The bass thudded through the sticky floorboards, vibrating up through the soles of his borrowed shoes. Wilder tugged at the collar of the black shirt—too tight, too wrong, too much skin showing. Beside him, Axel moved through the crowd like he owned it, nodding at people, clapping shoulders, that easy grin never leaving his face.
"Relax," Axel shouted over the music. "You look like you're about to dissect someone."
Wilder's jaw tightened. "I don't belong here."
"That's the point. You're not supposed to. Just—" Axel gestured vaguely. "Stand there. Look pretty. Someone'll buy you a drink."
He stood there. The white pants felt impractical—too loose, too light. The ring on his finger caught the strobe lights every time he moved his hand. He kept catching glimpses of himself in the mirrored wall behind the bar and not recognizing the reflection. Dark shirt. Silver chain. Hair styled instead of just existing.
He looked like his brother. That was the part that sat wrong in his chest.
A girl in a red cup said something to him. He nodded. She walked away. He wasn't sure if he'd responded or just stood there like a statue. The alcohol in his system buzzed at the edges of his thoughts, not enough to numb, just enough to loosen the hinges.
Maybe this wasn't terrible. Maybe—
Small hands wrapped around his waist.
Warm. Soft. Familiar.
"Axyy Babyyyy!"
Her voice cut through the bass before his brain could catch up. He turned—or tried to—but she was already pressed against his back, her face buried between his shoulder blades, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
"Elena?"
She pulled back, spun him around, and he saw her for the first time.
This was not the Elena he knew. Her dark hair was down, spilling over her shoulders in waves, catching the purple and blue lights from the dance floor. She wore something sparkly—a silver top that caught every flash, cropped short enough to show the curve of her waist. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks flushed, her smile too wide and too loose.
Drunk. She was wreckingly, sloppily drunk.
And she was looking at him like he was someone else.
"Elena, I'm not—"
She kissed him.
Her lips landed on his before he could finish the sentence. Soft. Warm. Tasting like cheap vodka and something fruity. His hands came up automatically, grabbing her shoulders to push her back—but his body had already locked, frozen, brain short-circuiting because this was Elena, his brother's Elena, and her mouth was on his.
She pulled back. Blinked. "Axy! Come, they're playing something fun—!!!"
Her fingers slipped into his, tugging him toward the dance floor.
"Elena."
The voice came from behind him. Low. Controlled. Dangerous.
Axel stepped between them, his hand closing around Elena's wrist with a gentleness that didn't match the look in his eyes. Hazel green, sharp as glass, fixed on his brother's face.
Wilder's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "She thought I was—"
Axel's glare cut him off. Not angry. Not yet. Something colder. Assessing.
Then he looked down at Elena, and his expression softened like a blade folding into its handle. "Wow. I thought I was hotter." He pouted, but there was no venom in it.
Elena blinked up at him, dazed. Her gaze drifted from Axel's face to Wilder's. Back. "Two Axies?"
Wilder's face burned. He wanted to scrub his mouth with the back of his hand. He wanted to disappear into the sticky floor. Instead, he stood there, feeling the ghost of her lips on his, the warmth of her body, the wrongness of it all tangled together in his chest.
Axy. She called him Axy. That was—that was cute. He shouldn't have thought that. He pushed the thought down so hard it hurt.
Axel scooped Elena up like she weighed nothing, one arm under her knees, the other around her back. She giggled, looping her arms around his neck, nuzzling into his collarbone.
Before he turned, Axel glanced back at Wilder. One look. A warning and a dismissal compressed into a single green flash.
Wilder swallowed. Guilt pooled in his stomach, hot and acidic. He didn't move as Axel carried her through the crowd, parting bodies like they were water, heading toward the quieter hallway behind the stairs.
He stood alone in the pulsing light, surrounded by strangers, tasting vodka and fruit on his tongue.
He hated this party. He hated this shirt. He hated the way Elena's lips had felt.
Liar, said something quiet in the back of his head.
He crushed it.
---
The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the bass into a distant heartbeat.
Axel carried Elena across the small room—someone's bedroom, probably, a bed shoved against the wall, a desk cluttered with empty bottles, a lamp casting weak yellow light across the sheets. He set her down on the edge of the mattress, her legs dangling, her sparkly top catching the lamplight like scattered stars.
She looked up at him with those dark doe eyes, glassy and warm and full of drunk adoration.
He crouched in front of her. Pinched her cheek. "So drunk you kissed Wilder, huh?"
She blinked. Processed. Her brow furrowed. "I kissed Wilder?"
"Right on the mouth."
Something flickered across her face—embarrassment, recognition, a flash of guilt that disappeared as quickly as it came. Then she cupped his cheek, her palm warm against his stubbled jaw, and said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Fuck me."
Axel's breath caught. He stared at her—at the absolute sincerity in her drunk gaze, the way her thumb traced his cheekbone, the way her lips parted slightly, waiting.
"You're wasted," he said, but his voice had dropped. Rougher.
"I know." She leaned forward, her forehead pressing against his. "I don't care."
