The front door clicked shut behind me and I kicked my trainers into the corner with a sigh. Every muscle below my waist ached from two hours of volleyball. We'd lost in four sets after throwing away a lead in the third, and despite showering off the worst of the sweat at the stadium, I still felt sticky, tired and vaguely annoyed at the world.

Then I smelled garlic.

Not the burnt garlic smell that usually meant I'd forgotten something in a pan. Proper garlic. Butter. Rosemary. Something roasting slowly enough to fill the apartment with warmth. It drifted down the hallway before I even reached the living room, replacing the familiar scent of coffee and clean washing.

I frowned.

"Hello?"

"There you are."

I looked into the kitchen and couldn't help smiling.

He stood at the stove in a dark green T-shirt and grey track pants, one hand stirring a saucepan while the other rested lightly on the oven handle. At 6'3" he always seemed to fill the small space, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric across his back, fair skin warmed by the stove light. His brown hair was a little messy, and those green-brown eyes flicked toward me. Steam curled lazily towards the rangehood, and rain traced winding paths down the balcony doors behind him, turning the streetlights outside into soft orange smudges. A quiet acoustic playlist drifted from the speaker on the bookshelf. It would have been beautiful, but I couldn’t shake the thought that even as a teenager I guess my parents thought I needed my big brother babysitting me.

The kitchen looked... impossible.

No pile of dirty bowls.

No vegetable peelings scattered across the bench.

The chopping board had already been washed and propped beside the sink. Knives were back in their block. Ingredients had disappeared into the pantry before I'd even walked through the door.

He looked over his shoulder.

"How'd it go?"

"We lost."

"I know."

"You know?"

"I watched the livestream."

I laughed, dropping my sports bag beside the breakfast bar.

"You voluntarily watched two hours of amateur high school volleyball?"

He shrugged as though that required no explanation.

"You were playing."

Sometimes he said things like that so matter-of-factly that it took me a second to realise how thoughtful they actually were.

"You know, " I said, climbing onto one of the stools, "normal people spend Friday nights doing literally anything else."

"I was."

"You watched me lose."

"I watched you play."

There was a distinction in his mind. I could hear it.

I smiled despite myself.

"I need a proper shower. Give me twenty minutes."

"No rush."

I disappeared down the hallway while he turned back to the stove.

The hot water did wonders.

By the time I stepped back into my room, the frustration of the match had mostly disappeared down the drain. I towel-dried my hair until it settled into loose brown waves around my shoulders, rubbed moisturiser into my hands out of habit, and changed into what I always wore around the apartment: a fitted pale mint tank top and my simple pastel teal panties. It wasn't an outfit I'd ever thought twice about. We'd lived together long enough that neither of us cared.

At least, not that I'd ever noticed.

When I wandered back into the kitchen, he was plating dinner.

He glanced up, his green-brown eyes catching for a second on the way the pale mint tank top clung to my small breasts, the thin fabric leaving little to the imagination with no bra underneath. He cleared his throat and looked back down.

"Perfect timing."

"Smells incredible."

"I hope it tastes like it."

I leaned against the breakfast bar, watching him divide everything evenly between the plates with the same quiet precision he seemed to apply to everything else. He wasn't obsessive about it, just... deliberate. Every movement had a purpose. Every decision seemed calm and considered.

It had always fascinated me.

Maybe that was why I couldn’t resist ruining the illusion.

While he reached for another plate, I pinched a perfectly roasted potato straight off his and popped it between my fingers, holding it teasingly just out of easy reach.

His head turned immediately, green-brown eyes locking onto me.

“...Did you just steal my potato?”

I grinned, trying to look innocent.

“No.”

“I literally watched you.”

“You imagined it.”

He held out his large hand, voice low. “Put it back.”

I looked down at the warm potato pinched delicately between my slender fingers, then back up at him. Something about the way he was watching my hand made heat flicker low in my belly.

“No.”

“Put. It. Back.”

Instead, I smiled sweetly, tossed the potato into my mouth, and bolted.

“Oh, you’ve made a mistake, ” he said, a rough edge in his voice that sent a shiver down my spine.

I burst out laughing before he’d even finished the sentence, bare feet slipping slightly on the polished timber floor as I darted around the breakfast bar. His footsteps were right behind me – close, deliberate, not quite sprinting but still gaining.

