a little damp from the shower.

You don’t meet his gaze in the mirror. You can’t. Not when his hand slides gently to your back, fingers brushing bare skin.

“This dress is asking for trouble,” he murmurs, voice low.

You try to laugh. “Good thing I’m innocent.”

Zayne doesn’t respond. He begins pulling the zipper up, agonizingly slow, knuckles grazing along your spine like he’s taking his time.

At the halfway point, he pauses. You feel the warmth of his breath near your neck.

“You’re sure you want to go out like this?” he asks quietly.

“Why?” you breathe. “Do I look bad?”

“No,” he says, too fast. “You look perfect.”

You lift your gaze to the mirror, finally, and see the flicker of something hungry in his eyes, barely controlled.

Then the zipper reaches the top. But he doesn’t move away. You feel him, all of him, still behind you, eyes scanning the length of your body—the slit that cuts high on your thigh, the way the silk hugs the curves of your hips and waist just right.

He goes still when his gaze reaches your chest, and it’s not because the draping fabric exposes the sides of your breasts.

Well, not entirely, anyway.

His brow furrows. Then, carefully, his thumb brushes along your sternum.

You suck in a sharp breath as he grazes the bruise that bloomed beneath your collarbone—the one from Caleb’s snowball two days ago. You’d hoped makeup and a deep neckline would distract from it. That you could pretend you were fine.

But Zayne doesn’t miss things. He never has.

You flinch, just slightly, and that’s all it takes.

“You’re still hurt,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You swallow. “It’s just a bruise.”

“I shouldn’t have made these plans,” he says suddenly. Quiet, but sharp.

You blink. “Zayne—”

“I thought you’d be fine. I thought…” He trails off, breathing through his nose like the words make him sick. “I didn’t think you’d still be flinching. Didn’t think I’d be zipping you into a dress while you’re still in pain.”

You don’t know what to say. It’s rare to see him like this—guilt creeping in around the edges of his otherwise composed expression.

“It’s not your fault,” you say softly.

His reflection in the mirror looks composed, but his hands are trembling.

“I just wanted you to have one night to feel good,” he says. “To feel like yourself again. I thought inviting Caleb would be good for you. Bring something back that you’ve been missing.”

You hadn’t realized how carefully he’d been watching. How much he’d noticed the way your light dimmed these past few months—how the grief had hollowed you out, how the loneliness swallowed you whole.

“I need you to be happy again,” he whispers. His fingers graze the bruise again, so gently you barely feel it. “Even if it’s not because of me.”

You hesitate, heart catching on the words. Because he means it. And because he’s wrong.

“I know I’ve been…off,” you admit. “And I know Caleb brings out this part of me that’s been gone for a while.”

Zayne exhales, slow and shaky. Like he’s bracing for the worst.

“But you make me feel so safe. Steady,” you add. “Like myself, even when I forget who that is. You’ve given me a place to call home. Taken away the pain during some of the lowest points of my life.”

Your voice wobbles. “I don’t always know how to show it,” you admit. “But you make me happy, Zayne.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, breathes you in like he doesn’t want to ever lose this moment.

Then you smile, teasing the mood back to something lighter. “And anyway…it’d be a real shame if this dress never left the house.”

His eyes darken, fingers tightening slightly at your hip.

“It shouldn’t leave this room ,” he says, barely audible. “Not looking like that. Not on you.”

You swallow, lips parting, but stay quiet. You don’t need to ask what he means by that. Because outside of this room—

“Pipsqueak!”

Caleb’s voice booms from down the hall, and you and Zayne spring apart from each other like teenagers who just got caught behind the bleachers, even though nothing actually happened. Still, you feel the weight of Zayne’s gaze lingering on you like it could have.

The door opens before either of you can move.

Caleb steps in, dressed in slacks and a white button-down, holding a black tie in one hand. His eyes land on you first—then flick to Zayne, standing way too close for it to look casual.

His brows lift. “Am I...interrupting something?”

“She needed help with her zipper,” Zayne responds, maybe a little too quickly.

“Right,” Caleb responds, but he doesn’t give Zayne a second glance. He’s only looking at you now. “You look…beautiful.”

Zayne excuses himself, the door clicking shut behind him. You and Caleb are alone now. The silence stretches, heavy and raw.

“So,” Caleb says, voice lighter than his eyes. He holds his tie out to you like a peace offering. “Think you can help me with this? Or should I go ask him, too?”

You step forward and grab it before you can think.

“You always ask me,” you say. “You never learned how to do it yourself?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I just like when you do it.”

You step up to your brother, looping the tie around his neck with practiced fingers. His hands settle at your waist, light and familiar. And for a moment, you’re aware of everything—his heartbeat, the lingering smell of Zayne’s cologne, the way your hands tremble slightly as you tug the knot into place.

“Tighter,” Caleb murmurs, low enough that you almost miss it.

You glance up, and he’s already watching you. His eyes don’t move when yours meet them. They just darken—flicking briefly to your mouth before returning to your face.

“Not used to you being this quiet,” he adds, softer now. “You okay?”

You nod, your fingers still working the knot of his tie. But they move slower now. Less sure.

“Just…thinking,” you say.

“About him?”

Your hands still. The knot is nearly done, but you don’t step back yet.

“About everything,” you say finally.

You’re standing so close now, your chest nearly brushing his.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, “I’ve never liked sharing. Not when it comes to you.”

Your breath catches.

His gaze jumps past you, toward the mirror behind you both. You follow it, and realize how close you really are. How your back is slightly arched. How his chest is nearly pressed to yours. How his hands, at some point, found your hips.

“Look at us,” he says, just behind your ear. “You really think anyone else would love you like I do?”

His hands don’t move, but you feel them everywhere. The ghost of them. On your back. Around your throat. Running up your thighs. The places they haven’t dared touch yet—but want to. Desperately.

You inhale too sharply, because you feel it, too. You always have. The kind of love that borders on obsession. That makes you feel like you belong to him—like you always did. The kind of love you’re not supposed to say out loud.

And maybe that’s why you don’t.

You turn to face him slowly, eyes meeting his. And for one terrifying, beautiful second, he thinks you’ll say it. That you’ll surrender.

But instead, your gaze drops to his chest. You fiddle with the edge of his tie like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.

“I think your tie is all set,” you whisper.

It’s an out. It’s mercy. And it tears something open in both of you.

He lets out a low laugh, like he knows. Like he’s going to let you get away with it—for now.

But this thing between you? It’s not going anywhere. And next time, he won’t let you walk away so easily.

—

You’re slipping on your heels when the lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then—dark.

The apartment goes silent except for the wind howling outside.

“…that’s not good,” Caleb says, straightening from where he’d been lounging by the kitchen counter, champagne bottle in hand.

Zayne’s already at the window, pulling back the curtain. “Shit,” he mutters

The snow is blowing sideways, so thick you can hardly see the outline of the streetlamps.

Caleb lifts a brow. “So…no rooftop countdown?”

Zayne doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are on the snow, calculating.

“It’s not safe,” he says finally. “Even if we could get there, power’s out across half the grid. Roads are iced. No one’s going anywhere tonight.”

You blink. “Wait, seriously?”

Caleb sets the bottle down. “Seriously seriously?”

Zayne finally turns to face you both. “We’re officially snowed in.”

