Chapter 2: The Brother in the Doorway
The walk to Naomi's house was only three blocks, but Jalen took the long way around, kicking at loose piles of leaves and trying to psych himself up.
It wasn't that he didn't like hanging out at the Reynolds' house. It was practically his second home. He knew where the spare key was hidden, he knew Mrs. Reynolds would force-feed him the moment he walked through the door, and he knew the WiFi password better than his own.
The problem was Micah.
Or, more specifically, the way Jalen's entire nervous system seemed to short-circuit whenever Micah was within a fifty-foot radius.
When he finally climbed the front steps, the door was unlocked. He could hear the TV blasting from the living room and the smell of garlic bread drifting through the screen door. Jalen let himself in, dropping his backpack on the floor.
"In the kitchen, Jalen!" Mrs. Reynolds called out.
"Hey, Mrs. R," Jalen said, wandering in. "Smells good."
She was stirring a pot of sauce, looking over her shoulder with a smile. "There he is. My other son. Naomi's upstairs in her room. She's... well, she's cleaning, apparently. Don't ask."
Jalen laughed. "Thanks. I'll go save her."
He headed up the stairs, the wood creaking under his sneakers. At the top of the landing, he had to pass Micah's room to get to Naomi's. The door was usually closed, a "Do Not Enter" sign that Jalen had learned to respect. But today, it was slightly ajar.
Jalen slowed down. He told himself to keep walking. He told himself that being a creep was not a good look on a Tuesday afternoon.
But then he heard the heavy bass of a rap song vibrating through the crack in the door, and his feet just stopped.
He glanced over his shoulder. Naomi's door was closed. He was safe.
He leaned in, just for a second. Just to see if he could hear him.
Instead, the door swung inward a few more inches under the weight of his breath.
Micah was standing in the middle of his room, shirtless.
Jalen's brain flatlined.
Micah had just gotten out of the shower, a towel draped low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to the skin of his back. He was looking in the full-length mirror on his closet door, frowning at his reflection. He looked bigger than he had at school, his shoulders broader, the muscles in his arms shifting as he flexed his hand, then relaxed it.
He wasn't posing. He looked... tired. He was touching a bruise on his ribs, dark purple against the brown of his skin, his expression unreadable.
Jalen knew he should move. He knew he should knock or cough or literally do anything other than stand there and drink the sight of him in like he was dying of thirst.
Micah's head snapped toward the door.
Their eyes met.
Jalen froze, his hand still hovering in the air like he was reaching out. For a second, neither of them moved. The air between them felt charged, electric, like the static right before a storm.
Micah didn't cover up. He didn't yell. He just stared at Jalen, his eyes wide and surprised, before a slow, guarded look settled over his face. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, but underneath that, there was something else. Something that looked a lot like vulnerability.
Jalen's face burned hot. "I—sorry. I was just. Naomi."
Smooth. Truly articulate.
Micah's lips parted slightly. He looked at Jalen—really looked at him—for a long, agonizing moment. It wasn't the look a brother gave his sister's friend. It was an assessment. It was heavy.
"You good?" Micah asked. His voice was rough, lower than usual.
Jalen nodded frantically. "Yeah. Yeah, just. Pizza. Downstairs."
Micah nodded slowly, still not moving. "Okay."
Jalen backed away, his heart hammering so hard he could hear it in his ears. He turned and practically fled to Naomi's room, shutting the door behind him and leaning his back against it.
Naomi was sitting at her desk, surrounded by textbooks. She looked up, raising an eyebrow. "You look like you saw a ghost. Or worse, like you saw Marcus without a shirt on."
Jalen let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Worse," he croaked. "I saw your brother."
Naomi rolled her eyes. "Ugh, ignore him. He's in a funk. He's been weird since practice. I think Coach is riding him hard about his shot selection."
Jalen slid down to sit on the floor, trying to get his breathing under control. He thought about the bruise on Micah's ribs. He thought about the way Micah had looked at him—not annoyed, not dismissive. Just... seen.
"Yeah," Jalen said quietly. "Maybe."
But he knew it wasn't just that. He knew it wasn't about basketball.
Outside the door, in the hallway, the floorboards creaked. Jalen held his breath. He imagined Micah standing there, just on the other side of the wood, maybe listening. Maybe wondering why Jalen had looked at him like that.
"Come on," Naomi said, tossing a pillow at him. "History awaits. Try not to look traumatized."
Jalen caught the pillow, forcing a grin. "I'm trying. It's a full-time job."
But as he opened his textbook, the words swam in front of his eyes. All he could see was the damp towel. The bruise. The way Micah hadn't looked away.
For the first time, Jalen wondered if Micah was waiting for someone to look, too.