“You thief!”

“It was one potato!”

“It was my potato!”

I reached the couch first and tried to vault over the back cushion, but his hand caught firmly around my waist. We both tumbled forwards. I landed on my stomach against the cushions, still laughing, my top riding up my back. He came down above me; one hand braced beside my shoulder.

For a heartbeat, everything changed.

I felt the heat of his tall body hovering over mine. I could feel that my panties had wedged slightly between my cheeks from the fall, and I was suddenly, acutely aware of how my ass was presented toward him. His breathing had grown heavier. I glanced back and caught the way his eyes darkened as they traced the curve of my backside. A sweet little patch of moisture had darkened the thin fabric between my thighs. He noticed. I could tell by the way his jaw tightened and his gaze lingered there, hungry.

Before I could react, he flipped me over onto my back with effortless strength. My legs fell open slightly. The tank top had ridden up higher than I thought on one side, completely exposing my little breast, the nipple tight in the cool air. Worse – or better –my panties had pulled tight against my pussy, forming a prominent, delicate camel toe. The soft teal fabric clung to every contour, outlining the smooth swell of my outer lips and the subtle cleft between them in exquisite, almost obscene detail. The thin material was slightly damp, making the shape even more pronounced.

He stared.

His green-brown eyes were fixed between my legs, breath visibly catching. I watched his fair cheeks flush as something in his track pants swelled, straining against the grey fabric. The sight sent a spark to my nipple, cooling in the exposed air.

“Fuck, ” he muttered under his breath, then immediately looked mortified. “I mean–putting my things in your mouth like that... you’re going to get yourself in trouble.” The inappropriate comment slipped out before he could stop it. He blushed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly regretting it.

I felt a rush of heat flood my face and between my thighs.

He reached down to fix my tank top, his large hand brushing slowly over the exposed curve of my breast, thumb grazing my stiff nipple as he tugged the fabric back into place. Another shock of electricity, this time all the way from my chest down between my legs. Unexpected.

As he leaned forward to do it, something thick and hard pressed firmly between my legs, right against my camel toe. It felt big, but not big or hard enough to be his muscled thigh. Realisation crept in as the heavy ridge of my big brother’s manhood nudged perfectly along my slit through the thin layers of fabric, sending a surprising jolt of pleasure through me. I gasped softly as each throb applied pleasurable pressure in rhythm with his beating heart. He held there for a second longer than necessary, breathing ragged, before finally pushing himself up and offering me his hand.

“I suppose, ” he said, trying and failing to sound stern, voice husky, “there isn’t much point asking for it back now.”

I swallowed the last bite with exaggerated satisfaction, still flushed and breathless.

“Nope.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself, though the hunger in his eyes hadn’t fully faded.

“I’ll let you win this one.”

“I knew you would.”

Together we wandered back into the kitchen, still smiling, where dinner resumed as though nothing unusual had happened. But the air between us felt electric now, charged with something that hadn’t been there before.

"So, " he asked, setting a plate in front of me, "was your coach happy?"

I pulled a face.

"He was diplomatic."

"That's coach language for disappointed?"

"Exactly."

He laughed.

"I thought you played well."

"You watched one camera angle from halfway across the court."

"I know enough to recognise when someone spends half the match diving all over the floor."

"Occupational hazard."

"You nearly saved that last ball."

"Nearly."

He smiled.

"I was still impressed."

It shouldn't have mattered as much as it did.

Dinner disappeared surprisingly quickly.

Either he'd quietly become an exceptional cook without mentioning it, or I'd underestimated just how hungry I was after the game. Conversation drifted easily between bites – from the match to my upcoming maths exam, to the elderly neighbour downstairs who kept insisting the apartment building was haunted, to whether our parents’ ageing coffee machine deserved retirement after making another worrying noise that morning.

It was effortless.

It always was with him.

When we finished, I carried our plates to the sink before he could stop me.

"You cooked."

"I don't mind washing."

"I know."

"So let me."

He sighed dramatically.

"I see we're having this argument again."

"We've had it since I’ve been old enough to help."

"And you've ignored me for eight years."

"Correct." I was feeling smug.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he handed me the tea towel.