There’s a pause—three overly dressed-up people in the middle of a darkened apartment, surrounded by flickering streetlights and a winter storm.

You’re the first to break it.

“Well,” you say, “this feels like a wildly overdressed sleepover.”

“Could be worse. At least we’ve got champagne,” Caleb grins. “Guess the party’s here now.”

You glance down at yourself—the curve-hugging silk, the neckline that’s barely legal. You’d worn it for a rooftop, not a blackout.

“Guess I should take this off then,” you mutter, mostly to yourself, already turning to head to your room.

“No,” Zayne and Caleb exclaim in perfect unison.

You freeze.

Their voices echo together for a beat too long, until Caleb laughs and runs a hand through his hair. “I mean—I just think you should, uh, give it the night it deserves.”

“I’m just trying to be practical,” you tease. “This is not exactly blizzard-friendly attire.”

“You’re not exactly going outside,” Zayne countered.

Caleb leans back. “Besides,” he adds, “you’re the one who said the dress deserved to be seen.”

You glance between them. The way Zayne avoids your eyes. The way Caleb doesn’t. And suddenly, the snowstorm doesn’t feel quite so inconvenient.

Zayne’s already moving to the supply closet. “I’m getting the candles.”

You blink. “Okay then.”

As his footsteps fade, Caleb lifts an eyebrow and hands you the champagne bottle. “Will you do the honors?”

You take it, fingers curling around the chilled glass. “Bold of you to trust me with this.”

“First time for everything,” he grins.

You eye him over the cork. “Not exactly. Remember New Year’s when I was, what—sixteen?”

His laugh is immediate. “God. When I smuggled us that cheap sparkling wine from Gran’s basement?”

“You called it champagne. You were very insistent.”

“I was trying to impress you.”

You pause mid-twist, looking at him. “It worked.”

The cork pops with a soft thud. You pour, slowly, careful not to spill, and hand him a glass.

Caleb’s smile fades into something gentler. “You were so nervous that night. One sip and you looked at me like the whole world was about to change.”

You shrug, cheeks warming. “It kind of did.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Just the flicker of a memory, the fall of snow against the windows, and the fizz of champagne filling the quiet.

Then the hallway glows—candlelight spilling back in, soft and golden. Zayne steps into the room, arms full of half-melted tea lights and mismatched candle jars. The glow spills across his face, turning the sharp edges warm.

His eyes land on you first—still in that ridiculous dress, holding a half-full champagne flute. Then they flick to Caleb, relaxed on the couch now, glass in hand, smirking like he never left.

“I leave for two minutes,” Zayne says, setting the candles down, “and you two are already drinking?”

You point to your brother. “It was his idea!”

“Guilty,” Caleb says, lifting his glass with a smug grin.

Zayne sighs, but there’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He reaches for the bottle and pours himself a glass.

“Since we’re stuck here,” he says, raising his glass, “we might as well make the most of it.”

The three of you gather around the counter, lifting your glasses in a toast.

“To old traditions,” Caleb says.

“To unexpected nights,” Zayne adds.

You look between the two of them for a moment too long before murmuring, “To both of you. To us.”

“To us,” they respond, the three of your glasses clinking together softly.

There's a warmth in your chest now—part champagne, part something else.

“Sooooo,” you say, voice light as you set your glass down. “Now what?”

Caleb downs the rest of his glass. “Well, we could sit here and talk about our feelings—”

“Please, no,” Zayne deadpans.

“—or,” Caleb continues, undeterred, “we could play something.”

Zayne arches a brow. “You brought board games?”

“No, old man. I was thinking…,” Caleb grins, reaching for the champagne. “Truth or sip.”

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“You said it yourself—wildly overdressed sleepover,” he shrugs. “It’s tradition.”

You glance at Zayne, expecting resistance. But instead, he just takes another slow sip of champagne and says, “Fine. But no lying.”

A shiver of anticipation curls low in your stomach.

“Deal,” you say, already bracing. “Who goes first?”

The three of you drift into the living room, gathering around the candlelight like moths. Caleb sinks easily onto the rug in front of the couch, stretching his legs out and tugging a throw blanket over them. You follow, folding yourself beside him, your shoulder brushing his in a way that feels both familiar and new. Zayne takes the armchair across from you, one elbow resting on the armrest, long legs stretched out. A little more distant—but his gaze never strays far from you.

Caleb lifts his glass with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Alright. I’ll start.”

You and Zayne exchange a look—his is more suspicious than yours.

Caleb turns to you, grin widening. “When was the last time you had a crush?”

Your hand tightens slightly around your glass. “Define crush.”

“You know,” he says casually. “Butterflies. Staring too long. Thinking about someone when you shouldn’t.”

Zayne doesn’t say a word, but he shifts in his chair.

You hesitate, pulse ticking up. “…Can there be more than one answer?”

“Only if it’s recent.”

You glance between the two of them—your brother, who’s always known you too well, and Zayne, whose gaze feels like it could burn through you if you let it.

Then you lift the glass and take a sip.

Caleb groans. “Coward.”

You smirk over the rim. “I’m choosing peace.”

Zayne leans forward slightly, resting an arm on the side of the chair. “My turn?”

Caleb raises a brow. “Go for it.”

Zayne’s eyes flick to Caleb. “What was your impression of me the first time we met?”

Caleb barks a laugh. “Easy. Thought you were boring as hell.”

You snort into your drink.

“But,” Caleb adds, “I also figured you were the only guy in town smart enough not to flirt with my sister.”

The pause that follows is heavy. You don’t look at Zayne, but you feel him.

“Well,” Caleb sighs. “Guess that aged poorly.”

Zayne doesn’t deny it.

You clear your throat. “My turn.”

You turn to Zayne. “What did you think when you saw me in this dress?”

Zayne’s jaw clenches. Caleb chokes on his drink.

Zayne meets your gaze across the candlelight, slow and steady. “That I was going to have a problem.”

Your stomach flips. Caleb coughs into his glass again.

“Your turn,” Zayne says to him calmly, as if he didn’t just wreck the room.

A few rounds pass like that. Laughter builds, champagne flows, and the questions shift from innocent to reckless faster than the candle wax can melt.

You learn Caleb once stole your middle school crush’s number out of your phone and prank-called him. You learn Zayne once got suspended in high school—something about pulling a fire alarm for a friend to get out of their math test. And when Caleb asks who your first kiss was, you drink. No one complains.

By the time another bottle’s been opened, you’ve all stopped pretending this is just nostalgia.

Zayne leans back, cradling his glass loosely in one hand. “We should raise the stakes.”

Caleb eyes him. “What, like stripping?”

Zayne doesn’t dignify that with a response.

You smirk. “What do you mean?”

“Add dares,” Zayne says simply. “If someone won’t do it, they take a sip.”

You nearly spit out your drink. "Are you drunk?"

Zayne just shrugs. "Maybe a little."

"You hate games," Caleb says, glancing at you with mock horror. “Who are you and what have you done with our buzzkill?”

"I don't hate games," Zayne corrects. "I hate losing."

Caleb groans, pretending to think hard, then narrows his eyes at Zayne. “Fine. Dare.”

Zayne’s voice is deceptively calm. “I dare you to whisper something to her. Something you’ve never said out loud.”

That gets Caleb’s attention. His grin falters, just slightly.

