I sent a message to my aloof stepbrother. [Hey hubby, you on tonight?] My fingers had slipped. I meant to type "Hey bro, cooking tonight?". To make matters worse, he was in a meeting, his phone screen mirrored on the main projector. The entire conference room went silent. The man on screen paused for a fraction of a second, then calmly closed the chat window and typed something on his phone. A moment later, my phone buzzed with his reply. A single sentence. [I am.] I froze. He meant… cooking, right? 1 It was that time of day again—my sacred slacking-off hour. I expertly opened my pinned chat and sent a message to my ice-king stepbrother. [Hey bro, cooking tonight?] The moment I hit send, a colleague came over with a question. We talked for maybe two minutes. When I looked back at my phone, Leah from the design department had spammed me with a frantic series of messages. [OMG! I think Mr. Pei is dating someone!] [And trust me, the texts are SPICY!] My heart leaped into my throat. My fingers moved faster than my brain, clicking on the video she’d sent. On screen, Timothy Pei was dressed in a deep red shirt and a black vest, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing the faint tracery of veins. The black sleeve garters he wore added a touch of roguish charm to his usually stoic vibe. It sent a fire low in my belly. Damn it. The things I’d do to get a piece of that… I pushed the thought down and followed the camera as it panned to the large screen behind him. He was screen-sharing. And someone had just messaged him. The profile picture looked familiar. It looked like… mine. But his contact name for me wasn’t "sister," or my name, Autumn, but a bizarre chemical term: "Phenylethylamine." I frowned, not having time to decipher its meaning before my own message popped into view. In that instant, I almost jumped out of my chair. I’d meant to ask, [Hey bro, cooking tonight?], but in my haste, I’d made two critical errors. "Bro" had become "hubby," and somehow, I’d completely omitted the word "cooking." [Hey hubby, you on tonight?] The accidental message was so explosive that the entire conference room fell into a stunned, awkward silence. The department heads shot subtle glances at Timothy, their faces screaming, You look so prim and proper, but you’re into this kind of stuff behind closed doors? Timothy recovered from his initial shock. He didn't explain. He simply lowered his gaze, calmly closed the chat window, and tapped twice on his phone. “Sorry about that,” he said, his voice smooth and steady. “She’s a bit of a handful.” His deep, magnetic voice resonated through my headphones, sending a pleasant tingle down my spine. Blood rushed to my face, turning it a shade of crimson I didn’t know was possible. The video ended there. Timothy’s tone had been perfectly level, but Leah was convinced it was dripping with affection. Great. Now my face was even hotter. [I wonder which lucky girl landed a catch like Mr. Pei. She’s eating well!] [Wait a second!] [Why does that person have the same profile pic as you?] [Autumn, don’t tell me…] I frantically cut off her speculation. [No! Not me! I barely know Mr. Pei!] I’d hidden my relationship with Timothy since starting at the company, and we always kept our distance at work. My quick denial was clumsy, but Leah bought it. I let out a long sigh of relief and swiped out of my chat with her. And there it was. A small red dot next to my pinned chat with him. My eyes drifted to the message preview. I didn't even have to open it. Timothy’s reply was right there. A single sentence. [I am.] My mind went completely blank. While watching the video, I’d wondered what he could have possibly typed with just two taps. A question mark? An ellipsis? I never imagined it would be this. So… he was talking about cooking… right? 2 I had no idea how to reply. My original seven-word message had two catastrophic errors. It was hard to believe it wasn't intentional. Desperate, I turned to the internet for help. Title: Accidentally texted my stepbro "Hey hubby, you on tonight?" instead of "Hey bro, cooking tonight?" and he replied "I am." What do I do now? User A: [Was it really an accident though?] User C: [Finally, some good food. Where can I find Part 2 of this story? Asking for a friend.] User D: [If he’s not into you, I’ll eat my hat.] User E: [Wait, aren’t you the same person who posted “What do you do when you meet your dream guy at a family dinner and he’s your new stepbrother?” a few years ago?] …I can’t believe someone remembered that. 3 Before I was sixteen, everyone in my village used to say my mom was a hopeless romantic. As a young woman, she’d turned down a perfectly good college graduate to run off with a man who had nothing to offer but his handsome face. That is, until she divorced him and married a tycoon who had nothing but money. And just like that, in my senior year of high school, I became a rich heiress with a capital city