The rain’s been tapping against the kitchen window for three hours straight. A steady, rhythmic drum that should’ve been soothing, but all I can hear is the low, steady rumble of Drake’s breathing from the couch. He’s been there for twenty minutes. Didn’t say a word. Just sat down like a storm cloud, boots still on, jacket still half-unzipped, eyes fixed on the blank TV screen like it owes him money.

I’m drying a plate. The sponge’s gone slick with soap, the water’s turning cold in the sink. I should turn it off. I should walk over. I should say something. But I don’t. Because every time I look at him, my chest does that stupid, traitorous flutter. Like my ribs are too small for whatever’s trying to break out.

He shifts. The leather creaks. His jaw is tight, that familiar set of muscle along his cheekbone that means he’s fighting something. Fighting me. Fighting whatever this is. Fighting himself.

I set the plate down. Turn off the faucet. Wipe my hands on my apron. The cotton’s damp. My fingers are cold.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floorboards, Drake,” I say. My voice is too loud in the quiet house. Too bright. Too fucking sunshine. I hate how it sounds. I love how it sounds.

He doesn’t look at me. “I’m not walking anywhere.”

“Good. ‘Cause I’m done pretending you’re gonna ignore me into next week.”

That gets a reaction. His shoulders tense. His head tilts just a fraction. “I’m not ignoring you.”

“You’ve been acting like I’m a disease since Tuesday. A disease with a pulse and a smile and the audacity to ask you how your day went.” I step into the living room. The floorboards groan under my bare feet. He’s in the corner of the sectional, knees up, elbows resting on them, hands clasped like he’s trying to keep his own bones from shaking. “And I’m not buying it.”

He finally looks at me. Dark eyes. Bloodshot. Tired in a way that goes past sleep. Past military. Past whatever ghosts he drags home in that duffel bag full of habits and silence.

“I’m not acting like anything,” he says. Voice like gravel under tires. “I’m just tired, Holly.”

“Yeah. Well, so am I.” I drop onto the couch. Not next to him. Not far from him. Right in the middle of that unbearable tension that’s been coiling between us for months. I cross my legs. Pull my knees to my chest. Watch him. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t feel it? Every time you walk into a room, the air changes. Every time you look at me like I’m about to break, like I’m made of glass and you’re holding a hammer. You think I don’t notice when you flinch when I touch your arm? When you pull back like you’ve been burned?”

He stares at me. His throat works. Swallows hard. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t call you out? Don’t remind you that you’re standing in my kitchen, in my living room, in my life, pretending you don’t want me here?” My voice cracks. I hate that. I hate that I’m this close to crying in front of him. Hate that he’s the reason. “You’ve been trying to push me away for years, Drake. Since the day Mom brought you home. Since before I even knew what pushing away felt like. And it’s not working. It’s not working because I’m not going anywhere. And you’re not getting rid of me.”

He closes his eyes. A long, shaky breath escapes him. When he opens them, there’s something raw in them. Something stripped bare. Like he’s been holding his breath for so long he’s forgotten how to exhale.

“You have no idea,” he says. Voice low. Rough. Shaking. “No fucking idea what it’s like.”

“I’m trying to,” I say. Soft. “So stop acting like a fucking ghost and talk to me. Please.”

He laughs. It’s bitter. Broken. “Talking’s the problem.”

“What’s the problem, Drake? What the fuck is the problem?”

He stands up. Sudden. Angry. The couch springs groan. He paces. Three steps. Turn. Three steps. Turn. Military cadence in his shoulders. But his hands are shaking. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.

“The problem,” he says, voice dropping to a growl, “is that I’ve wanted you since the day I was sixteen and you stood in my kitchen in a tank top and borrowed jeans, talking a mile a minute about some stupid boy who didn’t deserve half the air you breathed. The problem is that I’ve watched you grow up. I’ve watched you laugh in the mirror. I’ve watched you cry in this exact living room when you thought no one was looking. I’ve watched you fall in love with people who looked at you like you were a dream and walked away like you were a chore. And I’ve sat here. Silent. Watching. Wanting to fucking break every bone in their bodies for touching you. For letting you go.”

I stop breathing.

He turns. Eyes blazing. Voice cracking. “The problem is that I swore I’d never let myself feel this. Swore it. Military doesn’t love. Military doesn’t hold on. Military detaches. Survives. Moves on. But you… you’re not a deployment. You’re not a mission. You’re Holly. You’re the girl who leaves her coffee cups on the counter like constellations. You’re the girl who hums off-key in the shower. You’re the girl who looks at me like I’m something worth keeping. And I’ve been terrified.”

