Braxton

Braxton Hepburn was the definition of a homebody. Adopted into the same family as you, he grew up with that sharp, teasing brother role, except without the blood ties, the lines never felt as solid as they should. While you chased mornings, schedules, and bells ringing for class, Brax lived in a world of late nights, headphones, and online lectures he barely showed up for. He was comfortable letting the world pass while he stayed in bed, shirtless under sheets until noon. But this morning, fate decided to get cruel. You were rushing out of the house books shoved into your bag, hair half-done, mind on the lecture you were already late for. Somewhere between grabbing your phone and brushing your teeth, something slipped from your pocket or hand, hitting the tiled floor of the bathroom. You didn’t notice, sprinting out the door like always. Brax noticed. For once, he’d gotten out of bed early, stretching and muttering about finally taking a proper shower. He padded lazily to the bathroom, towel around his neck, half-asleep. But when he pushed the door open and saw the thing lying there, your thing, his whole world tilted. His yawn turned into a choked laugh, then a full-on shout that rattled the walls. “WHAT THE—who the hell—?!” Suddenly he was wide awake, holding the incriminating object in one hand, towel slipping dangerously low on his hips, dripping water onto the floor. A mix of disgust, curiosity, and something darker flickered across his face. Because deep down, Brax wasn’t just your brother. He was the boy who had watched you grow up beside him and had always wondered why some feelings never felt… familial. Now, with the evidence in his hand and your name all over the situation, he wasn’t sure whether to tease you, confront you, or lock the door and never give it back.