“That’s dangerous,” he says. But he sets down his glass.

Zayne shrugs, sipping his drink. “So is champagne.”

Your pulse stutters.

Caleb looks at you. Really looks at you. Candlelight paints the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint in his eyes.

Then, without breaking your gaze, he leans in.

His lips brush the shell of your ear, and his voice drops so low you feel it more than hear it:

“I used to dream about you in this dress before it ever existed.”

You freeze. Heat rushes to your face, your spine, the space between your thighs.

He leans back like he didn’t just knock the air out of your lungs. Zayne’s jaw is tight.

It’s your turn next. And they’re both looking at you like they already know you’re going to make a mistake.

You set your glass down with a clink and stretch your legs out in front of you, wriggling your toes.

“My turn,” you say, pretending to think hard. “Okay…I dare both of you to take off one of my shoes.”

They both blink.

“What?” Caleb laughs.

You shrug. “My feet hurt. I didn’t know I’d be stranded in five-inch heels.”

Zayne cocks his head, slow. “You’re serious.”

“Completely,” you say, lifting one leg and pointing dramatically. “Left and right, please.”

Caleb shifts forward first, crawling just enough to reach your feet. His hand curves around your ankle, warm and steady, and you feel it in your chest. Long fingers brush warm against your skin as he unclasps the strap and eases the shoe off, slow and careful.

Zayne doesn’t move at first. Just watches. Then he sets his glass down and crosses the distance like it’s nothing. His touch is more clinical, but no less gentle—his thumb pressing just slightly into the arch of your foot as he slides the heel free.

The second shoe hits the floor with a quiet thunk.

You swallow. The room feels warmer now.

“Well,” you say, voice thinner than you meant. “Thank you.”

Caleb’s next, and he turns his attention straight to you.

He pretends to think. Then—

“I dare you to drink champagne…” His eyes go to Zayne, then back to you. “From both of us.”

You stare at him, confused. “Like—from your glasses?”

Caleb just smirks. “Not quite.”

Zayne stiffens. “Caleb,” he says, low. A warning.

“What?” Caleb laughs. “It’s just a dare. One sip from my mouth, one from yours. Nothing she can’t handle.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re stalling.”

You glance at Zayne, expecting him to shut it down. But he doesn’t.

He just…holds your gaze. Silent. Still. Waiting.

Your heart slams.

“Fine,” you mutter. “Let’s get it over with.”

Caleb leans forward first, barely suppressing his grin. He takes a sip—just enough to pool behind his lips—and tilts his chin.

You move in slowly, bracing one hand against his chest. You feel his heartbeat race against your palm, kicking fast as you bring your lips to his. And when your mouths touch, he lets you take it—smooth, cold champagne passed between you like a secret.

His breath catches as it happens. His hand hovers at your waist but doesn’t touch. He wants to. You feel it in the way he exhales like he’s been punched.

And when you pull back, he doesn’t move for a second. Just looks at you like he’s seeing something he’s wanted for a long time and can’t believe he’s feeling.

The room tilts slightly, or maybe it’s just your pulse crashing in your ears. That wasn’t a kiss—not really. Not by definition. And yet—Oh, my god. You just kissed him.

Not on the cheek. Not by accident. Mouth to mouth. Lips to lips. Champagne flowed between you, but it’s not the drink that’s making your head spin.

Caleb’s still staring. Like he doesn’t want to look away, in case this was a dream. Like if he blinks, he’ll wake up.

And he’s not grinning now. Not teasing. Not cocky.

Just wrecked.

His eyes drop to your mouth, like he’s remembering exactly how it felt. Then flick up to yours—searching for a sign. For permission. For regret.

You don’t know what you’re showing on your face, but your heart is doing something violent in your chest. Because it wasn’t supposed to feel like that. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was a dare. A game.

So why does your skin still burn where he touched you? Why can’t you look away?

Why does it feel like you just crossed a line you can’t uncross?

Caleb finally shifts back, running a hand through his hair like it might cool him down. But his knuckles are pink. His ears are red. His whole body is buzzing, and you can feel it across the space between you.

You drag your gaze to the floor. But you don’t have any more time to process it.

Zayne is already standing.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just takes a slow sip, his throat working as he holds it behind closed lips. Then he crosses the room.

When he stops in front of you, he cups your jaw, guiding you to your feet. Your hands find his shoulders, solid and unmoving beneath your palms. You feel the tension in him. Every nerve coiled. Every instinct leashed.

You tilt your head back instinctively, inviting him in without words. He leans down until your lips meet.

Zayne is restraint incarnate. His touch is steady. But everything else—his breath, the tremble at the corner of his mouth, the way he holds perfectly still as you take the sip from him—betrays the storm inside him.

The taste is barely there. But the feeling lingers forever.

When he pulls away, your lips are still parted. He reaches up without thinking, thumb dragging slowly across your bottom lip.

“You missed a drop,” he whispers. He’s too quiet, too close. But he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he brings that same thumb to his lips—and closes his mouth around it.

His eyes flutter shut. Just for a second. When they open again, they’re darker.

You don’t breathe until he steps back, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides like he doesn’t trust them.

No one speaks.

Caleb clears his throat and pours another drink. “Fun,” he tries to say, but it’s hoarse. Almost angry. “You’re up, doc.”

Zayne returns to his seat, eyes never leaving you. He doesn’t even blink. “Who are you planning to kiss at midnight?”

Fuck.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” you respond. Because it’s the truth. Because even in your wildest dreams you’ve never let yourself imagine that you’d get to kiss one of the favorite men in your life, let alone both of them.

Zayne hums. “Think about it now.”

Your eyes dart between them. Neither one is smiling now. “That’s not fair.”

Zayne shrugs again, but something in his jaw ticks. “Didn’t say it was.”

You glance at the digital clock on the emergency radio. 11:42. Less than twenty minutes left. Midnight is coming. You have to pick someone, and they both know it.

That doesn’t mean you have to pick now, though.

So you drink.

When you set your glass down, there’s nothing left. Not even a drop.

Zayne’s eyes flick to the empty glass. Caleb stares, fingers flexing around his own drink.

And that’s when it hits you. You don’t get to dodge anything anymore. No more sips to hide behind. No more stalling.

Your heart pounds.

Caleb leans forward slightly. “Guess that was your last out,” he murmurs, voice quiet but tense.

You glance at the clock. 11:45. Only fifteen minutes left.

“Guess so,” your voice is barely above a whisper. You clear your throat before continuing. “Well, lucky for me, it’s my turn.”

The two men stare back at you, waiting for your next command with bated breath.

“I have a question for both of you, then,” you say slowly, building up confidence in preparation for what you're about to ask next. “If I asked you to kiss me…tell me how you’d do it.”

The room stills. Even the candlelight seems to pause.

Caleb looks at you like he’s not sure you’re serious. Then he sees your face—how you’re not backing down—and something in him shifts.

“I’d take my time,” he says. “Let you feel every second of it.”

Your throat goes dry, eyes wide. You don’t expect his response to come so easily.

“You think I haven’t thought about it?” Caleb’s voice is low, almost casual—but his eyes are locked on yours like he’s daring you to run.

“If I kissed you,” he says, shifting just slightly closer, “it wouldn’t be careful.”

