Wilder was fucking dancing.
Not metaphorically. Not a little shoulder shimmy while he grabbed a drink. Full-on, headphones-in, nobody-watching-but-his-big-brother dancing — sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair, hips moving loose and unguarded, arms doing something that might have been choreographed in his head and definitely hadn't reached his elbows yet.
Axel watched from the couch, calculus textbook open in his lap, pencil suspended over problem 47. His brother had the exam results tab open on his phone. Had been refreshing it every thirty seconds for the past hour like a man possessed.
Wilder spun. Nearly hit the lamp. Caught himself, grinned, kept going.
"You gonna tell me what you got, or am I supposed to guess from the quality of the dance moves?"
Wilder didn't answer. Just kept moving — a little faster now, a little looser, like the news was still settling into his bones and his body didn't know what else to do with it. He grabbed the whiskey bottle from the side table, took a swig straight from the neck, and Axel's eyebrows shot up.
"Whoa. That bad or that good?"
Wilder set the bottle down. Pulled the sunglasses from his hair. Put them on. Took them off. His hands were shaking.
"Highest marks."
The words came out quiet. Almost disbelieving.
"The whole cohort." He said it again, slower. "Highest marks in the biology exam. Out of everyone."
Axel's pencil stopped moving.
The room went still — the radiator ticking, the lamplight pooling yellow on the scarred floorboards, the whiskey bottle sweating a fresh ring onto the side table. And Axel felt something roll through his chest. Something hot and proud and complicated, because of course Wilder had aced it. Of course he had. His little brother didn't do things by half measures.
But the word—biology—landed in his gut like a stone in still water, and the ripples spread, and he was back there.
Months ago. The living room. Elena's voice, low and clinical, explaining the female reproductive system while he sat in the corner and tried not to picture her hands on his skin. Failed. Succeeded. Failed harder. The way she'd traced muscles across Wilder's torso, cool fingertips mapping origins and insertions. The way she'd drawn on Axel's own body—ink on his ribs, his arms, his back—while his brother watched and took notes, oblivious to the fact that his big brother was slowly losing his goddamn mind under the pressure of her touch.
Wilder had studied those diagrams. Had memorized every line Elena had drawn on Axel's skin.
His body. His brother had learned from his body.
"Axel?"
He blinked. Wilder was standing in front of him now, sunglasses dangling from one hand, face open and flushed and waiting.
"You okay? You spaced out."
Axel cleared his throat. Laid the pencil down. Cracked his knuckles — a habit he couldn't shake, something to do with his hands when his brain was running too fast.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Just—" He shook his head. Tried to find the shape of a joke. "Gotta admit, weird to think about. You and Lenochka. That whole—" He gestured vaguely. "Teaching thing."
Wilder's grin turned knowing. Too knowing. Eighteen and already reading his brother like a chart.
"You mean the part where you were the diagram?"
Axel's jaw tightened.
"I mean the part where I sat there for two hours while she drew on my back and you took notes like it was a dissection."
Wilder laughed — actually laughed, bright and surprised — and dropped onto the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He smelled like cheap whiskey and the damp wool of his hoodie, and for a second he was twelve again, crawling into Axel's bed after a nightmare, small and quiet and trusting.
"You were a good diagram," Wilder said. "Very anatomically accurate."
"Fuck off."
"No, I mean it. Best labeled specimen I've ever worked with."
Axel shoved him. Wilder didn't budge. Just sat there, grinning, the exam results still glowing on his phone screen, and Axel felt something crack open in his chest — something he didn't have a name for. Pride, maybe. Relief. The weird, hollow ache of watching your little brother become someone you can't quite catch up to.
"She'd be proud of you," Axel said.
The words came out rough. Unplanned. He hadn't meant to say them — not like that, not with his voice catching on the last syllable — but Wilder's grin softened into something quieter, and he ducked his head, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.
"Think so?"
"Know so." Axel knocked his shoulder against Wilder's. "She spent enough hours drilling that shit into your head. And mine, apparently."
Wilder snorted. "You were a distraction."
"I was helping."
"You were sitting there with your shirt off, making heart eyes at her while she tried to explain the brachial plexus."
Axel opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I don't make heart eyes."
"You absolutely make heart eyes. It's embarrassing. You go all soft and stupid and your voice drops like three octaves."
"That's just how I talk."
"To her. You don't talk to me like that."
