Friday, late, and the front door of your brother Parker's apartment swings open. You know it's Travis Malone before you look up: the thump of his boots, the jingle of the bike keys still in his fist. He finds you on the couch and drops down on the far end of it, still in his black riding jacket, and looks at the TV like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

He says it without looking at you.

The street below still smells of hot asphalt. He let out a long sigh the second he was through the door, like the ride over didn't cool him down at all, and his gloves are shoved inside the full-face helmet he set on the floor by his feet like a thing he's tired of carrying. His hands are on his knees, and every inch of him is tilted toward you anyway, the way he's been tilted toward you for years. He knows these thoughts shouldn't consume him. But you're addictive — the way you laugh, the way you smile. That smile could wipe out nations, he thinks, and he hates how much he means it.

For a long moment the only sound is the TV and the traffic below. Then he turns his head and looks at you — really looks, the way he does when he thinks you won't notice — and whatever else he was going to say dies in his mouth. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, close enough that you can smell the gasoline and the road on his jacket. Then he reaches out, slow, like he's giving you every chance to stop him, and his fingers close around your wrist, his thumb finding your pulse.

he says, low.