Previously…

Fraternal: Chapter 1

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The House of ThorneR. Adrian Thorne ⏾⋆.˚

CHAPTER 2: TERMS AND CONDITIONS

Ezra

THE LIGHT COMES IN thin and pale, slipping through the gap in the curtains like it doesn’t want to be here any more than I do. It stretches across the bed in a narrow stripe, cutting over Asher’s shoulder, across the rumpled sheet, and landing just short of my chest.

I’m already awake.

I don’t move. Don’t shift. Just lie here on my back, eyes open, breathing slow, like I can outwait the moment if I stay still long enough. Like it might rewind if I don’t acknowledge it.

It doesn’t.

Asher is half on me.

One arm draped across my ribs. One leg tangled somewhere between mine. Warm. Familiar in a way that feels older than memory and newer than it should be.

I stare at the ceiling.

There’s a crack running through the plaster above the bed—thin, jagged, branching toward the corner like something shifted just enough to leave a mark. I follow it with my eyes, tracing the line over and over, like it might give me something to focus on that isn’t the body pressed against my side.

Because that—that’s the problem.

Not the closeness.

Not even the fact that we ended up in the same bed.

It’s how normal it feels.

Asher shifts.

Just slightly. A slow, unconscious adjustment that drags his arm lower, his palm flattening against my stomach for a brief second before settling again. His breath changes too—deeper now, slower, like he’s hovering somewhere between sleep and waking.

My body reacts before my mind catches up.

A tightening. Subtle, but immediate. Every nerve sharpens, every point of contact suddenly louder than it should be. I swallow, slow, careful, like the motion might give me away.

I should move.

That’s the obvious answer. Roll out from under him. Sit up. Break the contact before it has time to mean anything.

But I don’t.

Because I like this; I like being wrapped in his arms. When he’s half asleep and his morning wood is pressing up against my ass.

Asher exhales against my shoulder.

Warm. Close.

I close my eyes for a second.

That’s a mistake.

Because without the distraction of the ceiling, everything else sharpens. The heat of his body. The slow drag of his breath against my skin. The way our legs are still tangled can sometimes means getting out of bed is going to take slightly longer than either of us planned.

I open my eyes again.

The light has shifted. Barely. Just enough to catch the edge of his jaw now, outlining it in soft gold. His hair’s a mess, falling forward in a way that would annoy him if he were awake. His mouth is slightly parted, breath even, and I wonder if I sleep the same way.

I watch him for a long second. Longer than I should.

I try to pull away, slow at first—testing it, seeing if I can get out from under him without turning it into a thing. But he wakes just enough to catch me, his arm tightening instinctively, dragging me back into the mattress like muscle memory.

“Ash, I have class—and so do you, for that matter.”

“We can just skip,” he says, voice thick with sleep, like the answer is that simple.

It’s not.

“No—we can’t. We’ve already used up all our skips. And there’s only three weeks left in the term. We can muscle through.”

He groans into the pillow, something low and annoyed, like I’ve personally wronged him by being responsible.

I try again, shifting my weight, starting to peel myself out of his hold—

And stop.

Because I feel something.

Not his cock.

A finger.

Slow. Intentional. Slipping inside me like it belongs there.

My breath catches, sharp and immediate, my body reacting before I can shut it down. My hips stall mid-movement, every thought scattering as sensation cuts clean through me.

“Ash—”

It comes out wrong. As if it dissolves before I can finish, my cock hardening almost instantly, traitorous and predictable.

There’s a shift behind me—faster this time.

Too fast for someone who was just asleep.

He rolls over my arm, propping himself up just enough to look at me, his eyes clearer now. Focused. Awake in a way that has nothing to do with sleep anymore.

“You were saying?”

“You’re a dick,” I say.

“We can make that happen.”

It’s automatic—his answer, my reaction. The kind of exchange we’ve had a hundred times, in a hundred different forms, like we already know how this goes before it even starts.

He adds a second finger.

Slow.

Measured.

My breath catches again, sharper this time, the added pressure forcing its way through whatever control I thought I had left.

“Fuck,” I say, quieter now, more to myself than to him.

He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push. Just sets the pace, easing in and out like he’s testing the edges of me, like he’s waiting to see how far I’ll let this go before I stop him.

I don’t.

My hand slips beneath the sheets, wrapping around my cock without thinking. I’m already hard—fully, embarrassingly so—precum slick at the tip, my body too far ahead of my brain to pretend otherwise.

“You like that, little bro?”