"Because you're my brother. I'm not trying to fuck my brother."
Wilder made a face. "Okay, that's — that's enough of that topic."
Axel laughed — low and rough, the sound rattling out of his chest before he could stop it. He leaned back into the couch, the calculus textbook sliding off his lap and thudding to the floor. He didn't pick it up. Didn't care about problem 47.
"You gonna call her?"
Wilder was quiet for a moment. Then he picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Elena's contact. "I don't wanna seem desperate."
"You got the highest marks in the exam. You're allowed to be a little desperate."
"That's not — I'm not desperate about that. I just —" Wilder exhaled, long and slow. "I want her to know. But I don't wanna text her at —" He checked the time. "Eleven PM like a psycho."
"She's a med student. She's probably still awake."
"Still."
Axel watched him. The way his thumb hovered. The way his jaw tightened, the way his shoulders curved forward — protective, uncertain, the same posture he'd had at fifteen when he was trying to work up the courage to ask a girl to prom.
His little brother. Top of the cohort. Still nervous about calling a girl.
Some things didn't change.
Axel reached over, grabbed Wilder's phone, and hit call before either of them could think about it.
"Hey—!"
"Too late." Axel held the phone out of reach, listening to the dial tone. "She's gonna answer. You're gonna tell her. And then you're gonna stop moping and we're gonna actually celebrate."
Wilder lunged for the phone. Axel held him off with one arm — the easy strength of someone who'd spent years wrestling his brother into submission — and then Elena's voice came through the speaker, rough and sleepy and confused.
"Hello?"
Wilder froze.
Axel handed him the phone.
Their fingers brushed. Wilder's were shaking again — just a little, just at the tips — and Axel felt something twist in his chest. Something tender and raw and almost painful.
He leaned back. Gave his brother space. Watched him press the phone to his ear and say, "Lenochka. I got the results."
Pause.
Wilder's face crumpled. Not crying — not quite — but something close. Relief. Joy. The weight of months of work, of early mornings and late nights, of letting his brother's girlfriend draw on his brother's body because it was the only way the material would stick.
"Highest marks," he said. "I got highest marks."
Axel couldn't hear what she said back. But he saw Wilder's shoulders drop — the tension bleeding out of him in a long, slow exhale — and he saw the way Wilder's hand came up to cover his mouth, like he was trying to hold the feeling in and failing.
Axel stood up. Crossed to the window. Gave his brother the privacy of his back, the privacy of not watching.
Outside, the street was quiet. A single streetlamp cast a yellow pool onto the asphalt. Somewhere a dog barked, once, twice, and then fell silent. The radiator clicked and sighed.
He heard Wilder laugh — wet and bright — and then: "Yeah. Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow. Okay. Night, Lenochka."
The call ended.
Axel turned around.
Wilder was standing now, phone clutched in both hands, face flushed and eyes bright. He looked like he'd just run a marathon and won — wrecked and radiant, barely containing the energy crackling under his skin.
"She's coming over tomorrow," he said. "She wants to — she said she'd cook dinner. To celebrate."
"Good."
"She also said —" Wilder hesitated. Looked down at his hands. "She said she knew I'd do it. Said she never doubted me."
Axel felt that one land. Right in the center of his chest.
Of course she did. That was Elena — seeing the best in people before they saw it themselves, believing in Wilder's potential before he'd proven a damn thing, spending hours drilling anatomy into his head with nothing but a marker and the canvas of Axel's body.
"She's not wrong," Axel said. "You've got a good brain, kid."
Wilder looked up. Something passed between them — something unspoken, something that didn't need words.
And then Wilder crossed the room and hugged him.
Hard. Sudden. Arms locked around Axel's ribs, face pressed into his shoulder, body trembling with the force of everything he wasn't saying. Axel went still for half a second — surprised, caught off guard — and then his arms came up. Folded around his little brother. Held on.
Wilder was taller than him now. Had been for a while. But right now, in this moment, he felt small again. Felt like the kid who used to follow Axel around the garage, handing him tools he didn't need, asking questions he already knew the answers to.
"Thanks," Wilder mumbled into his shoulder. "For — you know. Letting her use you as a diagram."
Axel laughed — soft, rough, caught somewhere between amusement and something deeper. "Anytime, kid."
"Seriously. I wouldn't have — I couldn't have —"
"Hey." Axel pulled back. Caught Wilder's chin between his thumb and forefinger — a gesture so paternal it surprised even him. "You did the work. I was just a piece of paper."