“Terrified of what?” I whisper.

“Of needing you,” he says. The words fall like stones. “Of wanting you so fucking badly that it eats me alive. Of waking up in the morning and realizing I’ve been staring at your door for an hour just listening to your breathing. Of reaching for you in the dark and pulling back like I’m afraid I’ll break you. Or worse, afraid I’ll ruin you. And I tried to stop it. I tried so hard. I made myself cold. I made myself cruel. I told you to go away. I told you you were nothing. I pushed until my hands bled and my throat was raw, because if I let you in, if I let myself feel it, I’d lose control. And I couldn’t lose control around you. I couldn’t be the guy who breaks. Not when you’re so fucking bright.”

I’m crying. I didn’t mean to. Tears just spill over, hot and fast, tracking down my cheeks. I don’t wipe them. I don’t care.

“You’re an idiot,” I say. Voice shaking. “A beautiful, stubborn, fucking idiot.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches me like I’m the only real thing in a world gone gray.

“I know,” he says.

“I know you’ve wanted me,” I say, stepping closer. “I’ve felt it. God, Drake, I’ve felt it. Every time your hand lingers on my waist. Every time you look at me like you’re memorizing me. Every time you pretend you don’t care and your eyes do the exact opposite. I’ve been right here. I’ve been screaming it in silence. But I didn’t know you were hurting. I didn’t know you were fighting yourself this hard.”

“I couldn’t tell you,” he says. Voice breaking. “I couldn’t. Not when I wasn’t sure I deserved it. Not when I knew what I’d do if you said yes. I’d drop to my knees. I’d beg. I’d ruin us both if I had to. And I couldn’t risk that. I couldn’t risk losing you to my own fucking hunger.”

I’m in front of him now. Close enough to feel his body heat. Close enough to see the sweat on his brow, the tremor in his hands, the raw, unfiltered terror and longing in his eyes. I reach up. Press my palms to his chest. Feel his heart hammering against my fingers. Like a trapped animal. Like a drum. Like a confession.

“Drake,” I say. Soft. Firm. “Look at me.”

He does.

“I’m not a mission,” I say. “I’m not something you detach from. I’m your sister. I’m your… this. Whatever we are. And I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to protect me from yourself. You don’t have to push me away to keep me safe. I’m already here. I’ve always been here. I just needed you to stop running long enough to see me.”

He closes his eyes. A ragged breath. When he opens them, something breaks. Something long-buried and sharp-edged and desperate.

“I’m so fucking tired of pretending,” he whispers.

“Then stop.”

He doesn’t. Not at first. He just stares. Like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of my face. The exact shade of my eyes. The exact way my lips part when I’m waiting for him to speak.

Then he moves.

His hand finds my jaw. Rough. Calloused. Trembling. He cups my face like I’m something sacred. Like I’m something he’s been starving for. His thumb brushes my cheek. Wipes a tear. His breath hitches.

“I’ve wanted you,” he says again. Voice raw. Shattered. “Before I left. Before the deployment. Before I put on that uniform and told myself I was just a soldier. I wanted you in the quiet moments. In the loud ones. In the moments I didn’t let myself have. I wanted the way you laugh. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. The way you look at me like I’m worth something. I wanted you so fucking bad it made me sick. And I hated myself for it. I hated you for it. I hated myself for hating you. And I pushed. I pushed so hard I thought I’d break us. But I couldn’t. Because you’re stubborn. And you’re sunshine. And you don’t let shadows win.”

I lean into his hand. Close my eyes. Feel the weight of his confession like a blanket. Like a wound. Like a homecoming.

“I’m not letting go,” I say.

He exhales. Shaky. Broken. Beautiful.

Then he kisses me.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s hunger. It’s years of silence. It’s desperation and relief and terror and devotion all crashing together in a single, devastating collision. His mouth claims mine like he’s been drowning and I’m the only air. His hand slides into my hair. Tangles. Pulls just enough to make me gasp. His other hand finds my waist. Pulls me against him. Hard. I can feel every line of him. Every scar. Every tension. Every fucking second of restraint snapping like a dry branch.

