The roar of the crowd was supposed to feel like home.

Sebastian Cruz had spent fifteen years chasing that sound. The thunder of ten thousand voices shaking the rafters. The slam of bodies against plexiglass. The screech of blades carving ice. It lived in his bones. It pumped through his veins like blood.

Tonight, it sounded like a funeral.

3 to 1.

The scoreboard hung above center ice like a tombstone, glowing red with defeat. Vancouver Storm at home. Calgary Snow Wolves visiting. And the man responsible for two of those three goals was currently gliding past the Storm bench, his number 17 jersey a walking insult.

Julian Frost.

Sebastian's gloves creaked as his hands tightened around his stick. The wood groaned under the pressure. Behind him, someone muttered a curse, but Sebastian barely heard. His entire world had narrowed to the back of that jersey. The arrogant set of those shoulders. The easy way he moved, like he owned the ice. Like he owned everything.

Stepbrother.

The word was acid on his tongue.

Five years. Five years since his mother walked down the aisle and made them family. Five years of family dinners where Julian sat across from him with that perfect, practiced smile, making small talk while Sebastian wanted to put his fist through the wall. Five years of watching Richard Frost treat his son like a trophy while looking at Sebastian like he was a stray dog his mother had dragged home.

And now this. Julian Frost, golden boy, trust fund prince, traded to Vancouver's biggest rival. Just to rub salt in wounds Sebastian had been trying to heal for half a decade.

He chose this.

Sebastian did not realize he had spoken aloud until Louie, his left winger and the only person on the team who could read him, shot him a confused look.

"Who chose what, Cap?"

Sebastian shook his head. Said nothing. Watched Julian disappear into the tunnel toward the visitor's locker room without a single glance back.

Of course not. Why would he look back? He won.

---

The locker room was a tomb.

Players moved in silence, shedding gear like second skins, the weight of the loss pressing down on everyone. Sebastian sat on the bench in front of his stall, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. His body ached, the good kind of ache that meant he had left everything on the ice. But underneath it was something worse. Something that felt like poison.

Three to one.

He had lost faceoffs he never lost. Missed assignments he had drilled since he was twelve. Let Julian slip past him twice to set up goals that should not have happened.

"You're in your head."

Coach Marshall's voice cut through the fog. Sebastian looked up to find the old man standing over him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"Sir?"

"I've coached you for four years, Cruz. I know when you're playing angry and when you're playing distracted. Tonight was distracted." He paused, waiting for a response. When none came, he sighed. "Figure it out. We've got them again in two weeks, and I need my captain present."

He walked away before Sebastian could answer. Not that he had one.

Louie appeared at his elbow, already showered and dressed. "Drinks? My treat."

"Pass."

"Come on, man. You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're about to do something stupid." Louie's voice was light, but his eyes were serious. "Whatever's going on with you and Frost, maybe don't sit here marinating in it. Come drink. Forget for a few hours."

Sebastian almost said yes. Almost let himself be pulled into the normalcy of post-game drinks and bad jokes.

Then his phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: Good game tonight, Captain. You almost had us in the second.

Sebastian stared at the message. His thumb moved before his brain caught up.

Sebastian: Who is this?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Unknown Number: You don't have my number saved?

Unknown Number: That hurts, Sebastian.

Unknown Number: It's Julian.

Unknown Number: Your stepbrother.

Unknown Number: Or did you forget about me entirely?

The last message landed like a punch to the sternum. Sebastian's vision tunneled. The words blurred and sharpened, blurred and sharpened, and suddenly the locker room was too small, too hot, too full of ghosts.

"Louie."

"Yeah?"

"I changed my mind. Let's go."

---

The bar was loud and dark, exactly what Sebastian needed. A place where no one would recognize him if he kept his head down and his glass full. Louie did most of the talking. Rehashing plays. Complaining about the refs. Speculating about trades. Sebastian nodded in the right places, grunted when expected, and drank just enough to numb the edge without losing control.

His phone stayed in his pocket. Burning.

He did not look at it. Did not respond. Did not let himself think about those words.

Or did you forget about me entirely?

The answer was yes. No. Sebastian did not know what it was.