Wilder's mouth twitched. "A very distracting piece of paper."
"Okay, that's enough sentiment. You're cutting into my drinking time."
Wilder laughed — real this time, bright and unguarded — and pulled away. Grabbed the whiskey bottle. Held it up.
"To Elena?"
Axel took the bottle. Raised it. "To Elena."
He drank. The whiskey burned — cheap and sharp, exactly what he needed. He passed the bottle back, and Wilder took a smaller sip, and they stood there in the dim living room, two brothers and a half-empty bottle and the ghost of a woman who'd changed both their lives.
"You're gonna tell her eventually, right?"
Axel blinked. "Tell her what?"
Wilder's eyes were too sharp. Too knowing. "That you're still thinking about it. The diagram thing."
Axel's jaw tightened. "I'm not —"
"You got quiet when I said the word 'biology.' You always get quiet when the topic comes up." Wilder shrugged — casual, deliberate, the calm of someone who'd spent months watching his brother fall apart in slow motion. "I'm just saying. If it's still on your mind, maybe you should tell her."
Axel didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Because Wilder was right — of course he was right, he was too smart for his own goddamn good — and the memory of Elena's hands on his skin was still there, still sharp, still humming under his ribs like a second heartbeat.
The way she'd traced the line of his collarbone. The way her breath had hitched when she'd pressed the marker to his stomach. The way she'd looked at him — really looked at him — like he was more than just a diagram, more than just a body to label and study and forget.
He ran his thumb along his lower lip. A habit. A tell.
Wilder saw it. Said nothing.
They passed the bottle back and forth until it was empty, and then Wilder yawned — wide and unguarded — and shuffled toward his room, phone clutched in one hand, sunglasses still dangling from the other.
"Night, Axel."
"Night, bud."
The door clicked shut.
Axel stood alone in the living room, the radiator ticking, the lamp casting long shadows across the floor. He picked up his calculus textbook. Set it down. Picked up his pencil. Twirled it between his fingers.
The ghost of Elena's touch was still on his skin.
Months later, and he could still feel it.
He pulled out his phone. Stared at her contact. His thumb hovered — the same way Wilder's had — and then he typed:
Wilder told you the news?
Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then:
He did. I'm so proud of him.
Axel smiled. Small. Private. Something he wouldn't let anyone else see.
Me too.
A pause. The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Are you okay?
He read the message twice. Let the question sit in his chest, heavy and warm.
Yeah.
Another pause. Then:
I'll see you tomorrow.
Looking forward to it.
He locked the phone. Set it face-down on the side table. Stood there for a long moment, the silence settling around him like dust.
The radiator clicked.
The lamp flickered.
And Axel Kovač — engineering student, weekend biker, a man who'd spent months pretending he didn't still feel his girlfriend's hands on his skin — picked up the empty whiskey bottle, carried it to the kitchen, and let himself wonder what tomorrow would bring.
"Okay. Wow. Even I didn't get such good marks when I was your age."
Elena's voice cut through the living room like a bell. She stood in the doorway, phone in hand—Wilder's phone, Axel realized—staring at the screen with her mouth hanging open. Her dark hair was still damp from a morning shower, curling at the ends, and she was wearing one of Axel's old band tees under her jacket. She looked soft. She looked like home.
"I remember I failed biology TWICE when I tried to pursue it!!!"
She squeaked—actually squeaked—and it was so unguarded, so girlish, that Axel felt his chest tighten. She punched Wilder's cheek, a playful tap that made him stumble sideways.
"I'm so proud! This calls for a night out. Mwuah!"
She kissed his cheek. Quick. Casual. When she pulled back, a crescent of red lipstick was stamped on Wilder's skin like a brand.
Wilder froze. His hand came up to touch the spot, and he blinked at Elena like she'd just handed him a live grenade.
She walked past him toward the kitchen, already pulling keys from her pocket. Didn't look back. Like it was nothing.
Axel choked on his own spit.
"Where's MY kiss!?"
He was on his feet before he knew it, pointing at Wilder with the hand that still held his calculus pencil. His mouth hung open. He could feel the heat rising up his neck.
"You don't get a kiss."
Wilder and Elena said it at the same time. Their voices overlapped, perfectly synced, and then they both looked at each other, eyebrows raised.