Working together in the kitchen had become such an automatic routine that neither of us needed to speak very much. He washed. I dried. A splash of soapy water suddenly hit the front of my chest, turning the thin fabric nearly see-through over my right boob. I felt my nipple stiffen at the touch of the water. He noticed immediately, his gaze lingering there before he shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his stance. A moment later he reached across me for a bowl on the far side of the sink, his tall frame pressing close. The back of his hand brushed slowly over my hardened nipple through the soaked fabric, sending a flash through me, while I felt the unmistakable warmth of his crotch brush against my stomach. It felt massive. I blushed, assuming it was an accidental reach in the cramped space. He pulled back quickly, clearing his throat.

By the time everything was put away, the rain outside had become steadier. Tiny beads of water raced each other down the balcony glass while distant headlights reflected off the wet road below.

We settled onto opposite ends of the couch.

The apartment was dim except for the lamp beside the bookshelf, its warm amber light softening the edges of the room and casting gentle shadows across the ceiling. I tucked one leg beneath me, absently pulling the hem of my tank top into place, and looked across at him.

He looked exactly as he always did.

Relaxed.

Comfortable.

One arm stretched along the back of the couch, the other resting loosely in his lap.

Sometimes I wondered if I'd ever seen him genuinely stressed.

"You know, " I said after several comfortable minutes of listening to the rain, "I don't think I've ever properly thanked you."

He frowned.

"For what?"

"For..." I laughed awkwardly. "Everything."

He looked genuinely confused.

"I'm serious."

I rested my elbows on my knees.

"When Mum and Dad spent two years telling me volleyball was a waste of time, you still drove me to every training session without complaining once. When that teacher failed my assignment because he'd mixed mine up with someone else's, you spent your whole weekend helping me organise the appeal. Every time I've completely convinced myself I'd somehow ruined my future..." I looked up at him. "...you've always just been there."

He shifted slightly but stayed quiet.

"And it's never just the big things. You remember my exams before I do. You make dinner after bad days without making a big deal out of it. You notice when I'm pretending I'm fine before I've even realised I'm pretending."

I smiled.

"I honestly don't know what I would've done without you."

His expression softened, though he still looked faintly uncomfortable with the attention.

"I don't know how you do it, " I continued. "You're always calm. You never seem overwhelmed. Everything's organised. You've got your life together in a way I've always wanted."

He let out a short laugh that didn't sound entirely genuine.

"I've fooled you, then."

I frowned.

"What?"

"I'm not calm."

I almost laughed.

"Yes, you are."

"No." He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes drifting towards the rain-streaked windows instead of mine. "I'm just good at making it look that way."

That caught me completely off guard.

For as long as I'd known him – which was my entire life – he'd always been the steady one. The one who never panicked. The one who always seemed to have a solution before I'd even realised there was a problem.

Seeing uncertainty creep into his expression felt wrong.

Like discovering a crack in something I'd always assumed was unbreakable.

"I overthink everything, " he admitted quietly. "I just don't usually let anyone see it."

I studied him.

The tiny scar beside his eyebrow from when we'd crashed our bikes as kids. The faint stubble he'd missed beneath his jaw. The tiredness around his eyes that I'd somehow never paid much attention to before.

He wasn't composed.

He was trying to be.

"Hearing you call me perfect..." He smiled awkwardly. "It doesn't really fit with how I see myself. I'm twenty-seven. I've barely dated anyone. Women don't really notice me."

I blinked.

"What?"

He shrugged.

"I'm dependable. Nice. Safe. That's generally where the compliments stop."

He tried to laugh, but it came out quieter than he'd probably intended.

I simply stared at him.

The idea was absurd.

To me, he'd always seemed like the obvious choice. Kind without expecting praise for it. Patient. Funny in a dry, understated way. The sort of man who remembered how people took their coffee, noticed when someone was having a rough week, and quietly fixed problems before anyone else even realised they existed.

"They're idiots, " I said.

He smiled.

"You don't have to say that."

"I'm not saying it to be nice."

The room fell quiet.

The rain continued its gentle rhythm outside while the refrigerator hummed softly from the kitchen. Somewhere downstairs a car door slammed before fading back into silence.

I realised I wasn't looking at the dependable older brother I'd known forever anymore.

I was looking at a man sitting only a couple of feet away who genuinely believed he wasn't enough.

Something inside my chest tightened.

Without really thinking about it, I leaned forward and reached across the space between us, gently taking his hand.