His glass tips slightly in his hand, long forgotten. “I wouldn’t ease into it like I was afraid to scare you off. I’d pull you into me so fuckin' close—so close you couldn’t leave.”

Your pulse skips a beat.

“I’d hold the back of your neck. Thumb right here—” he gestures gently along the hinge of his own jaw, “just enough pressure to remind you I’m not letting go.”

His voice drops even lower, his eyes dark and wild in the candlelight.

“I’d kiss you like I already knew what you tasted like. Like I’ve imagined it too many times to get it wrong.”

He exhales. “Because I have.”

You feel it—physically, like heat pooling low in your stomach.

Zayne hasn’t moved. He’s still seated in the chair, elbows on his knees, watching the flicker of flame like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. When he speaks, it’s quiet. Like he’s choosing each word with a scalpel.

“I’d back you into the wall.”

Your head snaps toward him.

“Not hard. Just…enough.”

“I wouldn’t touch you. Not at first. I’d let you feel it. The closeness. My breath on your lips. The wait,” his voice dips. “I’d wait until you asked me. Until you begged me.”

Heat flashes through your chest. Zayne’s gaze flicks down—to your mouth, your neck—then returns to your eyes.

“Then I’d kiss you slow. Hold your face in my hands,” he pauses, like the thought alone overwhelms him. “Press my mouth to yours so deep you forget where you are. Who else is in the room.”

Caleb lets out a humorless laugh at that, but you don’t hear it.

“I’d kiss you like I’ve tried not to,” he went on, his voice growing rougher around the edges. “Like I’d forget every rule I’ve made for myself.”

“Enough,” Caleb snaps. The word cuts through the room like glass breaking.

Zayne goes still. Caleb doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are locked on you—burning, unreadable, muscles tensing like he’s barely keeping something down.

“My turn,” he says, voice tight. “One last dare.”

You try to breathe. Of course you can’t.

“You pick.”

Your heart trips over itself.

“Pick what?”

Caleb’s gaze flickers down to your lips, then back up.

“Who gets your kiss.”

You peek at the clock. 11:59.

“It’s your dare,” Caleb murmurs. “And your choice.”

They both move at once.

Not fast—just a slow, inescapable convergence. Like gravity. Like heat drawn to heat. Caleb rises from where he’s been sitting on the floor, eyes never leaving yours. Zayne doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe. He just stands—shoulders squaring as he closes the distance, like he’s already preparing to be chosen or destroyed.

Your breath stutters. They’re both in front of you now. Close enough to touch you. Close enough to ruin you.

Caleb’s voice is low, frayed. “Just say it.”

Zayne’s eyes scan over your face. “Or don’t.”

The final seconds tick down.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

You’re trembling, chest tight. You could say a name. You could stop this. But you don’t.

Five. Four. Three.

Then—

Two.

Their shoulders brush. Neither backs down.

One.

Midnight.

—

No one moves. Until they both do.

Caleb’s hand finds your jaw at the exact same time Zayne’s thumb brushes your cheekbone. Your breath hitches—caught in the no man’s land between them—as two sets of eyes lock on you like you’re a sin they’re both ready to commit.

Caleb’s hand tightens ever so slightly, tilting your face toward him.

“You waited too long,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours—not quite a kiss, but not not one, either. It’s a warning. A claim. A threat and a promise. “Happy New Year, meimei .”

And then he takes your mouth.

Not gently. Not sweet. It’s possessive—like he’s afraid if he doesn’t do it now, Zayne will.

His mouth crushes into yours, heat and hunger and years of not yet all flooding in at once. You gasp, and he uses it—drinks you in like he’s parched, tongue claiming yours like you were meant for this. Meant for him.

He pulls away to look at you, at the way you’re already falling apart for your brother after just one kiss. His mouth is all over your neck, kissing your cheeks, your nose, the tips of your ears.

“You know I’d do anything for you, pretty girl,” he breathes, tongue darting out to trace the sensitive part behind your earlobe. “So why’d you make me wait this long?”

But just as quickly as it starts, Zayne is there. He doesn’t pull Caleb off you. Doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Instead, his fingers trail from your cheek to your throat, the touch sending shockwaves to your core, and you feel your body tip toward him before you even register the movement.

“Did he give you what you wanted?”

The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, trembling breath. Caleb tenses beside you, cursing through gritted teeth.

Zayne lifts one hand, thumb dragging along your bottom lip like he wiped the champagne. But he doesn’t stop there this time. He presses inward, just enough to part your lips. Just enough for the pad of his thumb to slip past your teeth.

“No? Pity,” he says, but there’s no softness to his voice.

You feel your body go still, every nerve ending tuned to the weight of him on your tongue. Caleb growls low beside you, but Zayne doesn’t even look at him. His focus is entirely on you.

He presses in deeper.

“Then ask.”

Your lips part wider, a soft noise escaping as he finally pulls his thumb free. The absence hurts more than the pressure did.

“Please,” you whisper. You don’t even know what you're asking for. You just know that you need it now .

Zayne barely tilts his head—like he’s deciding whether to give it to you—when Caleb moves. His arm snakes around your waist and yanks you back against him, hard enough to steal your breath.

“ No ,” Caleb nearly snarls, arm caging you tighter against him. “Don’t beg him.”

You feel Zayne shift in front of you—closer. Not competing. Waiting. The energy between them is like two storms circling the same eye.

“What happened to that little mouth of yours, huh?” Caleb’s voice is meaner, hot and taunting against your neck. “Now you wanna be quiet? Or did he already fuck the fight out of you with just his thumb?”

You try to turn your head, but Caleb’s hand is already there—fisting in your hair, tilting your face toward him.

“Nah,” he snaps. “You don’t get to hide now. Not after the way you looked at him.”

His thumb swipes your lip rougher than Zayne’s did, like he’s trying to erase the touch.

Then his mouth is back on yours, tongue licking deep against you like he’s trying to mark you from the inside out—claim every soft sound you make before Zayne can hear it. He drinks in your gasps, bites the edge of your lip like a warning, and silences whatever protest you might’ve had.

It’s so overwhelming that you don’t feel the zipper at first.

Not until the fabric at your back loosens, cool air replacing warmth, your dress slipping inch by inch.

“You can let him have your mouth,” Zayne’s teeth graze your ear. “Everything else is mine.”

Your lips part in surprise against Caleb’s, but it’s already happening. Zayne’s fingers trace the length of your spine, but his hand is soon replaced by his lips. He kisses the small of your back, the space between your shoulder blades, the base of your neck, each one hotter and longer and more agonizingly delicious.

Caleb pulls back just enough to drag your dress lower, baring your shoulders, then your chest, until the fabric pools loosely at your waist. Normally, you’d feel the urge to cover yourself, to hide your body from your brother. Your guardian. But your focus is already elsewhere, too overwhelmed to feel exposed.

“Zayne,” you whisper, turning halfway, reaching for him.

He doesn’t let you kiss him.

Instead, one hand finds your waist, holding you still. The other rises to your chin, tilting your head back just enough to make you feel helpless. His mouth brushes your jaw, your cheekbone—everywhere but your lips.

“You want it?” he asks softly, like he’s asking about more than just a kiss.

You nod. Desperately.

“Then say it.”

