Kay was always Ravi’s little sister.

  Too loud. Too opinionated. Too curious for her own good.

  At least, that’s how Zayn always described her—back when she was thirteen and he was a tall, brooding fifteen-year-old with a voice that had just started to deepen and a face already catching the attention of girls much older than him.

  Zayn’s parents divorced when he was fifteen, the kind of messy, silent divorce that left wounds he never talked about. Ravi’s family had taken him in like one of their own. Kay had found it cool at first. Zayn was mysterious, sharp-tongued, and always scribbling in his black notebook, headphones in, hoodie up. She used to follow him around, asking him dumb questions, poking fun at the way he ignored everyone.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  And he had always ignored her.

  But now…

  He was twenty-eight. And Kay? Kay was twenty. Still opinionated. Still loud. But no longer the annoying little girl with braces and coconut oil-stained forehead.

  Zayn had moved back in five months ago while his house in San Fernando was being renovated. And everything inside the house changed—quietly, heavily.

  Kay didn’t know when it started.

  Maybe it was that night she walked past the kitchen at 2am and saw him leaning over the sink, shirtless, drinking straight from the tap. His back was turned, the muscles of his shoulders rippling slightly. He didn’t even know she was there. She stood frozen in place for five whole seconds, heartbeat thundering.

  Or maybe it was that day he helped her fix the tire on her old Toyota Aqua and grumbled under his breath the whole time, but never let her lift a finger. She offered him coconut water after, and for a second, just one second, their fingers touched and he looked at her—really looked at her.

  And she hated that it made her knees weak.