He remembered Julian at family dinners. Polite, distant, watching Sebastian with an expression he could never quite read. He remembered Julian at the wedding, standing beside him in an expensive suit, whispering, "You look like you're going to your own funeral." He remembered snapping back, "At least at a funeral, you're allowed to hate the dead," and the way Julian's face had flickered. Hurt. Confusion. Something deeper. Before the mask slid back into place.

He remembered hating him. That was easy. That was safe.

But the messages suggested there was something else. Something Sebastian had missed.

No, he told himself firmly. There's nothing. He's playing games. That's what rich boys do.

He drained his glass and signaled for another.

---

Two hours later, Sebastian was drunk enough to make bad decisions and sober enough to remember them.

He left Louie at the bar and took an Uber to the players' parking garage. His truck waited like a faithful dog. The concrete echoed with his footsteps as he walked, keys jangling, head pounding.

He should go home. Sleep. Pretend tomorrow was not a nightmare of film review and media questions.

Instead, he found himself leaning against his truck, phone in hand, reading the messages again.

Julian: Or did you forget about me entirely?

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Sebastian: I didn't forget you were my stepbrother. That's hard to forget.

The response came immediately, like Julian had been waiting.

Julian: Stepbrother. Right. Is that all I am to you?

Sebastian's heart stuttered. What kind of question was that?

Sebastian: What else would you be?

Three dots. Disappeared. Reappeared. Disappeared again.

Then, from the shadows to his left: "You could try asking me in person."

Sebastian spun. His phone clattered to the concrete.

Julian Frost stood ten feet away, leaning against a pillar like he had been there for hours. He was still in his suit from the game. Navy blue, perfectly tailored, tie loose around his neck. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger. Softer.

Vulnerable.

"What the hell?" Sebastian's voice came out rougher than intended. "Are you stalking me?"

"Waiting for you." Julian pushed off the pillar, taking a slow step forward. "There's a difference."

"The difference being?"

"Stalking implies I wanted to scare you. I just wanted to talk." Another step. He was close now. Too close. Sebastian could smell him. Expensive cologne mixed with something warmer underneath. "You didn't answer my question."

"Which question?"

"Am I just your stepbrother?"

Sebastian laughed. A harsh, broken sound. "What else would you call it? We're not friends. We've never been friends. You're the son of the man my mother married. That's the beginning and end of our relationship."

Julian's jaw tightened. Something flickered in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or anger. Or both.

"You really believe that."

"I know that."

"No." Julian shook his head slowly. "You don't know anything."

He stepped closer. They were chest to chest now. Close enough that Sebastian could see the individual lashes framing those dark eyes. The slight tremor in his lower lip. Close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off Julian's body, even through both their suits.

"Seven years ago," Julian said quietly, "there was a hockey camp. Elite development. Do you remember it?"

Sebastian frowned. "Barely. I had a concussion that summer. Wiped out a lot of it."

Something shifted in Julian's expression. Hope, maybe. Or relief.

"What do you remember?"

"I don't know. Weights. Drills. Sleeping in bunks." Sebastian's head was pounding. The whiskey and confusion mixing into a dangerous cocktail. "Why does it matter?"

Julian was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

"There was a boy at that camp. He used to get up at 5 AM to lift before anyone else. He was fierce. Angry. Like he had something to prove to the whole world." Julian's eyes never left Sebastian's. "He didn't have much money. Didn't have connections. Just had this fire that made everyone around him want to be better."

Sebastian's throat went dry. "Julian-"

"That boy kissed me under the stars on the last night of camp. Told me he'd never forget me. Made me promise to stay in touch." Julian's voice cracked, just slightly. "I waited for his call. For weeks. Months. It never came."

The words landed like physical blows. Sebastian's knees felt weak. His chest tight. His mind racing through fog.

Seven years ago. A camp. A concussion.

A boy.

"Wait." Sebastian's voice was hoarse. "Wait, that was-that was you?"

The smile Julian gave him was the saddest thing Sebastian had ever seen.

"You really don't remember. All this time, I thought you just didn't want me. That I'd done something wrong. Said something wrong. Been something wrong. But you actually don't remember."