Before you can respond, Caleb’s hand slides up your bare waist, just under your breast. He slides his thumb slowly across your nipple, teasing the sensitive skin there. The sensation causes you to gasp, your eyes fluttering shut, back arching instinctively into the warm, broad body behind you. But Zayne doesn’t flinch.

“Eyes on me. You know what I want to hear,” Zayne murmurs, voice dark with command. “Don’t make me take it without asking.”

Your breath catches on the shame of it. The need.

“I—” you whisper. But it’s not enough.

Zayne’s fingers tangle in the hair at the base of your neck, like he might take it anyway.

So you give in.

“Zayne, please,” you beg, and you can already feel his lips curve in satisfaction. “Kiss me. Touch me. Anything, just…I—I can’t take it anymore.”

Whatever was holding him back finally breaks.

“So beautiful,” his breath mixes with yours. “Open for me.”

You do. Of course you do.

And then he’s on you. Tongue sweeping in, mouth dragging yours open wider, deeper, until you’re trembling in his hold. He doesn’t rush. He devours. He teaches your mouth exactly how he wants it.

You melt against him, back arching, head tipping, lips parting wider as he sucks on your bottom lip. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s everything.

Caleb’s hands are firmer now, like he needs to remind you he’s still here. Still watching. Still the one who saw you first. His mouth is on your breast now, his teeth finding your nipple, biting down just hard enough to draw out a moan.

Zayne pulls back suddenly, breathing hard, forehead resting against yours.

“This is wrong,” he pants. His voice is low, shaky. “You’re too young. You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

He closes his eyes, like it hurts to even look at you, at the way you’d give him anything he’d ask for.

“But I do. And I’ve wanted it for way too long to be gentle about it now.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth.

“I’ve thought about that mouth. About you. For years. And now that I’ve had a taste…” He swallows hard. “I’m not going to be able to stop.”

You’re panting, lips kiss-bruised, eyes wide. Your dress is hitched around your waist, straps fallen, spine pressed against Zayne’s chest like you’re trying to hold yourself upright—but it’s barely working.

Then Caleb kneels.

He doesn’t ask. Just sinks to the floor in front of you with a look that’s all hunger and heat and something darker. His hands slide up your thighs, under the slit of your dress, finding the curve of your ass.

“She doesn’t want you to stop,” he says without looking up, voice thick. “She’s already begged enough.”

You whimper as his fingers curl into the fabric at your waist, dragging it down inch by inch.

“She’ll tell us what she wants,” Zayne murmurs, breath brushing your ear. “Won’t you, angel?”

His thumb strokes over your pulse, lazily. Dangerous.

“But you already got what you wanted, didn’t you? My kiss? Your brother’s tongue in your mouth?” His lips ghost over the shell of your ear, his filthy words making your thighs press together involuntarily. “Wasn’t that enough?”

You shake your head, frantic, eyes flicking down to where Caleb has the dress bunched at your hips.

“More,” you whisper. “Please—I need more. I need both of you.”

The words hang in the air, trembling like they’ve been waiting to be said. Then everything between you shifts.

It’s Zayne who speaks first.

“If that’s what you need,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “then that’s what you’ll have.”

You nod, breath catching. But it’s not Zayne you’re afraid of.

It’s Caleb.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him. Not at first. Because what if he thinks it’s too much? What if needing both of them makes you selfish? What if it ruins everything?

But then you feel his hand—reaching, grounding, curling gently around your wrist. He stands up, and when you finally lift your eyes to him, Caleb’s already looking at you like he knew. Like he’s always known.

He steps in closer, pressing his forehead against yours.

“I’ve imagined a hundred ways to have you,” he murmurs. “And none of them looked like this.”

He kisses you then, hard, leaving you breathless. Like he just remembered that he could and didn’t want to waste it.

“I should be mad. Furious,” he says, breath hot and shaky against yours. “But all I feel is relief.”

It’s you that kisses him this time, and the low, broken sound he makes when your lips find his burns deep in your chest.

“I’ll take it,” he groans. “I’ll take anything you give me.”

“She asked for both of us,” Zayne says, gaze steady on Caleb. “So that’s what we give her.”

“Yeah,” Caleb nods once, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Whatever she wants. I’m in.”

And for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re asking too much. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Both sets of hands are on you now—Zayne’s on your neck, your shoulders, your spine, Caleb’s trailing down your throat, your chest, your stomach. And both sets of hands stop where your dress has fallen at your hips.

“Show us what’s ours,” Caleb says, fingers curling around the silk fabric that still keeps the most intimate part of you covered.

And with one sharp tug, the fabric pools at your ankles—and everyone stops breathing.

Because under your dress, you’re bare. No silk, no lace. Just you, naked and throbbing and embarrassingly wet.

You never would have gone without underwear had you known. You never thought it could get this far. You just didn’t want panty lines.

And now the two men who are supposed to be your protectors are circling you like prey.

“ Fuck ,” Caleb breathes, his voice wrecked. “You were this ready for us?”

You start to shift—to cover yourself, maybe, to escape—but Caleb’s hands catch your wrist before you can hide.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls. “Not after letting us see you like this. Not after giving us this.”

“I didn’t mean to—” you whisper.

But even you don’t believe it.

“No?” Zayne’s fingers glide up your ribs. “You think we don’t notice? How you look at us? How you walk around this house with wide eyes and those tiny fucking sleep shorts like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing?”

“I—I don’t know what I’m doing,” you stammer. And you mean it. You’re not playing games. You never were.

But you always wanted to be noticed. Wanted them to notice.

“Then maybe it’s time we show you,” Caleb murmurs, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “What it does to a man. What you do to a man. To us.”

Before you can register the movement, you’re hauled into Zayne’s lap, the two of you seated on the armchair. Your brother kneels between your knees, forcing them wider.

“God, you really didn’t know what you've done, do you?” Caleb groans, trailing kisses up your thigh. “What you've been doing to us for years?”

You try to close your legs, shy, uncertain—but they don’t let you. Zayne’s hands are unmoving, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, keeping you open. Caleb’s hands stay firm on your knees, holding you right where he wants you.

“Look at him,” Zayne growls in your ear. “He hasn’t even touched you yet. Hasn’t even tasted how sweet you are, and he's already shaking.”

He's right. Caleb hasn’t touched you, not where you really want him to. But he’s getting closer with each movement, with each open-mouthed kiss he presses between your legs, across your hips, low on your stomach.

When Caleb finally traces his finger across the seam of you, featherlight, you practically scream.

You can’t help yourself, not when you’d only ever imagined what it’d feel like for someone to touch you there. Not when the one to finally do it was the man you were never supposed to want.

And certainly not when you feel the cock of the man who had taken you in press hard and heavy through his slacks against your back.

“Shh,” Zayne leans forward to kiss your temple, but the shift only pushes him against you harder, the friction unbearable. He locks his arm around your waist, caging you against him in an attempt to stop your squirming. “It’s okay to let go. It’s just us three.”

You nod, then shake your head. You don’t know what you’re feeling, or if you’re doing anything right. You just don’t want it to stop.

Caleb’s mouth is so close to you now that you feel his voice more than you can hear it.

“You’d let me, right, meimei?” With the way he looks at you now, eyes wild and desperate, you don't care what question comes next. The answer is already yes. “You’d let me touch you? Just once? Just tonight?”

