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Kensley Thorne had been a light sleeper ever since he came to live with his brother.

It was partly missing his mother, who’d died suddenly three years ago, and left custody of Kensley to an older half-brother he’d never met.

And it was partly living in a big, fancy house surrounded by guards who rarely spoke to him.

He was lonely, he missed his mom, and at fourteen-years-old, he resented the private tutors that prevented him from socializing with kids his age.

So, he was surprised to wake up from an unusually deep, dreamless sleep achy and restless, and covered in sweat.

His bedroom wasn’t hot, and it was spring, his favorite time of year to sleep with his windows open.

He tossed off his blanket, confused, because he wasn’t actually overheated.

The sweat seemed to be all on his back, butt and legs.

Fuck, did I piss myself in my sleep?

No, the front of his boxers was dry. He sat up and his abdomen cramped, like he had to take a shit.

Worried he’d eaten something off last night, and it was taking its sweet time catching up to him, Kensley rolled out of bed and bolted into his attached bathroom.

Pulled off his damp boxers, which didn’t smell like pee, but something more…

musky? Not like, butt musky. His teenage brain didn’t have the words.

He tossed the wet shorts into the shower. Sat on the toilet but nothing happened except his usual morning piss. His heart was racing from this unexpected, weird thing. He’d woken up from wet dreams before, but there was no spunk on his junk, and he didn’t remember dreaming at all.

I want to call Mom. Mom always knows.

But she was dead, and no one was home except the usual guards.

His brother, Alexander “King” Kingston, was due home around noon from a business trip.

Kensley didn’t know what, exactly, King did for a living, but the guy was wealthy.

Kensley never wanted for material things.

Every gaming console he asked for, the newest designer sneakers, any video rental he wanted delivered that day.

The only thing King couldn’t buy him was friends. Companionship.

A real sense of family.

Since he couldn’t call his mother for advice, Kensley got in the shower and washed up.

He still felt weird, but maybe it was just gas.

Whatever. He dried off and put on clean shorts.

Checked his bed. There was a big wet spot in the middle, but it was clear and had that same, indescribable scent as his soiled shorts.

What if I’m sick? What if I have, like, butt cancer or something?

No, that was stupid. He was fourteen. He was too young for cancer.

Did people even get butt cancer?

Kensley stripped the bed, including the mattress cover, and stuffed it all into the laundry basket.

They had someone come by once a week to change the beds and collect laundry, and the service was coming in two days.

Was that too long? He didn’t want his sheets to stain or get even smellier.

The house had a washer and dryer in the basement, but Kensley had never used it.

He could text Bishop. Bishop Anders was staying at the house this weekend.

He was King’s best friend, and the pair worked together, but lately whenever King was out of town, Bishop was home.

Watching over Kensley. Sometimes, Kensley resented the extra attention; other times, he craved it.

Bishop was handsome, ten years older, and so mature.

And he was nice to Kensley, talking to him like an equal and not an obligation.

They even hung out, played video games, and Bishop was teaching him to play pool.

Sometimes, Bishop felt like another big brother.

Other times…it felt more special than that, as if they’d known each other in a past life and were finally reconnecting.

Last night, they’d watched a movie together.

Kensley didn’t remember what, because he’d been so aware of Bishop.

Their fingers kept touching in the popcorn bowl…

No. Asking Bishop for help would just make Kensley look like a dumb kid, and he wanted Bishop to respect him. To see him as an equal, and possibly someone Bishop could really like when Kensley was older. Maybe Kensley was only fourteen, but this wasn’t just a childish crush.

Didn’t matter right now. He could be a grownup and do his own laundry. He’d figure it out. Then he’d figure out his other problem.

Kensley grabbed all the stuff again then left his room.

Padded barefoot down the wide hallway to the main staircase.

The quiet house was too damned big for Kensley, who’d spent a lot of his life in a two-bedroom apartment with his divorced mom, and the occasional visit from his father, until the man died when he was seven.

He and his mom hadn’t been poor, exactly, but this opulence was just… dumb.

Too many rooms, not enough people. King was twenty-six. The guy needed to stop traveling so much, find a wife, and have some kids. Kensley kind of liked the idea of being an uncle. A cool, fun uncle.