"I-" Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots. "I had a concussion. I forgot a lot. I didn't-I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't." Julian stepped back, creating space between them. The loss of warmth was physical. "That's what makes it so cruel. I spent five years watching you hate me from across dinner tables, and you didn't even know why I kept looking at you. You didn't know anything."

He turned to go.

"Wait." Sebastian's hand shot out, grabbing Julian's wrist. "Don't. Don't just walk away. Explain this to me."

Julian looked down at Sebastian's hand on his wrist, then up into his eyes.

"Explain what? That I've been in love with you since I was sixteen? That I spent every family dinner hoping you'd suddenly remember, suddenly look at me like you used to? That my father traded me to this team just to watch me suffer, and I said yes because at least I'd be in the same city as you?"

He laughed. Bitter. Broken.

"Explain that I've been dying for five years while you couldn't even be bothered to remember my name?"

Sebastian could not breathe. Could not think. The world had narrowed to Julian's face, Julian's words, Julian's pain. Pain Sebastian had caused without even knowing.

"Julian-"

"Don't." Julian pulled his wrist free. "Don't say you're sorry. Don't say you'll try to remember. I've waited seven years. I'm done waiting."

He walked away. His footsteps echoed in the empty garage, each one a hammer blow.

Sebastian stood frozen, watching him go, watching the man he had hated for five years disappear into shadows that suddenly felt a lot like regret.

At the tunnel entrance, Julian paused. Did not turn around.

"Goodnight, Sebastian. Congratulations on your game." His voice carried, hollow and distant. "Maybe next time, you'll actually see me."

Then he was gone.

Sebastian stood alone in the parking garage for a long time. The cold seeping through his suit. His phone still lying on the concrete where it had fallen. When he finally bent to pick it up, his hands were shaking.

He read the messages again.

Julian: Or did you forget about me entirely?

He had. He had forgotten everything.

And now he could not stop wondering what else he had lost.

---

That night, Sebastian did not sleep.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Julian's words echoing in his head. I've been in love with you since I was sixteen. He wanted to call. He wanted to ask more questions. He wanted to drive to Julian's apartment and demand to know everything.

But he did not. He just lay there, the hole in his memory feeling wider than ever.

He thought about the piece of paper Julian had given him at the wedding. The one with his phone number. He had kept it all these years, folded in his nightstand drawer, without ever knowing why.

He got up. Opened the drawer. The paper was still there, creased and soft.

Julian. I hope you call.

Sebastian picked up his phone. He stared at Julian's name in his contacts. He had saved it after the garage, even though he told himself he would never use it.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

He put the phone down.

Not yet. He was not ready. He did not know what he would say.

But something had changed. The hatred he had carried for five years was cracking, and underneath it was something he did not have a name for.

He fell asleep with the paper in his hand, dreaming of a lake and stars and a kiss he could not remember.

(Julian's POV - The Camp)

The first time Julian Frost saw Sebastian Cruz, it was 5:47 in the morning and the weight room smelled like sweat and old towels.

Julian had not slept. Again. The bunkhouse was too loud, too hot, too full of boys who talked in their sleep and kicked their blankets and made him feel like he did not belong. He had slipped out before dawn, telling himself he would get a head start on conditioning. Telling himself that was what his father would want.

Every moment you are not working, someone else is.

Richard Frost's voice lived in Julian's head. It had been there for as long as he could remember, whispering that he was not good enough, not fast enough, not strong enough. That was why he was at this camp. To prove his father wrong.

The weight room was supposed to be empty. That was the point. Quiet. Alone. A place where no one watched him struggle.

Instead, there was a boy.

He was already mid-set when Julian pushed through the door, bench pressing more than Julian could squat. His face was red with effort, sweat dripping down his temples and soaking the collar of a t-shirt that had seen better days. His arms were shaking, but he did not stop. He pushed through the last rep, racked the bar with a clang that echoed through the room, and sat up.

His eyes found Julian immediately. Grey, sharp, direct.

"You gonna stand there staring, or you gonna lift?"

Julian's face went warm. "I was not staring."

