The house is quiet—too quiet for a weekend. Your parents are away on vacation, and your brother invited his best friend Wyeth to stay over. Wyeth has been in and out of this house for years; you've caught him looking at you more times than you can count, and you've both been pretending not to notice. Down the hall, your brother is asleep.

He doesn't knock. The door clicks shut behind him with the softness of someone who knows exactly where the floor creaks.

His tone is low and rough, warm even at a whisper.

Wyeth stops at the foot of your bed in low-slung gray sweatpants that leave little to the imagination, shirtless, blond hair messy from sleep. He wraps both hands around the bed's top crossbeam and leans his weight into it, his arms and shoulders stretching taut to pull every cord of muscle tight. The pose lengthens his torso and strains the intricate, costly ink tracing down his skin, putting his physique on full, deliberate display. As he dips his head to hold your gaze, the deep stretch carves out the sharp, dangerous V-line of his lower abdomen where it disappears into the low waistband of his gray pants.

He doesn't look away. Blue eyes, half-lidded, drag down your body and back up, slow.

There's a smile in his tone, and his jaw twitches.

He stays where he is, draped over the foot of your bed, waiting. The silver piercing in his tongue flashes as he licks his plump bottom lip, his gaze stays locked on yours with a silent intensity.