residency. The only downside? At the first family dinner, I met my dream guy. My aloof, devastatingly handsome stepbrother—Timothy Pei. He was only four years older than me, still studying abroad at the time. He sat across from me at dinner, his hair a stunning platinum blond that gave him an almost ethereal, boyish look. Every time I looked up, our eyes met. But Timothy didn't seem to like me. He would adjust the black, half-rimmed glasses on his nose, a subtle move to break my gaze. It stung, but only for a second. Then I’d get distracted by his elegant, long-fingered hands. Or the hint of his collarbone peeking out from the neck of his sweatshirt. Or the tiny mole on his throat that bobbed when he drank champagne. Sweet mother of… I was a sheltered country girl, uncorrupted by the temptations of the internet. I had never seen a walking temptation like him in my life. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. That teenage crush simmered for three years. I shamelessly tried to get closer to him, but I never crossed the line. I was so well-behaved that his friends would tell him how lucky he was to have a sister like me. Timothy, however, still didn’t seem to like me. He’d frown whenever they said that, the coldness in his dark eyes intensifying. “I don’t see her as a sister.” His words were a polite, but brutal, rejection. I was so hurt I avoided him for weeks. But we lived under the same roof. We were bound to run into each other. Sometimes it was at the pool, when he was wearing nothing but swim trunks. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, an eight-pack, and pale, perfect skin. My eyes would go wide again. Other times, I’d find him leaning against his black-and-white motorcycle by the front gate, his face hidden by a helmet, only his deep, intense eyes visible, fixed on me. The early summer breeze would rustle the wall of roses behind him and tug at the hem of his white t-shirt. It wasn’t the wind moving, it wasn’t the roses… it was my heart. An old quote surfaced in my mind. I clutched my backpack straps, torn. Finally, I ended my one-sided cold war and put my “good little sister” mask back on. “Bro,” I’d said, my voice small, “can you give me a ride to school?” That was the day I made that online post. It got so popular I had to hide it, terrified someone we knew might see it. 4 And now, someone had brought it up again. I sighed, scrolling through the gleeful comments. I decided the best course of action was to ignore the situation entirely. I had no idea why Timothy had replied the way he did, but given his usual coldness, he probably didn’t want me clinging to him over a typo. But then, after work, I ran into him in the elevator. His gaze was heavy, fixed on me. I braced myself and stepped inside, turning my back to him. As more people crowded in, I was forced backward, step by step, until my back was pressed against his warm chest. A second later, he slipped something into my hand. I recognized it instantly by touch. His apartment key. Oh, god. This was basically him handing me a hotel room key. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to discreetly pass the key back to him before we reached the ground floor. My hand fumbled behind me, searching for his, but instead, it brushed against something firm and decidedly not his leg. A muffled grunt from behind me drew the attention of everyone in the elevator. I snatched my hand back, my entire body turning the color of a boiled lobster. “You stepped on my foot,” Timothy said, his voice a low rasp, saving me. “Sorry, so sorry,” I mumbled, going along with it. The doors opened, and I scrambled out with the crowd. It wasn’t until I was in my car that I realized I still had his key. Just then, my phone lit up. Timothy: [That’s my only key.] Well, damn. Looks like I was going to his place after all. 5 Timothy beat me there. He was leaning against the wall by his door, arms crossed, watching me inch my way down the hall. The short walk felt like it took a century. When I finally reached him, I kept my head down, my voice barely a whisper. “Your ke—” Before I could finish, he produced another key as if by magic and unlocked the door. I stared. “You lied to me?” “Mhm,” he said, completely unapologetic. He held the door open, his dark eyes intense. “Coming in?” The suggestive undertone of his words made me flinch. I waved my hands frantically. “No, no, I’m good!” He didn’t push, just coughed into his fist, a soft, weak sound. He looked… sick. I stopped my retreat. “Are you not feeling well?” “A bit of a fever,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor. He looked so vulnerable. On pure instinct, my heart ached for him. I reached out to feel his forehead. He took a sharp step back. “Just go home. Don’t worry about me.” His voice was cold, and he turned his head away, a picture of self-pity. That did it. I marched into his apartment, shutting the door behind me, and headed for the TV console. “Bro, your first-aid kit is in here somewhere, right?” I rummaged through the drawers, missing the slow, triumphant smile that spread across Timothy’s face as he watched me. He sank onto the sofa, loosening his tie. “No idea.” He sounded like a petulant child, and I assumed it was the fever talking. “Don’t be difficult,” I cooed, walking over to try and check his temperature again. The next thing I knew, he had grabbed my wrist. A gentle tug, and I stumbled, landing right in his lap. My mind went blank. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. His usually cool eyes were turbulent, dark with something I’d never seen before. His voice was a raw whisper. “Bad Autumn. Teasing me like a dog on a leash and then taking no responsibility…” His hot breath ghosted across my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. The feeling was electric, a current that shot straight to my core. I bit my lip, flustered. “It was an accident, I can explain…” Timothy pulled back, leaning against the sofa cushions. But his eyes, intense and possessive, never left my face. “Mm,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “I’ll listen patiently to my bad little Autumn’s explanation.” He drew the words out, the suggestive tone turning the air thick with unspoken things. This Timothy, this predator, was pushing all my buttons. God help me. I felt my resolve melting. Timothy was ridiculously well-proportioned. His long legs meant that on a normal-sized sofa, his knees were elevated. As my body went pliant, I started to slide down his thighs. When I didn’t say anything, a wicked glint appeared in his eyes. He bounced his leg slightly. “Cat got your tongue, my bad little Autumn?” The movement sent me sliding right onto his lap, my hands flying out to brace myself against his chest. The feel of his firm muscles under my palms made my head spin. I gave an involuntary squeeze. Timothy froze for a second, then let out a low, husky laugh. “You little devil.” That snapped me back to reality. I snatched my hands away, my ears burning. “The text this afternoon was a typo. I meant to call you bro…” “Mhm,” he nodded calmly. “And the second part?” Here we go. I squeezed my eyes shut. “I… forgot to type the word ‘cooking.’” Silence. The charged atmosphere began to dissipate. Seizing my chance, I pushed against his chest to get up, trying to change the subject. “Can you let me up? Your belt buckle is digging into me.” Timothy’s gaze darkened, becoming deeper than the night sky outside. “I’m not wearing a belt.” …Oh. Well. The atmosphere was officially back. I was so confused. Wasn’t he supposed to be the cold, aloof stepbrother who hated me? What was with this sudden change? He must have seen the conflict on my face. He lowered his gaze, the raw desire in his eyes softening into something that looked like disappointment. “So… you don’t feel that way about me?” He looked so dejected, all traces of the confident man who had just been seducing me gone. Damn it. This vulnerable act was just as irresistible. All I could think was, Sweet mother of… This time, it wasn’t just an expression. I was genuinely trying to summon the image of my mother to stop myself from doing something stupid. She had suffered for so long with my biological father before finding a man who adored her. I couldn't ruin her happiness by making a mistake with Timothy. And I had worked so hard, for so long, to hide my feelings and play the part of the perfect sister. I couldn’t let one typo destroy everything. The thought was like a bucket of ice water. My spine straightened, my legs found their strength, and my brain cleared of the fog of lust. I shot to my feet and held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Stop! I don’t know why you’re suddenly acting this way, but we are brother and sister! We can’t do this!” Timothy stared at me. He gently took my wrist and guided my hand to his cheek, his eyes blazing with a desperate, wild light. “But I don’t want to be your brother!” “I feel—” It was strange. I had dreamt of this moment for years, fantasized about him finally returning my feelings. But now that it was happening, all I wanted to do was run. I couldn't let our relationship reach a point of no return. I couldn’t tear this family apart. I cut him off, my voice sharp and cruel. “Actually, there was no typo in my message.” He froze, his eyes lighting up like a puppy waiting for a treat. Until I delivered the final blow. “I sent it to the wrong person.” He went rigid. His grip on my wrist slackened. I pulled my hand free. The movement was slight, but it made him stumble, his lips turning pale. I grabbed my bag from the sofa and rushed to the door. “I’m sorry about tonight,” I said, not looking back. “Please don’t say anything. I don’t want him to find out. He gets so jealous, and then I’m the one who has to calm him down.”
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