Axel opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"You're a cult. You're both a cult." He jabbed the pencil at them. "I'm trapped in a goddamn cult."
Elena laughed—low, warm, the sound that still made his stomach drop after all these months—and tossed him his jacket from the hook by the door.
"Get dressed, cult leader. We're going out."
The bar was loud enough to drown thoughts and dark enough to hide them. A jukebox in the corner played something with a bassline that vibrated through the floorboards, and the air smelled like stale beer and cheap cologne and the faint floral note of Elena's shampoo.
Axel watched her from across the booth. She was laughing at something Wilder said, her head thrown back, her throat exposed, and he wanted to press his mouth to that pulse point so badly his teeth ached.
Wilder caught him looking. Made a gagging sound.
"I'm going to puke."
"Don't be dramatic." Axel's voice was rough, but he was smiling. He reached across the table and grabbed one of Elena's fries. She didn't stop him.
"You two are disgusting," Wilder muttered. "I'm surrounded by your electric field of awkward flirting. It's like sitting between two charged particles."
"He's been studying physics," Elena said, not looking away from Axel. Her foot brushed his ankle under the table.
Axel felt it all the way up his spine.
Wilder groaned and dropped his forehead to the table.
They ordered another round. Elena kept pointing at women across the bar—a blonde in a leather skirt, a redhead by the pool table, a group of girls laughing by the jukebox.
"Her jacket is amazing."
"She's got good taste in beer," Elena said, nodding at a woman with a sleeve tattoo.
Axel chuckled, low in his chest. "You're seriously like our mom." Wilder grumbled, fidgeting with the collar of his hoodie. "Just pointing out all the pretty girls like you're trying to set us up."
"That girl's pretty." Elena pointed to a woman in a red dress near the bar, dark hair falling over her shoulders.
"Yeah. Axel said that too."
The words left Wilder's mouth before his brain caught up. Axel saw it happen—the split second of horror that crossed his brother's face, the way his hand stopped mid-fidget, the way his eyes went wide.
Elena's hand froze halfway to her glass.
Silence at the table. The jukebox kept playing. Someone laughed across the room.
Elena turned her head slowly. Looked at Wilder, then at Axel. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a tick in her jaw.
"What."
Not a question. A demand.
Wilder's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "That was before! Like before you and my brother dated! He'd just flirt around sometimes—" He was talking faster now, his words tripping over each other. "It was nothing, he didn't mean anything by it, it was just—god, I'm making this worse, aren't I?"
Elena's gaze shifted to Axel. Her doe eyes were dark, unreadable.
Axel felt his stomach drop. He cracked his knuckles out of habit, then stopped when he realized what he was doing.
"Elena."
She didn't answer. She picked up her drink. Took a sip. Set it down neatly, the glass landing on the napkin in a perfect circle.
Then she turned away from him. Looked out at the bar. Said nothing.
The silence at the table stretched like elastic about to snap. Wilder's hand was frozen mid-fidget, his fingers twisted in the collar of his hoodie like he was trying to strangle himself with it. The jukebox cycled into something slower—a country song about regret, which felt pointed.
Axel watched Elena's back as she walked toward the bathrooms. Her spine was straight, her steps unhurried. She didn't look back. That was worse than if she'd slammed her drink down and stormed off. That measured calm. That controlled distance.
He'd seen her angry before. Flushed cheeks, bitten lip, hands gesturing sharp. This wasn't anger. This was something colder. Something that sat in the quiet and waited.
"Rule number one," Axel muttered. His voice was rough, scraped thin. "Don't talk about other girls with your girlfriend like whatever the hell you just did."
Wilder's head snapped up. His eyes were wide and miserable, the green of them catching the dim bar light. "She's not—she's not your girlfriend?"
"You know what I mean." Axel dragged a hand down his face, felt the stubble scrape against his palm. "Don't—don't fucking tell her I called someone else pretty. Especially not when she's wearing that red lipstick and those jeans that—" He stopped, pressed his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose. "I'm making it worse."
"Sorryyyy." Wilder's voice cracked on the last syllable. "I got you into a lot of trouble, didn't I?" He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping to the table where a ring of condensation from Elena's glass marked the wood like a brand.
"I want to kill you."
"I know."
"I'm not joking. I want to drive you to the woods and leave you there."
"I know." Wilder's voice was small.