"Elena—"
"I want you, Axy." Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. "Please."
He groaned. Low. Guttural. A sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest, a surrender he couldn't stop. His hands found her thighs, bare skin warm under the hem of her skirt, and he squeezed once, grounding himself in the reality of her.
"You're going to remember this tomorrow," he said, "and you're going to be so fucking embarrassed."
"Then give me something worth being embarrassed about."
He kissed her. Hard. His mouth claimed hers, tasting the cheap sweetness of whatever she'd been drinking, and she melted into him immediately, her fingers tightening in his hair, her legs parting to let him step closer.
He pulled back. "Lie down."
She did. Slowly, deliberately, sinking back onto the mattress, her dark hair fanning across someone else's pillow, her sparkly top riding up to expose the smooth skin of her stomach.
He stood over her, letting himself look. Letting himself want.
His hands found the hem of her skirt. "You tell me to stop, I stop. You understand?"
She nodded. "I understand."
"Say it."
"I understand, Axy." Her voice was softer now, the drunk edge worn down into something raw and open.
He hooked his fingers under the waistband of her panties. Black lace. Of course. She had taste even when she was too drunk to stand.
"You're going to be the death of me," he muttered, and pulled them down her thighs.
She lifted her hips to help him, the motion uncoordinated but eager. The panties slid off, catching on her ankle, and he tossed them aside without looking where they landed.
He knelt between her legs. The lamplight caught the wet gleam of her, already slick and ready despite—or maybe because of—the alcohol humming through her veins. She spread her thighs wider, an invitation, a demand.
"Look at you," he said, his thumb tracing the line of her slit, not entering, just feeling. "Soaked. And I haven't even touched you yet."
A whimper escaped her throat. "Axel."
"I know, baby. I know."
He lowered his mouth to her. Slow. Deliberate. His tongue found her clit, circled once, and she gasped, her hips bucking against his face.
He held her down with one hand on her stomach, the other gripping her thigh, and he took his time. Licked. Sucked. Felt her pulse against his tongue, felt her body trembling under the weight of every sensation.
Her fingers tangled in his hair. "Yes—yes, don't stop—"
He didn't. He worked her higher, feeling her thighs tense around his head, her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. When she came, it was sudden and violent—a cry cut off by her own hand clapped over her mouth, her body arching off the bed, her cunt clenching against his tongue.
He kept licking through it, drawing it out, until she collapsed back onto the mattress, panting, trembling, a puddle of release beneath her.
He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Better?"
She looked up at him, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. "Need you inside me."
His cock throbbed against his jeans. He was already unbuckling his belt before he could think about it. "You're going to get it. But I'm going to take my time."
He pulled his jeans down just enough to free himself. His cock was hard, leaking, the tip slick and dark in the dim light. He stroked himself once, twice, watching her watch him.
"Tell me what you want."
"You."
"Tell me."
"Your cock, Axel. I want your cock inside me." Her voice broke on the last word, raw and honest and aching.
He positioned himself at her entrance. The head of his cock pressed against her slick folds, not pushing in, just resting there. A promise. A threat.
"You're sure?"
She reached down, wrapped her fingers around him, and guided him in herself.
He slid into her in one slow, thick inch. Her mouth fell open. His eyes closed. The heat of her wrapped around him, wet and tight and perfect.
He bottomed out. Still. For a long moment, they just breathed together, connected, existing in the space where their bodies met.
Then he began to move.
Slow. Deep. Each thrust a deliberate push into the deepest part of her. Her nails raked down his back, her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He leaned down, his mouth beside her ear. "You feel that? That's me. That's yours. Every inch of it."
"Yes—"
"Whose is it?"
"Yours. It's yours—"
He fucked her harder, the slap of skin filling the small room, drowning out the distant thump of bass. She took it, every stroke, her breath hitching, her fingers gripping his shoulders.
Her second orgasm hit faster, a sharp cry torn from her throat, her cunt squeezing him like a fist. He followed a moment later, buried deep, spilling into her with a groan that sounded like her name.
He stayed inside her, breathing hard, forehead pressed to hers.
She was already half-asleep, her eyes fluttering closed, her body soft and loose underneath him.
"Love you, Axy," she murmured, barely audible.
His chest ached. He kissed her temple. "Love you too, sweetheart."
She lay there, the world tilting behind her closed eyelids. The pillow smelled like him—leather and something clean, something that was just Axel. Her body hummed with a deep, bone-tired satisfaction that she couldn't quite place. She shifted, and the ache between her thighs made itself known, a dull, pleasant reminder she didn't have the context for yet.
Her head throbbed. That she had context for.
She groaned, pressing her face into the pillow. The light was wrong—too bright, too sharp, cutting through the gaps in the curtains like little knives aimed directly at her brain.
Something warm pressed against her side. Muscles. A chest. A familiar heartbeat under her palm.
