Page 20 of Chasing After You (Twisted Desires #3)

Josh

Living with Dorian was weird, not gonna lie. But in terms of roommates, I’d take him over Hayes and Hudson any day.

The first night, I’d stayed in what he must’ve deemed his guest room.

It was clean, welcoming, and furnished in a way that suggested someone had really thought about what would make a person feel settled and comfortable.

There were several soft throw blankets, a charging station already set up on the nightstand, and a TV set up with a gaming system.

I felt like that was a little over the top for a guest room, but rich people did tend to be weird about throwing money around.

When he’d shown me to the room, he’d made sure to stress that I could redecorate it and change anything I didn’t like. For a short-term stay, I didn’t feel like I’d be making any major changes, but it wouldn’t hurt to hang some pictures on the wall to make it feel a bit more like home.

Sometimes, I’d walk into the kitchen in the mornings and find he’d already started making breakfast for me.

He’d hand me a plate with a smile and say things like, “You always forget to eat when you’re anxious,” like it wasn’t weird that he got up every day to cook my breakfast when all he ever had was a cup of black coffee.

He did my laundry, which felt wrong for some reason, but I ignored that feeling because who didn’t want to come home to clean clothes and fresh bed sheets?

He wouldn’t let me into the third bedroom, the one situated between mine and his—it was always locked. I found that out on day three, when I was trying to find the cleaning supplies and figured they might be in there.

And yeah, it was his house, his stuff, his rules, so he had every right to lock a door, but it made me more than curious considering it was literally the only locked door in the entire house. Not even his bedroom was locked.

Later that day, I had asked casually, and Dorian had just smiled and said, “That room’s not for you yet.”

What kind of weird-ass answer was that?

And what did the “yet” mean?

I didn’t push, but I thought about it more than I probably should’ve.

And then, yesterday, while we were in the basement unpacking my box of weights and resistance bands, he had asked, “Should we just build you a home gym down here?”

“Uh… no?” I’d laughed awkwardly. “Unless you’d use it? I mean, I’m not staying long-term.”

He’d hummed, noncommittal, crouched to study the wall like he was already measuring for mirrors or something. “You might.”

“Dorian…”

“Just think about it.”

I hadn’t brought it up again, but the idea had stuck with me like gum on my shoe. I was supposed to be looking for apartments. But I hadn’t toured any yet. I hadn’t emailed or called any of the listings I’d bookmarked. And whenever I tried to, it just felt… like a lot of effort.

And then Dorian would be there, holding out my favorite mug, already filled. Or tossing a clean towel onto the couch where I’d crashed after work. Or walking past me with wet hair and no shirt like he wasn’t even aware of the chaos he caused in my brain.

Did I need to come out to him? Just so that he’d cover up a bit more around me?

Like, “Hey, little bro. I’m bi, so please don’t walk around the house half-naked because your body makes me question my morality.”

Hell no. That made it sound like I was drooling over him. Which… no! He’d get creeped out and think his older brother was a deviant pervert. No incest here, thanks!

But… was it incest? We weren’t—

Nope, nuh-uh, no, heck to the no, not going there.

Maybe if he knew I was attracted to guys, he’d lay off on the weird comments, though?

* * *

It was maybe two weeks after I’d moved in when Dorian had intercepted me as I came home from Wild Roast, suggesting we “unwind” and have a lazy Friday night.

I agreed, which was probably a mistake. I expected to watch a movie on the couch, order pizza, and play a video game together—something like that.

But apparently, “unwind” in Dorian-speak meant dragging out a fancy bottle of dark liquor that I couldn’t even pronounce, pouring us both generous glasses, making a goddamn cheese platter, and putting on some moody instrumental playlist that sounded like the background music to a secret villain monologue.

We sat on the back deck, the warm night air smelling like the cheese beside me and rain-soaked earth, the string lights overhead throwing a soft, golden glow over the dark wood planks. I loved it out here.

It was quiet. Comfortable and cozy.

A fiberglass fire pit was located in the center of the deck, surrounded by cushioned benches. He hadn’t brought up the topic of s’mores yet during my stay, but maybe I needed to put it out there that making s’mores was the primary use of a fire pit.

My second glass went down too fast. My third went down without me noticing.

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth, I was doing that thing where you can hear your own voice in your head warning you to shut up, shut up, shut up, and you don’t listen.

“I’m bi,” I blurted out.

Dorian didn’t even flinch. He just tilted his glass toward me like I’d said the weather’s nice tonight. “I know.”

I blinked at him. “Wait. You—what? How? Did you talk to Oliver about me or—”

He turned toward me on the bench, one arm slung casually over the back of it, eyes dark and lazy with amusement. “Josh. You are not subtle. I’ve known since before you ran off.”

My stomach flipped. “What do you mean I’m not subtle?”

“I mean,” he said slowly, “you make this little face when you see someone you like. It’s like a puppy looking at a treat and wagging its tail.

Remember that ad that used to be on TV with that one soccer player where he’s like dripping in sweat and drinking Gatorade or something?

I think he was from Spain? Anyway, it’s that face.

Same face you make at Margaery Tyrell on Game of Thrones. ”

“That wasn’t a face ,” I protested weakly. “That was appreciation for his… endurance. And maybe I just appreciated her role?”

“Mhm, sure. You watched the ad three times.”

