It was my daily "quiet quitting" time. I clicked on the pinned contact at the top of my list, the one for my ice-king stepbrother, and fired off my usual message. [Bro, cooking tonight?] The second I hit send, a coworker stopped by my desk. We chatted for maybe two minutes, but when I looked back at my phone, my work-chat was exploding. My deskmate, Chloe, was spamming me. [OMG! I think Mr. Pace is dating someone!] [And it’s SPICY ?️?️?️] My heart leaped into my throat. My fingers moved faster than my brain, clicking the video she’d sent. It was a recording of a conference call. Landon (Mr. Pace, to the rest of them) was on screen, looking unfairly good in a dark red shirt and a black waistcoat. His sleeves were rolled, showing a hint of forearm, and he was wearing those old-fashioned sleeve garters that, on him, looked less "grandpa" and more "sexy intellectual." I felt a fire light up... in my stomach. Yeah. God, he looked good enough to eat. I shoved that thought down and focused. The camera was shaky, aimed at the giant monitor where Landon was screen-sharing. A notification popped up. The profile picture was... familiar. It was… mine. But my name wasn’t "Autumn." And it wasn't "Sister." My contact name was a bizarre chemical compound: [Phenylethylamine]. I frowned, but before I could even google it, I saw the message I’d sent. I almost jumped out of my chair. I’d meant to type [Bro, cooking tonight?]. But my fingers had flown too fast. "Bro" had become "Hubby." That, I could have explained. A 'B' and an 'H' are… well, okay, they’re not close. But the real problem? I’d deleted the word "cooking." So, the message that flashed on the screen for the entire executive board to see was: [Hubby, tonight?] The entire conference room went dead silent. You could see all the department heads trying not to look at Landon, their faces screaming, “You, Mr. Cold-and-Proper, are into THIS?” Landon froze for a second. Then, without explaining, he calmly closed the chat window, looked down at his phone, and typed something. “Sorry,” he said, his voice smooth and magnetic. “She’s… playful.” The audio in the video was crystal clear. That deep, steady voice hit my ears and sent a jolt straight to my brain. My face was on fire. The video ended there. Chloe was losing her mind in our chat, insisting his tone was dripping with affection. Which, of course, made me blush even harder. [Chloe: No idea who snagged that demon, but damn, she is eating well!] [Chloe: Wait.] [Chloe: That profile pic is YOU.] [Chloe: Autumn, are you…?] I frantically cut her off. [Me: NO! It's not! I barely even know Mr. Pace!] I’d hidden my connection to Landon since I started working here. I avoided him at all costs. Chloe bought my denial. I let out a huge sigh of relief and swiped out of her chat. And there it was. The little red '1' next to my pinned chat with Landon. I didn't even have to open it. I could see the preview of his reply. One word. [Yes.] I stared at it. My mind was completely blank. When I was watching the video, I’d been trying to guess what he’d type. A question mark? A "WTF"? I never expected this. So… He must be talking about… food, right? I had no idea how to reply. The message was so bad, it was hard to believe it was an accident. I did the only thing I could: I posted on Reddit. Title: TIFU by texting my stepbrother “Hubby, tonight?” instead of “Bro, cooking tonight?” He’s in a meeting, screensharing, and he just replied “Yes.” What do I do??? User_A: “Accidentally” or “accidentally-on-purpose”... User_B: @User_C, get in here. This is that step-sibling-romance plot you love! User_C: Read the post. Where can I find “Hubby, Tonight? Part 2 (Uncensored)”? User_D: If he’s not into you, I’ll eat my keyboard. User_E: Wait… aren't you the girl who posted a few years ago, “Help! I met my dream guy at a family dinner, and he’s my new stepbrother”? …Shit. I can’t believe someone remembered that. Before I was sixteen, everyone in our small town felt sorry for my mom. She’d been a "brainy girl who threw it all away" by running off with my dad, a broke musician who was hot and knew it. Then they got divorced, and she married a real estate mogul in Chicago. Just like that, my senior year of high school, I was suddenly a rich kid. The only problem was, at the first big "welcome to the family" dinner, I met him. My ideal man. My cold, beautiful, new stepbrother, Landon. He was only four years older than me, home from college. He sat right across from me. He had platinum-blond hair back then, and I couldn't stop staring. He didn't seem to like me. He’d push up his black-framed glasses and pointedly look away. I was crushed for about half a second, until I got distracted by his hands. And the hint of collarbone at the neck of his sweatshirt. And the little mole on his throat that bobbed when he drank his water. My god. I was a small-town girl. I hadn't been poisoned by the internet yet. I’d never seen an incubus in real life. I just… stared. That crush festered for six years. I spent that time trying to get close to him, playing the role of the perfect, adoring little sister. Landon remained unimpressed. Whenever one of his friends would say, “You’re so lucky, your stepsister is so sweet,” he’d frown, his eyes getting colder. “I don’t see her as a sister.” It was a polite, brutal rejection. It stung so badly I avoided him for weeks. But we lived in the same house. It was impossible. I’d run into him at the pool. Him, in nothing but swim trunks. The wide shoulders, the abs, the pale skin. My eyes just… locked on. Or I'd find him by the front door, leaning against his motorcycle, helmet on, just those intense, dark eyes watching me. The summer wind would blow the roses on the wall behind him, and my high school English lessons would kick in. “It is not the wind moving. It is not the flag moving. It is your mind moving.” I’d clutch my backpack straps and, after a long internal battle, I’d put my "good sister" mask back on. “Bro… can I get a ride to campus?” That was the day I made that Reddit post. I’d hidden it later, scared someone I knew would find it. And now, here it was, dredged back up. I sighed. I decided to just ignore Landon. Based on six years of him being a cold, distant jerk, he probably just wanted me to drop the awkward subject. But when I got to the elevator after work, he was there. His eyes were half-lidded, but his gaze was fixed right on me. I swallowed and stepped in, standing with my back to him. The elevator filled up. With every stop, I was pushed back, and back, until my shoulders were pressed against his chest. A second later, he pressed something into my palm. I looked down. It was his apartment key. Oh, my god. This was… this was a key. To his apartment. He was giving it to me. I nearly died. I had to give it back. I fumbled, trying to shove it back into his hand without anyone seeing. My fingers brushed… something. Something hard. A low, pained grunt echoed in the silent elevator. Everyone turned. I snatched my hand back, my face instantly turning the color of a tomato. “You stepped on my foot,” Landon said, his voice a little strained. “Oh! Sorry, so sorry!” I mumbled. The doors opened. I practically fell out of the elevator. I was halfway to my car before I realized I still had the key. My phone lit up. A new text from Landon. [Landon: That’s my only key.] Well. Shit. Now I had to go to his place. He beat me there. He was leaning against his apartment door, arms crossed, watching me drag my feet down the hallway. I finally made it to him, my head down. “Your key…” He held up another key and unlocked the door. I looked at him. “You lied to me?” “Yes,” he said, no shame at all. He held the door open. “Coming in?” “No! No, thank you!” I said, backing away. He didn't push. He just leaned against the doorframe and coughed, a deep, rattling sound. He looked… sick. I stopped. “Are you okay?” “Just a fever,” he mumbled, his eyes downcast. He looked so vulnerable. My hand automatically went up to feel his forehead. He flinched, stepping back. “Just go home, Autumn. Don’t worry about me.” His voice was cold, but it was the cold of someone pushing people away. I marched right past him into the apartment, shutting the door behind me. “Where’s your medicine cabinet?” I was digging through his media console when I heard him chuckle. I turned around. He was sitting on the sofa, looking perfectly healthy, watching me with a lazy smile. He tugged his tie loose.
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