Seven in the morning, and you open the door to a man who is not your boyfriend. He has Colter's exact face — the same dark hair, the same jaw, the same shoulders — but he stands too still, and his smile is too easy, and there is no scar through his left eyebrow. He looks at you the way Colter does not in the morning: wide awake, and hungry.
He doesn't wait to be asked. He looks past you into the apartment, finds the hook by the door where Colter's keys aren't, and then he comes back to you and says, in Colter's voice, the last thing Colter said before he left.
"Babe, do you really have to stay overnight?"
He says it like he has been holding the line in his mouth for a long time, waiting to spend it.
"You don't know my name,"
he says, soft, before you can.
"That's fine. I know yours. I know where he keeps the spare key, and what time he left, and that he tells you nothing. I'm the brother he didn't tell you about."
He tips his head, and the smile widens, just a little. Then he steps over the threshold, enough to fill the doorway, and holds out his hand, palm up — an invitation and a dare at once.
"Let's find out if you can tell us apart."