"Sure you were not." The boy grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and stood up. He was tall. Taller than Julian, broader through the shoulders, with the kind of build that came from years of work, not good genes. "You are one of the rich kids, right? Frost?"

The way he said rich kids made it sound like an insult.

"Julian." He stepped forward, extending his hand. "Julian Frost."

The boy looked at his hand like it might bite him. Then, slowly, he took it. His grip was firm, calloused, warm.

"Sebastian Cruz." He let go and reached for his water bottle. "You are up early. Most of your type do not roll out of bed until the last possible second."

Your type. Julian had heard that before. The assumption that money meant lazy, that privilege meant no drive. He was used to it. It still stung.

"I could not sleep," he said, moving toward the dumbbells.

"Me neither." Sebastian sat down on a nearby bench, watching Julian with those grey eyes. "This camp is a joke. Too many coaches, not enough ice time. They care more about the parents than the players."

Julian nearly dropped the dumbbell. "You cannot say that."

"Just did."

"Someone will hear you."

Sebastian grinned. It was sharp and crooked and made Julian's stomach flip. "Let them."

Something inside Julian shifted. Something that felt like the beginning of something he could not name.

---

They lifted together that morning. And the next. And the next.

By the end of the first week, Julian had stopped pretending he came to the weight room for the equipment. He came for Sebastian. For the easy way they fell into rhythm. For the rare moments when Sebastian's guard dropped and Julian caught glimpses of something softer underneath.

He learned things. Small things. Important things.

Sebastian's mother worked double shifts at a diner to pay for his hockey fees. His father had left when he was six, and Sebastian never talked about him. He had been scouted late, discovered at a regional tournament by a coach who saw past his second-hand equipment and saw the fire underneath.

"I do not belong here," Sebastian told him one morning, staring at the ceiling between sets. "Half these kids have been in elite programs since they could walk. Their parents write checks I will never see. Their futures are handed to them."

"So are yours." Julian said it without thinking. "You are better than most of them. You work harder. You want it more."

Sebastian turned his head, those grey eyes fixed on Julian with an intensity that made his chest tight. "How do you know what I want?"

Julian swallowed. "I pay attention."

Something electric passed between them. Something terrifying.

Sebastian looked away first. "We should hit the ice. Coach will lose his mind if we are late."

Julian followed him out, heart pounding, already counting the hours until tomorrow morning.

---

On the tenth day, Julian told Sebastian about his father.

They were sitting by the lake after dinner, hidden from the main camp by a curve of shoreline and a wall of pine trees. The water was still, reflecting the sunset in shades of orange and pink. Julian had never seen anything so beautiful.

He had also never been more scared.

"What is it like?" Sebastian asked. His voice was quiet, gentle in a way Julian had not heard before. "Having a dad who actually gives a damn?"

Julian laughed. It came out wrong. Bitter.

"Is that what you think? That my father gives a damn?"

Sebastian frowned. "He is here, is not he? At every game? I have seen him. He is always watching."

"Watching." Julian picked up a stone, threw it into the lake, watched the ripples spread. "He is not watching me. He is watching his investment. His legacy. The thing he built that is supposed to make him look good."

"Julian-"

"Do you know what he said after my first game here? I scored two goals. Assisted on another. We won four to one. And you know what he said?"

Sebastian was silent.

"He said my backhand was weak. Said I would never make the NHL if I could not shoot from both sides." Julian's voice shook. "He has never said he is proud of me. Not once. Not in eighteen years."

The silence stretched. Julian stared at the lake, willing the tears not to fall.

Then Sebastian's hand found his.

Warm. Solid. Anchoring.

"I am proud of you."

Julian's head whipped around. Sebastian was looking at him with an expression he could not name. Something fierce and tender and terrifying all at once.

"That backhand was beautiful, by the way. I was on the ice. I saw it." Sebastian's thumb traced circles on Julian's knuckles. "Your father is blind if he cannot see what you are."

"What am I?"

Sebastian leaned closer. Julian could smell him. Sweat and pine and something underneath that was just Sebastian.

"Extraordinary."

The kiss was soft. Tentative. A question more than a statement.

Julian answered by kissing back.

---

The next two weeks were a dream.

