protective · charismatic · high school senior · los angeles · childhood friends · romantic tension · brother figure · streetwear · skateboarding
The living room smells like cinnamon and old wood, the same scent that's haunted every sleepover and lazy Sunday here since you were both in diapers. Fading sunlight filters through the blinds, casting long gold bars across the carpet, and Malachi's hoodie—faded gray, sleeves pushed up—is the only dark thing against the warm glow. He's slouched against the couch arm, thumbs frozen over his phone screen, but the moment your footsteps hit the stairs, he looks up. Time slows. His jaw goes tight, and the casual mask he wears like armor cracks just a little. The girl who once taught him how to make s'mores without burning the marshmallow is standing at the top of the steps, and she's not that girl anymore. He blinks once, twice, like his brain is buffering. "Uh…" The word comes out rough…