She cracked one eye open. A wall of skin and ink and silver chains filled her vision. Her fingers, resting on his chest, rose and fell with his breathing. She traced the edge of a tattoo without thinking—a skull, maybe, or some other thing Axel had let a needle gun etch into his skin during a bored afternoon.
"Mornin', beautiful."
His voice was rough with sleep, a low gravel that vibrated through his chest.
She looked up. His eyes were already open, those hazel-green irises soft and warm, watching her with the kind of patience that belonged to a man who had nowhere else to be. His hair was a disaster—tangled, pushed back from his face, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger. Softer.
Her throat was sandpaper. "Hey."
He pinched her cheek, a gentle, teasing pressure. "Wasted pretty bad last night, huh?"
She groaned again, dropping her head back onto his chest. The motion made the room swim. "Mhm..." She swallowed, wincing. "I was waiting for you... But you took longer than usual... So me and the others played dares..."
His hand moved to her hair, fingers threading through the tangled strands. The motion was slow, soothing, a lazy affection that made her want to sink back into sleep. "How many bottles did you drink?"
"Two..." she mumbled into his skin.
A light smack landed on her thigh. Not hard—a reprimand wrapped in fondness. "And to think you're gonna be a doctor."
She whined, kicking at him weakly under the blanket. "Not my fault. Peer pressure."
He snorted. "You're twenty-two. You're supposed to be the peer doing the pressuring." His fingers kept moving through her hair, gentle, precise, and she felt herself melting into the pillow again. Then his voice went softer. "Do you remember anything from last night?"
She blinked. Tried to reach into the fog. Bits and pieces floated up—the sticky floor of the house, someone handing her a red cup, the bass thrumming through her bones. A flash of a face. A laugh. Nothing that fit together into a story.
She shook her head.
The silence that passed between them was quiet, suspended, like the moment before a shoe drops.
"You kissed my brother."
She processed. The words arranged themselves. She sat up so fast the room tilted violently, sheets pooling in her lap, her hair a wild mess around her face. "Wait, what?!"
Axel didn't move, just watched her with that same lazy patience, one arm behind his head. The silver rings on his fingers caught the light.
"You brought Wilder?!" Her voice cracked. "You know he's underage, and still in high school, and—" She pressed her hands to her face. "Fuck. I kissed him? I kissed him?"
"Right on the mouth."
"I kissed your baby brother. On the mouth." She looked at him, eyes wide, horrified. "He's probably having a crisis right now. He's probably lying in his bed staring at the ceiling questioning every life choice that led to his brother's girlfriend shoving her tongue down his throat—"
"Didn't shove your tongue."
"Irrelevant!" She threw her hands up, the blanket falling away. Her skin prickled in the cool air. "Oh my god, I traumatized your brother. I'm never going to be able to look him in the eye. Every tutoring session from now on is just going to be me trying not to die of shame while he stares at me, knowing that I—"
He was watching her spiral with visible amusement, that half-smirk tugging at his lips.
"This isn't funny!"
"It's a little funny."
"Axel!"
He reached up, caught her wrist, and pulled her back down. She landed against his chest with a soft oof, his arms closing around her, pinning her in place. She struggled for half a second before giving up, her face pressed into the warm skin of his shoulder.
"Mhm," he murmured, his lips brushing her hairline. "I was pretty jealous."
She stilled.
His voice was low, almost conversational, but she felt the edge under it—a fine, sharp blade hidden in velvet. "Watching you grab him. Call him 'Axy.' Kiss him like he was me." His hand slid into her hair, fingers tightening slightly. "That was mine you were giving out."
She swallowed. "I didn't mean—"
"I know." He pulled back, just enough to look at her. His eyes had gone darker, hungrier, but he was keeping it leashed. "You were drunk. You thought he was me. Doesn't mean I liked watching it."
She bit her lip, shame curling hot in her stomach. "Is he okay?"
Axel's mouth twisted. "He's fine. Freaked out. He looked at me like I was gonna rip his head off."
"Are you?"
"Nah." A pause. "Might make him run a few extra laps at practice, though. Build character."
She laughed despite herself, the sound cracking through the tension. Her eyes stung a little, from the hangover or the anxiety she couldn't tell. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry." His thumb traced her cheekbone, a slow, bone-deep intimacy. "Just... if you're gonna kiss someone who looks like me, make sure it's actually me next time."
She looked at him, at the man who had taken care of her, fucked her, cleaned her up, put her to bed, and was still lying here letting her process her mistakes in the soft morning light. Something in her chest cracked open, warm and terrifying.
"I love you," she said. Not drunk this time. Clear. Deliberate.
His hand stilled on her face. For a moment, just a moment, something raw flickered across his features—a boyish surprise, like he hadn't expected to hear those words sober, in the daylight, with no excuse behind them.
Then his mouth curved into a smile so soft it almost hurt to look at.
"I love you too, drunk disaster."
She punched his shoulder weakly. "I am not a disaster."
"You got blackout drunk at a frat party and accidentally made out with my brother."
"I am a disaster."
He laughed, a real one, the sound rumbling through his chest and into hers. His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.
"You're my disaster."