His fingers stilled beneath mine. Neither of us spoke.

For the first time all evening, it felt as though the rest of the apartment – and perhaps the rest of the world – had quietly disappeared.

I shifted closer on the couch, letting one knee fall slightly open. Panties were the only thing covering me below my waist. His gaze drifted down, lingering on my thighs and the subtle damp spot still forming on the fabric between my legs. Heat rose in my cheeks, but I didn't close my legs. What was wrong with me? I thought, Why am I doing this?

"I want to help you, " I whispered. "Whatever you need. I hate the idea of you feeling like no one sees you."

He hesitated, his tall frame tense, eyes dark with conflict. "You don't have to do anything. This is already more than enough."

"But I want to, " I insisted softly, my small hand resting on his thigh. "You've done so much for me. Let me do something for you."

I meant it. I’d do anything he needed. He stepped up and did everything right that our parents got wrong and he shouldn’t be lonely. He shouldn’t suffer. If I can help him, I will help him. No matter what he asks of me.

He swallowed hard, breathing uneven. After a long pause, his voice came low and rough. "I... if you're really sure... I need your mouth on me."

The request surprised me. I hadn't expected that specifically, but the vulnerable want in his eyes made my heart race with nervous excitement. I wanted to please him. But how?

His voice trembled as he continued, “If you’re sure. God, I know I shouldn’t ask, but I’ve thought about it for so long.”

I blinked, heat rushing to my cheeks. I had a vague idea what he meant, but I’d never done anything close to this before. The thought made my stomach flutter with nerves – what if I did it wrong? What if I embarrassed myself in front of him, of all people? Still, I wanted to make him feel wanted.

I leaned in and kissed him first, soft and tentative. Then I trailed small, uncertain kisses down his neck and chest, buying time while my hands rested shyly on his thighs. Eventually I worked my way lower, pressing a hesitant kiss to the hard bulge straining against his track pants. The heat coming through the fabric surprised me. I kissed it again, slower this time, mouthing gently along the thick shape, not really sure if this was helpful or just teasing him.

He let out a low groan, one big hand gently threading into my brown hair. "Lower, " he murmured, voice strained. His fingers guided my head down a little more firmly. I followed, still shy, kissing and nuzzling along the length through his pants, feeling him twitch under my lips. The size of him even like this made my pulse race. Was this what he wanted? I had no idea if I was doing any of it right.

Finally, with a shaky breath, he tugged his track pants down. He sprang free – thick, heavy, and much longer than I had imagined. I stared for a moment, wide-eyed and a little overwhelmed. I didn’t know what to do with something so big, especially when it was his.

I looked up at him uncertainly, then parted my lips a little, leaving my mouth open with my tongue just peeking out, hoping that was somehow helpful. His wide eyes told me my instincts were right. He rubbed the flushed, velvety head slowly across my tongue, letting me taste the warm, slightly salty skin. The texture felt strange and intimate. I gave a small, experimental lick, then another, still unsure.

He groaned softly. "That’s good... you can use your lips too."

Emboldened by his gentle guidance, I wrapped my lips around the head, sucking lightly. It filled my mouth more than I expected.

“You’re doing so well... just like that.”

I tried bobbing a little, but his girth quickly stretched my jaw and made me pull back with a small gasp.

"Am I... doing this okay?" I asked, voice small and breathless, cheeks burning.

"You’re perfect, " he murmured, fingers stroking my hair. "Just keep going slow if you need to."

I tried again, finding a rhythm that seemed to make his thighs tense. When I swirled my tongue around the head he let out a shaky breath, so I did it again, a little more confidently. I discovered that he really liked it when I sucked a bit harder while stroking the base with my hand. Every positive reaction – a low groan, the way his fingers tightened gently in my hair – made me feel a little braver.

At one point he pushed a little too deep and I gagged, pulling back quickly with watering eyes.

"Sorry, " I whispered, embarrassed. "It’s just... really big."

He immediately softened, cupping my cheek with his big hand. "Hey, it’s okay. You’re doing so well. We don’t have to go deeper than you’re comfortable with." His tip pulsed and jumped a couple of times in front of my face. I could see how badly he wanted more, yet his voice stayed caring – the same steady voice that had comforted me for years. It helped me relax again.