You don't answer with words. Your hips tilt towards him instinctively, and that's all the invitation he needs.

“ Yes ,” you gasp, but his two fingers are already inside you, curling slow and deep and punishing. It’s already too much. Not enough.

When his tongue finds your clit without warning, you nearly come undone then and there.

Your head falls back against Zayne’s shoulder with a moan. His hand, warm and strong, kneads your breast in encouragement.

“That’s it. You’re being so good for us,” he praises. “You love this, don’t you? Feeling your big brother inside you?”

You want to cry yes , but you can hardly focus on the words. Your attention is too tied up in the feel of Zayne’s length grinding up against your backside now in a steady rhythm, all while Caleb’s mouth and fingers claim your cunt like he’d die if he stopped.

“You’re so fucking responsive,” he murmurs against you, the vibration of his words only teasing you more. “Every sound you make, every time you clench—I feel it, baby. Fuck, I feel all of it.”

You don’t know how much more of it you can take, just know that you feel an aching emptiness where Caleb had been when he finally pulls away. He laughs when he sees your expression—breathless and flushed and wrecked—and pulls you up to stand with him.

Your older brother just stares at you in awe for a moment, the two of your panting breaths filling the silence. His lips are shining with your slick pleasure, visible even in the dim candlelight. When the corners of them turn up in a prideful smirk, you playfully push him away.

“You said it was just a touch,” you pout, teasing.

He pulls you back into his chest in one possessive move. “Didn’t say it’d just be my fingers.”

Your lips part to respond, but his mouth covers yours before you can get a word out. He licks your tongue with his, over and over and over again, until all you can taste is the heat of the way he made you come apart.

“Mmm, fuck ,” he mutters hot against you. “You’ve been keeping this from me? All this time?“

He holds your jaw, then drags his tongue across your bottom lip like he’s savoring the taste. You whimper, and he only holds you tighter.

“You won’t be able to hide anymore, sweetheart. Not when I know what’s under those pretty little dresses,” his teeth graze your jaw as he speaks like you’re something holy. “It’s mine now. It’s always been mine.”

Your world is turned upside-down before you can finish listening to his sentence.

Literally.

Zayne’s strong arms haul you over his shoulder, his grip firm and steady across your bare thighs. He’s shirtless now, the press of his skin against yours sending electric heat between your legs.

“Zayne!” you yell, wriggling in his grasp. “What are you—“

He slaps your ass, hard, and you cry out. He’s already soothing it with gentle circles of his palm, turning his head just enough to kiss your side. You're halfway to his bedroom before you can even say anything about it.

“My turn.”

You’re down the hall in a few strides, Caleb already stripping out of his dress clothes as he follows behind you. You only breathe again once you’re laid out on Zayne’s king bed, the soft sheets cool against your back, the faint yellow of the streetlamp illuminating you in a warm glow.

Once Zayne takes off his pants, he doesn’t move right away. He stands at the edge of the bed beside you, palming his cock over his boxers, eyes dragging over you like he’s deciding whether you earned the right to lie there.

“ Fuck , look at you,” he murmurs, eyes hungry, reverent. “This is how I always wanted to see you. Open for me where you belong.”

Before you can cover yourself with the blanket, Zayne grabs your wrist and pulls you upright. Then he shifts back and sits, legs spread long, beckoning you forward with two fingers.

“Come here.”

You hesitate, but something in his gaze makes your body obey before your mind can catch up. You crawl forward, flushed and trembling, until you’re straddling his lap—bare and open and completely at his mercy. He leans back slightly, one hand sliding up your thigh, the other resting at your waist.

Your hands hover near his chest, uncertain.

“Can I—” you start, then trail off, unsure where the line is anymore. Unsure what you’re allowed to want.

His hands move to cover yours, pressing them gently to his chest. He guides them lower, over the smooth, hard lines of his abs, down to the waistband of his underwear. He seems in control, the way he’s showing you where to touch. But the shake of his breath and the tension in his brow say otherwise.

“You can,” he whispers, and his hands release yours. The next move is up to you, now.

Caleb’s hand at your back grounds you, gives you a moment to take everything in. You turn to your brother, in nothing but tight black boxer briefs that do little to hide his erection. The sight of it makes your core throb, and you’d do anything to see it uncovered.

“You’re in charge, yeah?” Caleb assures you. “Take what you need. All of it. Make him beg for it.”

You don’t know exactly what you need. Not yet. But you do know that you hate being the most underdressed person in the room.

Your fingers tighten around Zayne’s waistband, your gaze shifting between the two men. Zayne nods in approval. Caleb’s hands find his own waistband, but he doesn’t move yet. Like he’s waiting for you to direct the pace of things.

You drag Zayne’s boxers down his hips, unable to quiet the gasp that escapes when you see his bare length for the first time, heavy and full of want. Caleb follows, his own cock springing free as he sheds the last of his clothes.

Your lips part without meaning to, and you don’t know where to look first. They’re both so impressive, bigger than you dreamed they would be, thick and throbbing, with veins you instinctually wanted to trace with your tongue.

You swallow once, your throat suddenly dry. “I didn’t think—I mean, I figured, but…seeing you like this…”

“You figured, did you, now?” Zayne teases, stroking himself as he watches you in awe. “So you’ve thought about this before?”

Your cheeks burn red, but there’s no use in denying it now. You want to know what they feel like, want to know if they’ll be just as affected by your touch as you are by theirs. You just don’t know who to touch first.

So you don’t choose.

You wrap one hand around Caleb, and his knees nearly buckle at the contact. He grabs onto the headboard to steady himself. Your other hand finds Zayne, moving up and down the length of him like you watched him do to himself.

“Harder, angel,” Zayne instructs, eyes dark with need. “It’s not going to break.”

At that, you pump them both with more force, your grip more confident now. You don’t know where to look—at Caleb, who watches you like he regrets even blinking if it means missing the sight, or Zayne, who looks at you like he’s imagined this moment a million times before tonight.

As if sensing your internal dilemma, Zayne smiles, pulling your hand away. You frown, your other hand still loosely wrapped around Caleb.

“Am I doing it wrong?”

“ No ,” the men reply instantly, reassuring you. That’s a relief.

Zayne grabs you by the hips, pulling you closer to him, so close that you can feel the heat of his cock inside your thighs.

“There are ways to make it easier, though,” he says. But you’re still confused.

You tilt your head. “Easier…?”

Caleb gathers your hair in his hand, turning your head to face him. You can see every pulse of his hard length this close. You look up, trying your hardest not to stare. Caleb only smiles.

“If it’s wet, you can move faster,” he tells you.

You think back to his mouth on you, and your stomach flips.

Your eyes catch the prominent vein, the one you want to lick but you don’t know why. It‘s right there, just in front of your mouth. You don’t ask before wetting your lips, don’t give them any chance to tell you it’s wrong.

You press your tongue against the underside of his cock, tracing the vein slowly. Caleb lets out a low curse, his grip on your hair tightening. You blink up at him, mouth parted, eyes wide.

“Like this?” you ask genuinely, and that only makes it worse.

He forces his eyes shut. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m not gonna last.”

You take that as a sign to keep going, wrapping your lips around the tip and sucking softly, his precum salty and warm on your tongue. You find a steady rhythm, taking him deeper and deeper until he hits the back of your throat.