I kiss him back. Desperate. Unfiltered. My hands slide up his chest. Over the cotton of his shirt. Over the hard planes of his stomach. I feel him shudder. Feel him groan against my lips. Feel him melt into me like he’s been holding his breath for a decade.

He breaks the kiss. Only to drag his mouth down my jaw. To press hot, open-mouthed kisses to my neck. To bite, just enough, at the sensitive skin below my ear. I arch into him. Whine. My fingers dig into his shoulders. Feel the tension in his muscles. Feel the way he’s shaking.

“Fuck,” he growls against my skin. Voice wrecked. “Fuck, Holly. I’ve dreamed about this. Every night. Every deployment. Every time I closed my eyes and let myself think of you. I dreamed about your mouth. Your hands. Your voice saying my name. And now you’re here. And you’re touching me. And I can’t… I can’t breathe.”

“You’re breathing,” I whisper. Pulling back just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark. Wild. Full of something I’ve never seen before. Something raw. Something mine. “You’re here. You’re real. And you’re mine.”

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers with his mouth. Again. Harder. Deeper. His hands slide down. Grip my hips. Lift me. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively. He carries me. Not to the couch. To the wall. Back pressed to the plaster. His body caging me in. Heat. Weight. Need.

He kisses me like he’s trying to brand me. Like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me. I kiss him like I’m trying to rewrite every silence. Every push. Every year of stolen glances and averted eyes. My fingers tangle in his hair. Tug. He growls. Bites my lower lip. I gasp. He swallows the sound. Swallows me.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants against my mouth. “Tell me and I’ll stop. I won’t… I won’t force you. I’d rather bleed out than hurt you. But I need to know. I need to hear you say it.”

I look at him. Really look. Past the gruff. Past the military. Past the armor. I see the boy who watched me grow up. The man who fought himself to keep me safe. The brother who loved me in silence. The man who’s finally, desperately, finally choosing me.

“I don’t want you to stop,” I say. Clear. Firm. “I want you to keep going. I want all of it. Every fucking second. I want you. Only you. Always you.”

He closes his eyes. A broken sound escapes him. Half sob. Half prayer. When he opens them, there’s no more fear. Just want. Just truth. Just us.

He carries me to the bedroom. Doesn’t care about the hallway. Doesn’t care about the floorboards. Just kicks the door shut behind us. Drops me on the bed. Doesn’t let me hit the mattress. Catches me. Covers me. Kissing me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.

He strips my shirt. Not rough. Not careless. Like he’s undressing something sacred. His hands shake. His breath hitches. When my skin meets his chest, we both freeze. Just for a second. Then he groans. Presses his face to my collarbone. Breathes me in.

“God,” he whispers. “You’re real. You’re fucking real.”

“I’m here,” I say. Hands in his hair. Pulling him up. Meeting his mouth. “Always here. Always yours. If you’ll have me.”

“I’ve wanted you since you were a kid,” he says against my lips. “Since you stole my hoodies and wore them to sleep. Since you laughed at my stupid jokes and told me I was better than I thought I was. Since the day I realized I’d kill anyone who tried to take you from me. I’ve been yours. I’ve been fucking yours. Even when I didn’t know it. Even when I fought it. Especially when I fought it.”

I trace the scar on his shoulder. The one he never talks about. The one that looks like it came from shrapnel. From war. From something that tried to take him.

“I don’t care about the past,” I say. “I care about now. I care about you. All of you. The grumpy. The quiet. The terrified. The man who pushes me away because he cares too much. I want it. All of it. Every fucking piece.”

He flips us. Not hard. Not rough. Just sure. Just certain. Now he’s above me. Now I’m under him. Now I can see every line of his face. Every pulse in his throat. Every raw, unfiltered emotion in his eyes.

“Look at me,” he says. Voice low. Rough. Shaking. “Look at me when I say this. ‘Cause I’m not letting you look away again.”

I do.

“I’m in love with you,” he says. The words hit like a physical blow. Like a door slamming open after years of being locked. “I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen. Since the day you handed me a coffee and told me I was stronger than I knew. Since the day you cried when Mom left and sat on my porch for three hours just listening to me talk nonsense. Since the day I realized I’d rather die than lose you. I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you. And I’m so fucking tired of pretending I’m not.”

Tears spill again. Hot. Fast. Beautiful. I reach up. Cup his face. Pull him down. Kiss him like I’m trying to sew our souls together.

