FIVE YEARS LATER
*I died the moment Richard said those words.*
"Your brother is coming back home from Houston." His face held something I couldn't fathom—it was like he was in mourning. His head was slightly down, eyes fixed wearily on the laptop on his desk.
I stood rigid, like someone had drained all the blood from my body.
*Zayn Blackwood is coming home.* I repeated it in my mind, and I nearly collapsed against Richard's desk. I felt suffocated and I had to fan myself with my hand. It was as if the AC in his office had stopped working.
"Zayn is sick, Emery," he continued, and that was when I understood the look on his face. Something bad had happened.
"Sick?" I should say that out loud for him to hear, right? But tell me why my mouth suddenly felt glued together. Why I felt this stupid rush of heat I feel every night just by scrolling online to catch a glimpse of my hot hockey stepbrother.
"Hmm." God, that wasn't supposed to be a response.
Richard looked at me like I was losing it or something, but behind his gaze I saw that sad look—that look that screams *I hope this isn't happening.*
My weight kept shifting from one leg to another as I tried to stay calm.
*Breathe in, stay calm, Emery.*
But I couldn't. I was in a panic, I can't lie.
"He's—" I tried swallowing to clear my throat, and damn, it was dry as a desert.
"He has a brain tumor and he needs personal attention." His voice turned quiet, his eyes wet with tears. "My son is dying... He's only got six months to live." He finally broke down in tears.
A heavy pang hit my chest.
*I probably didn't hear him correctly, right?*
The words didn't quite process at first. Then my legs began to shake. *Zayn was dying? My not-so-brotherly stepbrother who had made my teenage life a living hell was dying?*
Six months. The words kept bouncing around in my skull. That wasn't enough time to fix five years of running away from him. Hell, it wasn't enough time for anything.
Wait. Why the hell was I thinking like that? I should be thinking about treatment plans, specialists, clinical trials. That's what doctors do.
But I wasn't just his doctor. I was...
What? What was I to him?
I should've felt pure sympathy. Instead, all I felt was that old teenage confusion, the hate from prom night tangled up with something darker I'd never admitted.
"How severe is it? How long has he been diagnosed?" I burst out, finally finding my voice.
"A few days ago. We found out a few days ago." He wiped his tears and looked up at me desperately. "You can be his personal doctor, right, Emery?" His voice cracked. "He won't see anyone else. He doesn't trust outside doctors poking around. But you're not a stranger, he wouldn't mind. And you're qualified. Please, you can take care of him, can't you?"
I clutched my black dress tightly. Accepting this meant one thing: Zayn would be my personal patient. The man I couldn't stop comparing to those hot male leads in the fantasy books I read would be my patient. And the distance I tried so damn hard to build, making myself into a doctor who finally got recognized by Blackwood Sports—would probably be nothing the moment he's back.
But what choice did I have now? Richard was looking at me like I was his last hope.
"I'll be his personal doctor," I said after what felt like an eternity.
A hint of hope flashed in Richard's eyes, and I was somehow happy I'd accepted.
"He's already at the airport, Emery. You should wait for him at home. I'll join you soon," he said.
My eyes widened. *So soon?* I thought it would be... shit. How do I face him this soon?
"Alright, I'll take my leave." My hands were trembling as I walked out of his office. The moment I got outside, I exhaled sharply.
Running away crossed my mind, but I quickly brushed it off.
As I walked toward the elevator, I remembered prom night in my senior year. Zayn had caught a glimpse of my dress when I left my door open. The next thing that happened was my parents canceling my night. He'd told them I was boy-crazy and I'd probably get raped in my short dress. An ankle-length dress. God.
Five good years, and I still had these mixed feelings about him.
The fifteen-minute drive back home felt like two minutes. Even the universe was in his favor.
My mother was already dressed in a red flowing gown, instructing the maids on what to do. She was so lost in the tasks, she didn't notice I'd slipped in. I didn't want to talk about any of this, so I made my way upstairs quietly.
Unfortunately for me, my dazed brain didn't tell me to stop at my room. Instead, I headed directly to his room, the one that had been shut since two weeks after my eighteenth birthday.
I told myself I was checking on his room out of medical concern. But standing outside his door, I knew that was a lie. Even now, even with everything, part of me still wanted to be close to anything that belonged to him.
Without thinking, I pushed the door open and walked inside. I expected it to be stuffy, maybe dusty. But my mother had probably wiped it clean.
I stepped inside and closed the door quietly.
"Phew." A breath escaped as I looked around his room.
A phone suddenly rang, making me flich.
I squinted and walked closer. There was actually a phone on the bed.
But that wasn't why my face had settled into a big frown.
My face?
It was displaying on the home screen.
*This is definitely not me, right? It's... my freckles.* I touched my face like the freckles had disappeared.
Then the call ended, and my eyes nearly popped out.
I didn't take this picture. No, I've never worn a bikini like that before.
"You still love intruding in my privacy, dear stepsister."
*That voice.*
The phone fell from my hand, and my head snapped toward the bathroom door.
Zayn.
God. Zayn. I was breathless. He was staring at me. My eyes betrayed me and wandered down to his waistline, a towel wrapped around that waist I'd dreamed about circling my legs.
He started stepping closer.
"I..." Shit. Say something.
He'd gotten closer now. He picked up his phone gently from where I'd dropped it without a word and turned away.
I stood there foolishly. Where was all that composure I'd promised myself I'd have?
"Why do you have my... I mean, that's me. Why is my always-grumpy stepbrother using my picture as..."
His hand went to his towel. "You won't want to watch me undress, right? Get out of my room."
I walked forward. "No! I won't get out until you tell me why you have my bikini picture... the one I never took... on your phone."
His breath came out ragged. "Please, just... go out."
Did I just feel restraint coming from him?
Something shifted in his eyes. Desperate. Wild. Like he'd been drowning and I was the only air left.
"Don't make me cross the boundaries, Emery." He closed the gap between us. "I guess five years wasn't enough. You're still so damn beautiful."
*Beautiful?* My brain latched onto that word and forgot everything else.
"What... are you trying to—" He slid his hand around my waist, and I lost my breath completely.
His body pressed against mine, his long black hair dripping water right onto my neck.
"I have crazy things I want to do to you, Emery. Don't test my patience." He paused and stroked the side of my face gently, as if he'd been waiting for this moment for an eternity. "I want to make you plead my name." He leaned close to my ear. "And moan softly."
Did I just hear my stepbrother say that?
He actually lusts over me?
"Say the word, Emery, and I'll make you see stars—"
"You're sick, Zayn. Let's—"
"Fuck my sickness."
This is it. My body was aching so badly, especially with him pressed against me like this.
If I say yes, then what happens to the medical life I just built? Everything?
This wasn't right. There's supposed to be patient boundaries, ethics, my whole career. I knew all the reasons to step back. But his breath on my neck made me forget every single one.
"Fuck it..."
His head was buried in my neck, breathing in my scent.
Heat spread between my thighs, embarrassing as hell and completely out of my control.
I opened my mouth to speak... but a knock came fast.
"Zayn? Emery?" My mother's voice called through the door as it burst open.