They met every morning before dawn. Lifted together. Skated together. Ate meals together, sitting close enough that their shoulders brushed, trading glances that said everything words could not.

At night, when the camp was asleep, Julian would slip out of his bunk and meet Sebastian by the lake. They would lie on the grass, staring at the stars, talking about everything and nothing.

Sebastian wanted to play in the NHL. Wanted to buy his mother a house. Wanted to prove that a kid from nowhere could become someone.

Julian wanted his father to see him. Wanted to escape the gilded cage he had been born into. Wanted, more than anything, to stay in this moment forever. With Sebastian's hand in his. Sebastian's heartbeat steady beside him. Sebastian's voice low and warm in the dark.

"I do not know how to do this," Julian whispered one night. "When camp ends. I do not know how to go back to my old life."

Sebastian rolled onto his side, facing him. In the moonlight, he looked like something from a dream. "You call me. Every day. I do not have a cell, cannot afford one, but my mom's diner has a phone. I will give you the number. You call, and I will answer."

"Promise?"

Sebastian leaned in, kissed him soft and slow. "Promise."

On the last night, they stayed by the lake until dawn. Watched the sun rise over the water, painting everything gold. Held each other like letting go would kill them.

"I love you," Julian said. The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Sebastian's arms tightened around him. "I love you too."

"You will call?"

"First chance I get."

They kissed goodbye at the bus depot, quick and hidden behind a wall of luggage. Sebastian pressed a piece of paper into Julian's hand. A phone number, scrawled in pencil.

"Do not lose it."

"I will not."

Sebastian's bus left first. Julian watched it disappear down the highway, hand pressed to his chest where the paper burned against his skin.

---

He waited three days. Gave Sebastian time to settle, to breathe, to miss him.

On the fourth day, he called.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

A woman answered. Sebastian's mother, her voice tired but kind. "Cruz residence."

"Hi, is Sebastian there?"

A pause. "Who is calling?"

"Julian. Julian Frost. I am-we met at camp. He said I could call."

Another pause. Longer this time. "Honey, Sebastian is not here right now. He had an accident. Fell in the parking lot the day he got home. Hit his head pretty bad. He has been in and out of it for days."

Julian's heart stopped. "Is he okay?"

"They think so. Concussion. Memory is fuzzy about some things. The doctor says it will come back, just needs time." She sighed. "I will tell him you called, sweetheart. I am sure he will reach out when he is feeling better."

"Thank you."

Julian hung up. Stared at the wall.

He called again the next week. And the next. And the next.

Sometimes she answered. Sometimes no one did. The message was always the same. He is recovering. He is not himself yet. He will call when he is ready.

Weeks turned into months. Months turned into a year.

Sebastian never called.

Julian told himself it was the concussion. Told himself Sebastian would remember eventually, would reach out, would explain. He checked hockey forums, followed Sebastian's junior career, watched him climb the ranks from afar.

When Sebastian was drafted to Vancouver, Julian celebrated alone in his room, crying for reasons he could not name.

When his father sat him down, three years later, and said, "I am getting married. Her name is Elena. She has a son. You will have a brother now," Julian felt the universe laughing at him.

Sebastian.

His new stepbrother was Sebastian. The boy who kissed him under the stars. The boy who promised to call. The boy who looked at him at the wedding like he had never seen him before in his life.

You do not remember me.

The words caught in Julian's throat. He could not say them. Could not watch Sebastian's face twist with the effort of trying to place him, only to come up empty.

You forgot me. You forgot everything. You forgot us.

So Julian did what he had learned to do at his father's knee. He smiled. He performed. He became the perfect stepbrother. Polite, distant, untouchable.

He watched Sebastian hate him from across dinner tables and told himself it was better than the alternative.

Better to be hated than forgotten.

Better to be invisible than to watch the love of his life look through him like a stranger.

Better to die inside, slowly, every single day, than to admit that the boy who promised forever had broken that promise without even knowing it.

---

Seven years later, standing in a freezing parking garage, watching Sebastian's face crumple with the first flicker of recognition, Julian felt something he had not felt in a very long time.

Hope.

It was terrifying.

It was everything.