Axel let out a breath, long and slow, the air hissing between his teeth. He picked up Elena's abandoned drink—some cocktail with a cherry that had sunk to the bottom—and drained it in one pull. The sweetness hit his tongue and he almost gagged. He hated sweet drinks. But it tasted like her, faintly, and that was worse.
"It was nothing," Axel said, setting the glass down. "The red dress. It was before her. I didn't even—I barely remembered that night." He cracked his knuckles, one by one, the sound sharp in the space between songs. "She's going to think I was checking out someone else while I'm with her. That I'm still looking."
"You're not?"
Axel's head snapped up. "What the fuck, Wilder?"
"I'm just asking! I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just—" Wilder held up his hands, palms out, a surrender gesture. "I don't know how you work, okay? You never talk about this stuff. One minute you're carrying her to the bathroom, the next you're glaring at me like I shot your dog."
Axel stared at him. The kid had a point. He hated that the kid had a point.
"I love her," Axel said. The words came out rough, scraped from somewhere deep. He didn't say it often. Didn't need to. It lived in his chest like a second heartbeat, constant and unexamined. Saying it out loud felt like pulling a rib free and handing it over. "I'm not looking at anyone else. I haven't looked at anyone else since she walked into this apartment and started drawing on me with a marker."
Wilder's expression softened. The guilt was still there, a shadow behind his eyes, but something else flickered through it. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of the thing Axel had just handed him.
"I believe you," Wilder said quietly.
"Good. Now fix it."
"How?!"
"I don't know. You're the one who's good at biology. Figure out the anatomy of an apology."
Wilder groaned and let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling. The exposed pipes up there were rusted in places, the paint yellowed from years of smoke and steam. "I'm going to fail at being a brother and a human being today."
"You already failed at being a wingman."
"I wasn't trying to be a—I didn't even know I was—" Wilder stopped, took a breath, and when he spoke again his voice was measured. Focused. The voice he used when he was explaining something he'd studied. "I made a mistake. I'm sorry. I'll apologize to her when she gets back. I'll tell her it was before you two were together and that you didn't even remember it until I brought it up."
Axel studied him. The kid's jaw was set, his eyes locked on something in the middle distance. When Wilder decided something, he went all in. It was one of the few things about his brother that reminded Axel of himself.
"She might not believe you," Axel said.
"She will. She's smart. She'll know I'm not lying."
Axel wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe that Elena's calm meant she was processing, not shutting down. That when she came back from the bathroom, she'd sit down, pick up her drink, and let him explain. That she'd let him touch her wrist, her jaw, the spot behind her ear where she liked to be kissed.
He wanted to believe a lot of things.
The bathroom door stayed closed.
Minutes passed. The jukebox cycled through two more songs. A group of guys at the bar laughed too loud, and someone dropped a glass in the corner, the shatter muffled by the noise.
Wilder fidgeted. Axel stopped breathing.
The door opened.
Elena stepped out. She'd fixed her lipstick—fresh, precise, the same deep red she'd been wearing all night. Her dark hair was smooth, tucked behind one ear. She walked back to the table with the same unhurried stride, her heels clicking against the worn floorboards.
She didn't sit down.
She picked up her purse from the booth, slung it over her shoulder, and looked at Wilder.
"I'm taking a cab home. Tell your brother I'll see him when I'm ready to see him." Her voice was even. Measured. The voice she used when she was explaining something clinical.
She didn't look at Axel. Not once.
Then she turned and walked toward the door, her heels steady, her back straight, and Axel watched her leave with his heart sitting somewhere in his throat, heavy and useless and beating.
The door swung shut behind her.
The silence at the table was worse than before.
Wilder stared at the door. Axel stared at the space where she'd been standing. The cocktail glass was empty. The napkin was perfectly aligned. The cherry had sunk to the bottom and stayed there.
"She said a week," Wilder said, his voice barely audible. "That's what she said, right? A week? Not forever?"
Axel didn't answer. He reached for the glass again, turned it in his hands, watched the light catch the rim where her lipstick had been. She'd wiped it off before she left. Clean. Precise. Evidence erased.
"She'll come back," Axel said, and his voice was rough, raw, scraped clean of any of its usual swagger. "She always comes back."
The jukebox played. Someone laughed. The night kept moving.
Axel sat there, holding an empty glass, and tried to believe himself. For the first time in years, his hands were still. No knuckles to crack. Nothing to fix. Just the ringing silence where her voice used to be.