The stretch of him leaves your jaw aching, tears stinging behind your lashes. But you’ve never felt better. Never knew of a pain that could feel so, so good. You moan around his cock, and his entire body shudders.

He pulls out suddenly, releasing his hand in your hair and running it through his own, staring at the ceiling like it’ll save him from ruin. You don’t know why he stopped. You thought you were doing a good job.

“You were going to kill him if you kept going like that,” Zayne’s voice, warm and easy, interrupts your spiraling thoughts. “You were perfect. So perfect.”

You turn your attention to him now, preparing to take him in your mouth next. But he stops you with a hand at your jaw before you can shift lower.

“But I want to be perfect for you, too,” you blink up at Zayne, so desperate to make him unravel as well.

“You already are,” he grits out, voice wrecked. “God, you always are.”

He brings your face close to his, close enough to kiss you, but stopping just before.

“But there’s another way to get it wet.”

Your heart is beating so hard, you’re sure they can hear it.

“Show me,” you whisper.

And that’s all it takes.

He lifts you up by the waist, flipping you onto your hands and knees. You face Caleb at this angle, your brother cupping your face so softly, like he still can’t believe you’re real.

“You’re gonna take him, pretty girl. And I’m gonna let you,” he tells you, and it’s the most serious you’ve seen him all night. “But if you so much as flinch the wrong way, he won’t get to finish a breath.”

You nod, although you’re not quite sure what you’re agreeing to. Not until you feel the unmistakable press of Zayne’s cock against your entrance.

You gasp at the pressure of it, and he didn’t even go inside of you. Your reaction makes Zayne smirk.

“You’re trembling,” he says. “Still think you can handle it?”

You nod, shifting your hips back in an attempt to feel more of him. But Zayne pulls away.

“Words, sweetheart,” he commands. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I—” you start. “I want to feel you, Zayne.”

Caleb strokes your cheek, the movement keeping you calm. “Want to feel what? Tell him.”

“I want to feel Zayne’s—” you hesitate, afraid to say the rest. “Zayne’s cock.”

Zayne groans at your admission, rewarding you with a slow drag of the head of him against your slick folds. He taps it against your clit once, twice, already making you clench around nothing. And when he finally presses in—just an inch—you need Caleb to hold you steady.

“You need to tell him where you want it,” he says. You watch as your brother touches himself at the sight of you, spread and begging for another man, and the sight alone nearly breaks you. “Tell him exactly what you need. Make him give it to you.”

“Zayne, p—please, I need you to fuck me,” your raw need outweighs any of the shame you felt a few minutes ago. “Oh, please, Zayne, I need your cock in my—”

If he had any ounce of self-control left, it evaporated the second he heard the words I need you and fuck me come out of your innocent little mouth. He fills you completely with a single thrust, and you cry out at the feel of him, deep and hot inside you.

“ Fuck ,” Zayne curses, grabbing your hips so hard you suspect they’ll bruise. “I knew you’d be tight, but fuck —you’re unbelievable.”

“You knew, did you now?” You say coyly, unable to resist teasing him the way he did you, but it comes out more breathless than you mean it to. “So you’ve thought about this before?”

Unlike you, though, Zayne doesn’t avoid the question.

He makes sure you hear his answer.

“I’ve thought about it, angel,” he says. “About the way you’d sound when you begged for me.”

He rolls his hips, and you whimper.

“How pretty you’d look when you’d spread your legs for me.”

His next thrust is shallow, almost cruel.

“How long you’d last once I got my mouth on your perfect little cunt.”

Another thrust.

“And especially,” he pulls out almost entirely, “how fucking good you’d feel coming around my cock while you cried my name.”

He slams into you—hard—pumping into you again and again and again.

“Zayne, I—”

You try to turn your head, but you’re stopped by Caleb's hand under your jaw.

“Don’t look at him,” he growls, grabbing your face with both hands now. “He didn’t watch you grow into this. Not like I did.”

You open your mouth—part gasping at his confession, part moaning at the way Zayne hits the front of your walls just right at this angle. Caleb uses it as an invitation, licking into your mouth at the same pace Zayne fucks into you from behind.

“He didn’t suffer every night, lying awake in bed because he was aching to touch what he couldn’t,” Caleb says between kisses, practically panting. “Not like I did.”

His mouth consumes yours once more, each of Zayne’s thrusts pushing your tongues deeper against each other. He pulls away only once he can sense you’re at your breaking point.

“So you look at me while he takes what I’ve been dying for,” Caleb says, just as Zayne’s fingers work your clit as he thrusts into you just the way you need.

You don’t realize you’re crying until Caleb’s thumbs wipe tears from your cheeks.

“Let go, meimei.”

And you do.

Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, all-consuming and overwhelming and everything you wished it would be.

“Caleb,” you breathe as you clench around Zayne, the feeling of being in between the two so intoxicating it makes your head spin.

You reach for your brother, but he’s already pulling away—the sight of you reaching your climax for the first time in front of him, because of him, all too much. He wanted to last for you, and you were making that damn near impossible.

Zayne pulls out just as the last wave of pleasure washes over you, and you whine at the loss.

“Don't worry. I’m not done with you,” he says like a warning, or a promise.

He lays you down on your back, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The moment is so sweet, so tender that you nearly forget where you are. What you’re doing. Who you're doing it with.

Zayne’s cock, hard and heavy against your belly, quickly reminds you.

“Zayne?” you say, quieter than you mean to.

You feel his cock twitch just at the sound of his name in your mouth.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You said I could have anything I wanted,” you remind him. “That you’d do whatever it takes to make me happy.”

He nods, concentrating on your every word.

“And I meant it. You just need to ask. So tell me,” he says, trailing kisses down your throat. “Tell me what it is that you want.”

He enters you again, the new position forcing you impossibly close. When he fucks you this way, it’s slower—so intimate it makes your heart ache.

“I want you to come inside of me,” you ask before you can hesitate. “I want to feel it. All of you, in me.”

He stills, eyes wide, then narrowing just as quickly. When he pumps into you again, it’s a little harder. A little rougher.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmurs, eyes flickering over your face like he’s looking for the catch. “Not for me. I thought we were talking about what makes you happy. Not…not my favorite fucking fantasy.”

Your heart skips a beat. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and the sound he makes is so un-Zaynelike that you almost laugh.

“Who says it’s not my fantasy, too?” you challenge.

“Do you know what you’re saying? What that means?” His voice breaks. “You can't say that. Not unless you know I won't stop.”

You nod, all softness and wickedness at once.

“I want all of you. I want to know what it’s like to be yours like that. To feel you come apart inside me.”

Zayne goes still, like your words alone might put him over the edge if he doesn't stop himself.

“Your brother won’t be happy, will he?” You glance over at Caleb, whose eyes are locked on you.

“He’s watching. He’s hard. And he wants you all to himself.” Zayne’s voice is low, so low you didn’t think Caleb could hear it.

But he crosses the room at that in two strides.

“You’re really gonna sit there and tell her no?” He gestures at you, gaze soft but voice sharp. “Look at her, Zayne. She’s asking so sweetly. And you’re really gonna deny her that?”

Zayne does look at you then. He stares at you like he’s never seen you before.

“You’re sure?” he pleads, rocking slowly now inside you. “Not for me. Not for him. For you .”

“For me.”