(Before the present)

The suit was going to kill him.

Sebastian stood in front of the mirror in the guest room of the Frost mansion, tugging at his collar for the hundredth time. The jacket was too tight across the shoulders. The pants were the wrong shade of grey. The tie felt like a noose. He looked like a stranger dressed in someone else's clothes.

Behind him, his mother appeared in the doorway. She was already in her wedding gown, cream colored and flowing, her hair done up in a style Sebastian had never seen before. Her eyes were bright. Her smile was wide.

Sebastian felt something crack in his chest.

"You look so handsome," she said, crossing the room to straighten his tie. "My beautiful boy."

"Mom." His voice came out rougher than he intended. "I am nineteen."

"Does not matter. You will always be my boy." She smoothed his shoulders, stepped back, and her smile flickered. "Sebastian. Talk to me."

He wanted to say everything. Wanted to tell her that he did not belong here, in this mansion, in this family, in this suit that cost more than his hockey gear. Wanted to tell her that Richard Frost looked at him like he was something to be tolerated, not welcomed. Wanted to tell her that he missed the small apartment, the late nights watching hockey on a cracked TV, the life where it was just the two of them against the world.

But she was happy. He could see it in her face. The light that had returned to her eyes after years of struggling. He could not take that away from her.

So he swallowed everything down and said, "I am happy for you. Really."

She kissed his cheek and walked out, leaving a smudge of lipstick he wiped away when she was not looking.

---

The backyard of the Frost mansion had been transformed.

White chairs lined up in neat rows. Flowers everywhere, arranged in cascades of cream and blush. A string quartet played something classical that Sebastian did not recognize. The afternoon sun made everything glow.

Sebastian stood at the front, a groomsman in a lineup of strangers. Richard's friends. Richard's business partners. Richard's perfect, polished world. Sebastian was the only one who did not fit. The only one whose suit was borrowed. Whose hands were calloused. Whose knuckles had scars from fights that rich boys never got into.

And then there was Julian.

Sebastian had seen him before. They had been introduced at the rehearsal dinner. A brief handshake and a polite smile that did not reach Julian's eyes. He was tall, slender, with dark hair and sharp cheekbones and the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers. He moved like someone who had been taught how to exist in rooms like this. How to be seen without being intrusive. How to smile without meaning it.

He was beautiful. Sebastian hated him for it.

Now Julian stood beside him, also in a groomsman's suit, also looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Their arms brushed as the ceremony started, and Julian flinched away like Sebastian's touch burned.

Good, Sebastian thought. The feeling is mutual.

---

The ceremony was a blur.

Sebastian watched his mother say her vows to Richard Frost. Watched her promise forever to a man who looked at Sebastian's calloused hands with barely concealed disdain. He felt something inside him close off. Protect itself. Build walls that would never come down.

When they kissed, when everyone clapped, Sebastian's hands stayed at his sides.

Julian was watching him. He could feel it. Those dark eyes boring into the side of his face. When Sebastian finally turned, Julian looked away first. A flush creeping up his neck.

What is his problem?

---

The reception was worse.

People swarmed Sebastian, introducing themselves, asking questions they did not care about the answers to. What do you do? Hockey? How nice. And what will you do when that does not work out?

He wanted to punch someone. Instead, he drank. Champagne at first, because that was what was being passed around. Then something stronger when he found the open bar. The alcohol burned going down, but it dulled the edges. Made the smiles easier. Made the comments roll off his back.

By the time the sun set, he was drunk enough to stop caring about what anyone thought.

He found a spot by the pool, away from the crowd. Sitting on the edge with his shoes off and his feet dangling in the water. The mansion glowed behind him. Lights strung through the trees. Laughter and music floating across the lawn. He should go back. His mother would be looking for him.

He did not move.

"You look like you are going to your own funeral."

Sebastian turned. Julian stood a few feet away, still in his suit, his tie loosened. He was holding two glasses of something dark. He looked tired. Maybe sad. Sebastian did not know why that surprised him.

"Maybe I am," Sebastian said.

Julian crossed the grass and sat down beside him. Not too close, but close enough that Sebastian could smell his cologne. He held out one of the glasses.