“Because the first two times, I didn’t catch what he was selling!”

Dorian smirked like he was trying so hard not to laugh at me. “Relax, big brother. I’m not making fun of you, just teasing. I’m actually proud of you.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

“For finally saying it out loud to me. I figured you would’ve said something back when I came out, but you weren’t ready, and that’s okay.” He let the silence settle for a beat before taking another sip of his drink. “You don’t have to be afraid of being yourself, especially not around me.”

I looked down at my glass. “I’m not afraid.”

“You are,” he said gently. “But that’s okay.”

My chest tightened. He wasn’t wrong. I was afraid.

Not of being bi, really—but of what that meant for the version of myself I’d spent so long carefully constructing.

The “normal” one. The one who knew how to smile on cue, flirt with girls, and blend in just enough not to seem like a weirdo. That version felt safe.

And then there was my fear of not being good enough for either side.

I didn’t feel gay enough to be active in the community, go to Pride events, or go to bars. But I also didn’t feel straight enough because I really, really, really wanted to make out with a hot guy.

Not having any experience with men didn’t help. I knew I was attracted to guys, but it felt like I couldn’t prove it. It felt like if I told someone I was bi, but then they found out that I’d never been with a guy, they’d think I was an impostor.

“Am I still bi if I haven’t fucked any guys?” I asked quietly.

Dorian spit out the sip he’d taken from his glass, laughing. “I like how blunt Drunk Josh is. But why is that even a question? I didn’t need to fuck a girl before figuring out I was gay.”

“Oh, I didn’t think about it like that.”

Dorian shrugged with a smile on his face, swirling his drink in the glass.

“Do you think I’m even attractive to guys?” I asked.

He glanced sideways at me. “Yeah. You’ve always been easy to want.”

I choked slightly. “What?”

“Relax,” he said smoothly, “I’m just saying you’ve got that… soft thing. The thing that makes people want to take care of you. Makes them want to hold you. Or at the very least, see what you’d look like moaning under—”

“ Dorian! ” I gasped, feeling scandalized.

He laughed, full and unbothered, resting his head back against the bench like he hadn’t just ended my life with a single sentence.

“I’m drunk,” I muttered, face hot as hell.

“You’re so fucking cute when you’re drunk,” he said.

“You’re going to give me a crisis,” I whined.

He leaned closer, elbow on the back of the bench, voice lowered just enough to make me shiver. “Is it really a crisis if you like it?”

I stared at him. He smiled. And the worst part was… I smiled back.

“Stop flirting with me,” I said, shaking my head, hoping he’d laugh it off like usual.

But Dorian didn’t laugh.

He just looked at me for a long second—eyes steady, mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite teasing anymore.

“I can’t help it,” he said softly. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

My breath caught.

But before I could say anything, he stretched and stood, gathering our glasses. “You’re way too drunk for us to continue this conversation. Come inside before you fall asleep out here, and I have to carry you in.”

That was it. Like nothing had just happened.

Like he hadn’t cracked open a door I’d spent years pretending wasn’t even there.

I followed him inside.

I didn’t sleep much that night, not because of the alcohol, but because, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t know how to lie to myself anymore.

I was turned on by my ex-brother. Ex-adoptive brother?

Fuck.

* * *

The morning after our little drunken heart-to-heart, I woke up with a headache, a dry mouth, and a deep sense of “ oh no, what the hell did I say last night” hanging over me like a storm cloud.

I avoided Dorian for most of the day. Not obviously.

Not in a way he could call me out on. I just…

stayed busy. I offered to do the grocery run, cleaned my room, and made up some excuse to run to Wild Roast for “inventory stuff” that I definitely wasn’t needed for.

And when I came back, I beelined for the shower and stayed in there way longer than I needed to, hoping he wouldn’t bring anything up.

But of course, Dorian wasn’t the type to be avoided.

When I passed him in the hall after my shower, naked besides the towel around my hips, he gave me that quiet, knowing smile, all while dragging his gaze up and down my damp, flushed skin. I panicked and sped to my room, locking the door behind me.

And then came the bedroom situation. He stopped closing the door to his room all the way at night. He’d always told me to knock if I needed something during the night, and he always kept the door unlocked, but it was still shut. It was normal. I closed my door too when I went to sleep.

The first night, I’d accidentally caught him changing shirts, catching a glimpse of his lean and toned back in the mirror illuminated softly by his lamp.

And because I was a freaking weirdo, I didn’t say anything to him about it and instead snuck back down the hall like a little freaking pervert.

And every time I noticed the door was cracked, I told myself not to look. I told myself, you’re making it weird. Don’t make it weird.

I told myself, he’s your brother.

But was he? Legally, no. Biologically, no. He was just a piece of my childhood who had somehow grown into a very good-looking man who liked to make me squirm.

I started keeping my headphones on more often. I kept the volume up. I spent more time at work. I made excuses not to hang out in the living room if he was already on the couch. It wasn’t avoidance , exactly, especially since he’d talk me into spending time with him anyway.

He didn’t make it easier, either. He kept being nice . Too nice. Bringing me smoothies after my runs, replacing my almost empty shampoo bottle that he noticed was running low while cleaning my bathroom, buying me supplements and vitamins and adding them to the meals he made for me.

The tension was fucking everywhere, and I was drowning in it.