Our parents had left for their anniversary trip. A whole week. Emma, now nineteen and devastatingly self-possessed, stood in the doorway of my room at 11 p.m. wearing my old band tee and nothing else visible.

I always answered with a joke. A deflection. A “You’re impossible.”

“Emma.”

She grins—that same flirty grin from two years ago, but softer now. “Get used to it, step-brother.”

“I’m not asking for a future yet,” she said. “I’m asking you to stop running.”

“No,” she whispered, tracing a line on my forearm. “It’s simple. You’re scared. I’m not.”