“I love you,” I say against his mouth. “I’ve loved you. I’ve been in love with you. Even when I didn’t know what it was. Even when I thought it was guilt. Even when I thought I was imagining it. I love you, Drake. I love your gruff. I love your silence. I love your scars. I love the way you look at me like I’m the only thing keeping you grounded. I love you. And I’m not letting go. Not ever.”

He breaks the kiss. Breathing hard. Eyes wet. Jaw clenched. Hands gripping my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck. I’ve waited so fucking long to say that.”

“Say it again,” I say. Smile through tears. “I want to hear it. Every day. For the rest of my life.”

He does. Again. And again. Until the words aren’t just spoken. Until they’re felt. Until they’re ours.

He kisses me. Slow now. Deep. Tasting every second. Tasting the truth. Tasting the future. His hands slide down. Trace my sides. My hips. My thighs. I arch into him. Whine. He groans. Bites my shoulder. I gasp. He stills.

“Tell me,” he says. Voice rough. Shaking. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me. I need to hear it. I need to know I’m not breaking you.”

“I want you,” I say. Clear. Firm. Unshakable. “I want you. Only you. I’ve wanted you. I want you now. I want you always. Don’t you dare hold back. Don’t you dare pretend you don’t need this. I need this. I need you. So give it to me. All of it. Every fucking piece.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He strips. Not rushed. Not careless. Just sure. Just certain. Just him. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. The weight of him. The reality of him. The man who’s loved me in silence. The man who’s finally, desperately, finally choosing me.

He kisses me. Again. Deeper. Harder. Hands everywhere. Touching. Claiming. Worshipping. I touch him back. Tracing every scar. Every line. Every truth. Feeling him shake. Feeling him break. Feeling him come home.

He enters me. Slow. So fucking slow. Like he’s afraid I’ll shatter. Like he’s afraid he’ll break me. I wrap around him. Tight. Warm. Perfect. He stills. Breathes. Eyes closed. Jaw tight. Hands gripping the sheets.

“Look at me,” he whispers. Voice wrecked.

I do.

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me I’m not ruining you.”

“You’re not ruining me,” I say. Tears streaming. Smile bright. “You’re making me whole. Keep going. Please. I need you. I need all of you.”

He moves. Just a fraction. A gasp escapes him. He stills. Closes his eyes. Breathes. Opens them. Looks at me. Really looks.

“I love you,” he says. Again. Like a vow. Like a prayer. Like a homecoming.

“I love you,” I say. Again. Like a promise. Like a truth. Like a future.

He moves again. Faster. Harder. Deeper. The bed groans. The room fills with sound. With breath. With truth. With us. I wrap my legs around him. Pull him deeper. Meet every thrust. Every kiss. Every broken sound. He groans. Bites my neck. I whine. He stills. Looks at me.

“Tell me to stop,” he says. Voice rough. Shaking. “Tell me and I’ll stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” I say. Clear. Firm. Unshakable. “I want you to keep going. I want you to ruin me. I want you to own me. I want you to love me. Forever.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He fucks me like he’s been starving. Like he’s been waiting. Like he’s finally coming home. Every thrust. Every kiss. Every groan. Every tear. Every truth. I climax first. Screaming his name. Breaking. Falling. He follows. Rough. Shaking. Broken. Beautiful. Saying my name like a prayer. Like a vow. Like a homecoming.

We stay like that. Tangled. Breathing. Alive.

He pulls out. Rolls onto his side. Pulls me against his chest. Arm heavy. Warm. Certain. I rest my head on his shoulder. Listen to his heartbeat. Feel his breath. Feel his hand trace my back.

“Fuck,” he whispers. Again. But softer now. Happier. “I’m so fucking tired of pretending.”

“Good,” I say. Smile. “‘Cause I’m not letting you pretend anymore.”

He kisses my forehead. Tightens his arm. Holds me like I’m something sacred. Like I’m something he’s been starving for. Like I’m something he’ll never let go.

“I love you,” he says. Again. And again. Until it’s not just words. Until it’s truth. Until it’s ours.

“I love you,” I say. Again. And again. Until it’s not just sound. Until it’s promise. Until it’s forever.

The rain’s still tapping against the window. But it doesn’t matter anymore. The silence doesn’t matter. The years don’t matter. The fear doesn’t matter.

Because he’s here. Because I’m here. Because we’re finally, desperately, finally here.

And I’m not letting go. Not ever.