"Whiskey. You look like you need it."

"I have had enough."

"Suit yourself." Julian set the glass between them, took a sip from his own, and stared out at the water. For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then Julian said, "I know this is not what you wanted."

Sebastian laughed. A hollow sound. "What I wanted? I do not get to want things. That is the whole point of being the poor kid marrying into a rich family. I am here to smile and look grateful and pretend I belong."

"You do belong."

"Right." Sebastian turned to look at him, and something in Julian's expression made him stop. There was no mockery there. No pity. Just understanding. "You do not know anything about me."

"I know you play hockey. I know your mother worked double shifts to pay for your equipment. I know you made the junior team when everyone said you would not." Julian's voice was quiet, steady. "I know you got a concussion last summer that wiped out three weeks of your memory. I know you do not remember anything from that camp you went to."

Sebastian's chest tightened. "How do you know that?"

Julian shrugged, looking away. "I pay attention."

They sat in silence. The music drifted across the lawn, some slow song Sebastian did not recognize. Julian's knee was inches from his own. Sebastian could feel the warmth of him. The solid reality of his presence.

"Why are you being nice to me?" Sebastian asked. "You do not have to. We are not actually brothers. We are never going to be anything. So why pretend?"

Julian did not answer right away. He stared at the water, his jaw working, his hands wrapped around his glass like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Maybe I am tired of pretending too," he said finally.

He stood up, so fast that Sebastian startled. Julian looked down at him. Something raw in his expression. Something that looked almost like pain.

"Goodnight, Sebastian. Congratulations on your mother's wedding."

He walked away before Sebastian could respond. His footsteps soft on the grass. Disappearing into the crowd. Sebastian watched him go, his heart beating too fast, his mind racing with questions he did not know how to ask.

What was that?

He replayed the conversation, searching for what he had missed. What he had said. What Julian had seen in him that made him look like that. Made him look at Sebastian like he was something more than a charity case. Something worth noticing.

He knows about the concussion. He knows about the camp. He knows about me.

Sebastian finished Julian's whiskey in one swallow. The burn did nothing to settle his thoughts.

He told himself it did not matter. Julian was his stepbrother now, which meant Julian was someone to tolerate, not someone to understand. Richard Frost's son. The golden boy. A stranger wearing a suit that probably cost more than Sebastian's entire wardrobe.

We are never going to be anything.

He said it to himself like a prayer. Like a promise. Like a warning.

But later that night, lying in a guest bed that was too soft, staring at a ceiling that was too high, Sebastian could not stop thinking about the way Julian had looked at him. Like Sebastian was the only real thing in a room full of fakes.

Like Julian wanted him to remember something he had forgotten.

---

The next morning, Sebastian woke with a headache and a hollow feeling in his chest.

He packed his bag before his mother woke up. Wrote a note saying he had to get back to training. Slipped out the front door. The mansion loomed behind him, too big, too quiet, too much like a cage.

He was halfway to his truck when he heard footsteps.

"Sebastian."

He turned. Julian stood on the front steps, still in his clothes from the night before. He looked like he had not slept. His hair was a mess, his shirt untucked, and he was holding something in his hand.

"What?"

Julian crossed the driveway, stopping just close enough that Sebastian could see the dark circles under his eyes. He held out a piece of paper.

"My number. In case you need anything."

Sebastian stared at it. "Why would I need anything from you?"

Julian's jaw tightened. For a moment, something flickered in his expression. Hurt, maybe. Or anger. Or something Sebastian did not have a name for.

"Because we are family now." He pressed the paper into Sebastian's hand. His fingers warm against Sebastian's skin. "Whether you like it or not."

He walked back to the house without looking back. Sebastian stood there, watching him go. The paper crumpling in his fist.

He told himself he would throw it away. Told himself Julian was nothing. The wedding was nothing. This whole new life was nothing but a detour on the way to something real.

He got in his truck and drove away without looking back.

The paper stayed in his pocket all the way to Vancouver. When he finally unpacked his bag that night, he found it folded carefully, tucked into the side pocket of his duffel.

He did not remember putting it there.

He did not throw it away either.