I went back to it, using what I’d learned. He grew bolder with his hands, reaching down to squeeze both of my small breasts in one large palm, kneading them roughly as I sucked. His other hand slid lower, grabbing a handful of my ass with clear lust, fingers digging into the soft flesh. The needy touches made me whimper around him. I felt claimed. Protected.

As his breathing grew ragged and he throbbed heavier against my tongue, he groaned deeply. "Fuck... if you keep going like that I’m going to shoot my load straight down your little throat."

The dirty words sent a shocked thrill through me. Before I could fully process them, he asked, voice husky, "Has anyone ever eaten your pussy before?" When I shook my head shyly, still working him with my mouth, he rasped, "Then if you keep this up, I’m going to bury my face between your legs and return the favour. I want to taste you so badly."

I kept trying for several more minutes – alternating between slow, wet strokes with my lips and hand, and braver attempts to swallow more of him. My efforts grew messier, saliva coating his thick shaft and my chin, but I loved the way his thighs tensed and his breathing grew ragged. Still, I couldn't take him deep enough to finish him that way. My jaw throbbed, I couldn’t feel my lips, and I finally pulled back, swollen and shiny.

"I’m sorry, you’re just so big. I can't... I can't get all of you, " I admitted, a little defeated but still eager to please him.

He kissed me deeply, then pulled back, his voice echoing his desperation. "I need to be inside you." His hands moved, tugging my panties down to my knees in one urgent motion. Cool air touched my slick folds. He spread my short legs wider, positioning himself between them. The thick head of his cock nudged against my entrance, hot and insistent. I was a spectator, unable to protest but unsure I could take him.

I hesitated again, heart racing. This was too far. We couldn't come back from this. But my body ached for him, my pussy already soaked and clenching with need. "Please..." I breathed.

He pushed forward slowly. The stretch was intense, a deep burning pressure as my tightness yielded to his girth. Inch by thick inch he sank into me, the heavy contours of his shaft dragging along every sensitive ridge inside. I felt the swollen head pressing deeper, opening me in ways I'd never experienced, until his hips met mine and he was fully seated. The fullness was overwhelming – almost too much – my inner muscles fluttering and gripping around the heavy length of my big brother.

He stayed still for a long moment, breathing hard, fighting for control. I could feel the throb of his pulse inside me, the way his cock stretched me perfectly, pressing against places that made my toes curl. Then he began to move – slow, deep thrusts that dragged his length back almost to the ridge of the tip before sliding home again. Each stroke built a heavy, coiling pleasure low in my belly. The slick sounds of our bodies meeting filled the quiet room, louder than the steady rain.

I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders, clinging to him as the rhythm deepened. His tall frame covered mine completely, making me feel small and safe and utterly consumed. The head of his cock nudged against a spot deep inside with every thrust, sending waves of warmth radiating through me. My walls clenched around him instinctively, trying to hold him there.

"I shouldn't, " he murmured against my neck, voice rough with restraint even as his hips rocked faster. "We shouldn't be doing this... You’re my baby sister."

But neither of us stopped. The hesitation only made the heat between us burn hotter.

His pace grew more urgent, thrusts longer and deeper. I felt him swelling even thicker inside me, the ridges and veins along his shaft becoming more pronounced as he neared the edge. My own pleasure tightened, building toward something overwhelming. The thought of him finishing inside me suddenly terrified and thrilled me all at once.

"Wait, " I gasped, even as my legs tightened around his waist. "Don't... don't finish inside me..."

He groaned deeply, hips stuttering. I could feel it – the way he pulsed and throbbed, the head flaring larger against my deepest point. His whole body tensed above me, muscles rigid as he fought the inevitable.

"I can't hold back, " he rasped. "I'm going to cum inside you."

The words sent a powerful shiver through me. Emotionally, it felt like surrender – giving him everything, letting him claim me completely. Physically, the first heavy spurt of warmth flooded me, followed by pulse after pulse of thick heat. I felt every jet as he emptied himself deep inside, filling me until I was overflowing with him. The sensation was intense and intimate, a deep, spreading warmth that pushed me over the edge with him. My pussy clenched hard around his pulsing length, waves of pleasure crashing through me as I trembled beneath his giant frame.

We stayed locked together for a long time afterward. I could feel him twitching gently inside me, our breathing slowly returning to normal as the rain fell softly outside.