Even the damned basement was fancy, with finished walls and tiled floors.

One end had a pool table and some chairs, the other a laundry area.

Kensley stuffed his bedding into the washer.

It was pretty full but the lid closed. Then he searched a nearby cabinet and found a bottle of detergent.

Kensley was used to basic, pay-with-quarters machines, and this one had all kinds of cycles and symbols, and none of them made sense.

“Fuck.”

And what the hell was…were his butt cheeks sweaty again?

“What the fuck is going on!” His shout echoed around the basement.

“Kensley?” Bishop’s deep, familiar voice startled him into dropping the detergent.

On his damned foot.

Kensley screeched and fell onto his ass, face flaming with embarrassment, and his foot screaming with pain.

Bishop was there, tall and dark-haired, and so concerned Kensley wanted to cry.

Not that he would; he needed Bishop to know he was strong and capable, not a whiny kid who cried over a bruised foot.

“Hey, let me see,” Bishop said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Fucking fuckity fuck, that shit hurts.” But Kensley let Bishop take his bare foot in two gentle hands and examine it.

His touch was calming, comforting in a way that made Kensley feel protected.

Seen. Bishop was a decade older than Kensley, but he’d never treated Kensley like a tagalong kid.

He spoke to Kensley, instead of at Kensley.

King and his various guards spoke at Kensley.

“Can you wiggle your toes?” Bishop asked.

He tried. It hurt, but Kensley didn’t feel any sharp pain and nothing seemed broken. He also didn’t want Bishop to stop touching him. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Let’s go upstairs and put some ice on it. Just in case.” Bishop smiled, and that sent a wiggle of familiar warmth into Kensley’s belly. He loved Bishop’s smiles, because he handed them out so rarely. “I’d hate for King to come home and find out I let you get hurt while doing laundry.”

Kensley grunted. “You didn’t let me get hurt. I was the dumbass who dropped the detergent.”

“Well, I’m the dumbass that startled you, so we’re even.” Bishop moved into a crouch, and before Kensley could object, scooped him up in his arms like he was carrying a small child. For a brief moment, the cuddling felt nice, comfortable. Almost loving.

His heart skipped a beat, because Bishop smelled really good. Too good. Kensley knuckled Bishop’s shoulder. “Put me down. I can walk by my own damned self.”

“Okay, okay.” He gently deposited Kensley onto his feet and took a step backward.

Kensley immediately missed Bishop’s nearness, but he didn’t need to be carried around like a baby.

He shifted his weight to his right foot, because his left did hurt.

It wasn’t broken, but he probably did need ice, and he could walk to the kitchen like a grownup.

He couldn’t be weak in front of Bishop. He wanted Bishop to respect him. To like him.

Bishop, who was brushing at the front of his shirt, and Kensley’s stomach dropped. A damp spot. Shit.

“Kens, why are you doing laundry at eight-thirty in the morning?” His tone had changed in a weird way.

Still concerned but with an edge of…panic?

Nah, Bishop Anders didn’t panic. He’d only ever been calm, cool and collected around Kensley.

His centeredness was one of the things Kensley loved about him.

“I felt like it.” Mostly true.

“Have you done laundry once since you moved here?”

“Sure.” Bishop stared, unblinking, and Kensley wilted. He couldn’t lie to Bishop’s face. Kensley wanted to impress him, not make him mad. “No, I haven’t. Not here. These machines are weird.”

Bishop hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller.

Less of an authority figure and more like a friend.

Someone who wanted Kensley to be honest with him, and part of Kensley wanted to confide in Bishop.

He trusted Bishop. And he’d never admit out loud that he had a huge crush on the gorgeous guy.

Bishop was way too old and totally not interested in a teenager, which made it a useless crush.

Ugh, why did everything have to be so confusing?

“I know we aren’t super close friends, Kens,” Bishop said, “but if something’s wrong, you can trust me. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” As far as he could tell, Bishop had never lied to him. He’d definitely never made fun of him, not once. “It’s embarrassing.”

“What is?” He glanced at the washer. “If you were sick this morning, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I don’t know if I’m sick.”

“Okay. What happened?”