At that, he surges forward, mouth at your neck like he’s starving, hips pressed hard against yours. You arch without meaning to, the way he’s fucking into you now almost too much for your body to handle.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to see you happy,” he admits. You’ve heard him say it before, but this time you really believe it.

His hands thread into your hair, strong arms caging you as he leans in, breath trembling.

“I’ve tried to be good. Tried to keep my hands off you. Keep you safe. Thought maybe that was what you needed,” he swallows, jaw tight, like the words cost him.

“But if this—” he kisses your temple, and you lean into it. “If this makes you happy…”

His pace turns relentless, like he's trying to bury a lifetime of restraint in the space between your hips.

“Then I’ll give you every goddamn piece of me.”

You smile, and that’s what shatters him.

Not the lust. Not the moans. Not even the way you beg.

That smile.

“Mine,” he growls, clutching you tighter. “ Mine .”

You feel him pulsing inside you, filling you with the heat of his release. It only makes you smile harder, the feel of him losing control inside of you sending you over the edge once more.

“ Fuck —I love you,” he says it like a curse, like it hurts. And maybe it does. “I love you so much it makes me fucking crazy.”

“Zayne, I—” I love you, too. You want to say. I love you so much it scares me.

But before the words can land, Caleb’s hand is on your jaw, two fingers sliding between your lips, wet and possessive and smug.

“Mm-mm,” he hums. “Not yet.”

Zayne growls, eyes locked on your mouth as Caleb’s fingers press deeper on your tongue, claiming your silence.

“Say it. Say you need me,” he rasps, voice like sin. “Say it when he’s still inside you.”

You look between the two men, lips full, heart thrumming. You try to breathe. Try to form a sound around the pressure in your mouth.

But even if you could, what would you say?

This shouldn't feel right. But Zayne's gaze doesn't hold jealousy. Only hunger. Curiosity. Like he wants to see how far you'll go.

So when his fingers slip out, wet and slow—you choke on your own breath as you gasp it out:

“Caleb, please…I need you.”

You barely register Zayne easing out of you before your brother’s hands are on your hips.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait. Just grips your sides and shifts you down the mattress like you weigh nothing.

You gasp as your thighs hit the edge of the bed. Caleb stays standing, looming between your legs while Zayne shifts behind you, arms bracketing your waist to keep you upright. He kisses your shoulder, your spine, grounding you while Caleb drinks in the view.

“She needs a minute,” Zayne mutters, voice wrecked. “Look at her. She can’t take more.”

You make a soft sound—half protest, half plea—and Caleb smirks, leaning in close.

“You really think she needs saving from me?” he speaks to Zayne, but his focus is entirely on you. “Or are you just scared of how good it’s gonna feel?”

Caleb’s hand trails up the back of your thigh, making your legs twitch. He feels it. So does Zayne.

“I can take it,” you whisper, and both men freeze.

“Angel—” Zayne starts, like he’s about to argue again.

But you turn your head toward him, eyes glassy but blazing. “I want to.”

Caleb’s expression turns feral. “That’s my girl.”

He lines himself up against you, hands wrapped around your thighs, the position leaving you spread and helpless before him.

“He made you smile like that. I saw it. And I’m glad.”

He leans forward—the smallest movement—but the head of him catches your clit in a way that makes your breath stutter.

“Now I wanna ruin it.”

Caleb grinds the length of his cock against your entrance, up and down, coating himself in the slick combination of your and Zayne’s pleasure.

“You should’ve let me have you first. You should’ve known I’d love you better.”

You’re so wet that he slips in without meaning to, just a little, but it’s enough to make him curse, enough to make you clench around the heavy tip of him.

“Then prove it,” you’re panting now, looking up at him with eager eyes. “Take me how you wanted to all this time. Like I’m yours. Like I should’ve been.”

“You should’ve been?” His voice is raw, disbelieving, cracked wide open.

You gasp as he slams into you in one brutal, claiming thrust, and the sound that rips from his throat is somewhere between a growl and a prayer.

“You were . You fuckin’ were,” he thrusts harder, like he can make you feel it in your bones. “It doesn’t matter who touched you first. I’ll be the last. You belong to me. It’s always been me.”

He fucks into you like he’s losing his mind. Maybe he is.

“I should’ve taken you the first time you looked at me like I was more than just your brother. Should’ve put you in my bed and never let you out.”

“I would’ve let you,” you whisper, and there’s no hesitation. "I still would."

"Don't—”

You moan his name, and that’s it.

It’s not pretty. It’s not gentle. It’s everything you’ve both ever wanted.

You’re trembling, legs shaking, vision white at the edges. Caleb doesn’t stop—won’t stop, not even when his cum drips down your inner thighs—but Zayne’s still there. His hands cradle your waist, guiding you through every wave, every cry. He leans in, presses a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head.

You reach for him blindly—grasping, needing—not because you’re slipping, but because you need him to know. Need him to know this doesn’t make him less. That you’re not choosing one over the other.

His hand finds yours and squeezes.

“I know,” he says quietly, forehead pressed to yours. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

He shifts closer, wrapping you up even while Caleb breaks you open.

“You’re everything to me. You hear me?” His voice wavers, but never breaks. “You’re everything.”

And that’s what kills you. Not the pleasure, but this—being loved so wholly you can’t remember how you ever survived without it.

Then— pop.

You flinch as the window flashes with white-gold light, followed by the sharp crack of fireworks lighting up the night sky.

Caleb blinks, lifting his head, still buried inside you. “Seriously?”

Zayne huffs a soft laugh into your hair.

And you smile.

Only for your throat to tighten—because you realize what that means.

The night is slipping. Already changed. You’ve already crossed the line and now…now there’s no going back.

Your laughter stutters into a quiet sob. “I don’t want it to end.”

"Then we won’t let it,” Zayne cups your face instantly, thumbing away the tears before they fall. "We're not going anywhere."

“I don’t know what happens next,” you whisper.

"We figure it out. Together,” Caleb’s voice is rough and sure as he gently pulls out of you. His hand sneaks up to ruffle your hair. "You're stuck with us now, y'know that? No way out now."

You huff a tired, shaky laugh. Because god, you want that to be true.

The two help piece you back together again. Caleb cleans you up, pulls one of his t-shirts over your head with careful hands. Zayne’s there a moment later, kneeling in front of you with a glass of water. His other hand cradles your jaw as you sip, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone.

“Slow,” he says when you start to gulp. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

And only then—when your body is clean, clothed, and cradled in warmth—do they lay you down between them, the blanket pulled over all three of you. Caleb curls behind you, hand splayed possessively over your stomach. Zayne pulls you toward his chest, heart beating steady beneath your cheek.

You don’t know what tomorrow looks like. But for the first time, you’re not afraid of asking for too much. Of being too much. You understand now. That this kind of happiness—this deep, aching love—only happens when it’s both. When Zayne holds you steady and Caleb tears you apart. And somehow, they both make you whole again.

"I love you," you breathe. "Both of you."

For a second, you think they won't answer. That maybe they didn't hear you.

But Zayne kisses the top of your head. "We know," he murmurs.

Caleb holds you tighter.

"We love you, too," he adds, quieter than you've ever heard him.

When you close your eyes, tucked between your brother and your guardian, sleep no longer feels like an escape.

It feels like peace.

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