My Stepbrother, My Enemy {BL}-Chapter 115: The Loneliness Underneath

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘❦✾❦∘∙⊱⋅•-

My heart squeezed in this painful, aching way I wasn’t prepared for. Ethan had a weird family situation, but hearing it out loud... hearing how calmly he said it, like it was normal for parents to abandon their kids just to sip wine in Paris or backpack through Asia... it made something twist inside me.

I thought of my mom. I thought of all the ways she had failed me too, but at least she was there. Messy, distracted, and painfully unreliable, but still physically present. The thought of a thirteen-year-old Ethan packing a tiny bag and wandering into the woods because he felt so unwanted... it made my stomach knot. No kid deserved that kind of loneliness.

It was just so bizarre to me... how parents could decide to hop on a plane and disappear for years like it was some extended honeymoon. I understood wanting freedom, wanting to travel, wanting to explore the world everyone did, but doing that at the cost of leaving behind a child? Ethan’s childhood? And one as soft-hearted as he was? It made no sense to me. It felt cruel.

"That must’ve been really hard," I said softly. I tried not to sound too emotional, but the sympathy slipped through anyway. "For them to just leave you. And your brother. Like it was nothing."

He shrugged, like he was brushing ash off his shoulder. "Yeah, well..." He tried for a crooked grin. "They still fly home once a year for a vacation. Usually somewhere nice. Maldives, Greece... you know, parent things."

He joked, but the laugh didn’t reach his eyes. It felt like watching someone tape cardboard over a cracked window.

I shifted closer on the blanket, turning so I could see his face better in the warm fading light. The sunset caught the strands of gold in his hair and made the whole moment feel strangely fragile.

"So..." I said carefully. "Your uncle. You said he took care of you. Do you... at least have a good relationship with him?"

The question came out gentler than I intended. And even before he answered, even before he looked away, I felt the shift. Like I’d touched something he usually kept locked up.

He hesitated. Just a blink, but I felt it like a cold ripple between us.

Then he exhaled very slowly.

"No," he said finally. "Not really."

He didn’t elaborate. He just stared at the city lights flickering on beneath us, his jaw tightening like the words had dragged something sharp up with them. And for some reason, that hurt even more than everything he’d shared before.

I reached for his hand again, threading my fingers through his because it felt like the only thing I could do. The only thing that made sense.

"Ethan," I murmured. "I’m sorry."

He squeezed my hand once, like he appreciated the sentiment but didn’t know how to accept it fully.

"It’s fine," he said quietly. "He wasn’t... bad. Just not the kind of person who knew how to raise kids. Especially a kid who was already messed up from everything else."

"That doesn’t mean you deserved that," I said. My voice surprised even me firm but soft, like the truth needed to be handed to him gently. "You were just a kid. You were supposed to be taken care of. Loved."

He swallowed hard, and for a second his lashes lowered like he was fighting something inside himself.

Then he looked up at me, offering a small, fragile smile.

"And I guess that’s why I wanted to bring you here," he said. "Because for the first time, I don’t feel alone anymore."

"They still come back once a year for a vacation," he joked, nudging my shoulder lightly. "So, you know. Not totally gone."

A tiny laugh slipped out of him, but it sounded thin, like something stretched too tight.

I looked at him for a long moment. At his smile that wasn’t reaching his eyes. At the way his fingers played with a loose thread on the blanket, like he needed something to keep him grounded.

Something cold crawled down my spine.

He stared out toward the valley, the last threads of sunset catching the edge of his profile. He didn’t cry. He didn’t tremble. He just looked... resigned. As if he’d told this story to himself too many times in the dark to feel anything about it anymore.

"There were days," he continued, voice quiet and steady in a way that somehow made it worse, "when my uncle would come home angry. And I guess I was just... there. Convenient." His mouth twisted humorlessly. "Anger doesn’t always need a reason, you know? Sometimes it just needs a target."

My breath hitched.

"Ethan," I breathed. "He—? Did he—?"

"It wasn’t all the time," he quickly added, like he wanted to protect me from the details. "Not every day. Not even every week. But enough that I used to stay out late so I wouldn’t be home when he was. Enough that I’d flinch when he raised his hand too fast. Enough that my little brother learned to hide in the bathroom whenever our uncle started yelling."

My chest caved in on itself. My eyes burned. The image alone was unbearable.

"And your parents..." My voice cracked. "They didn’t know?"

"They didn’t care to ask," he replied, almost gently. "They assumed we were fine. They trusted him. And I stopped bothering to tell them about it."

That broke me.

I reached for him without thinking, my hand covering his where it rested in his lap. His fingers curled instinctively around mine, warm, solid, returning the squeeze in a way that made something deep inside me unravel.

"I’m so sorry," I whispered. "You didn’t deserve that. Not any of it."

He gave a small, tired smile. "It’s not your fault, Sunshine."

"That doesn’t make it hurt less," I murmured.

He looked at me then, really looked at me...blue eyes softer than I’d ever seen them, like the vulnerability was finally allowed to surface because he trusted me enough to hold it gently.

"You’re the first person I’ve ever told," he admitted.

My breath caught.

And in the quiet between us, with the city lights beginning to glow below, the air cooling around our bodies, and his hand holding mine like it meant something important I felt something shift inside me.

Something heavy. Something deep.

"I won’t break your trust," I told him. "Ever."

His thumb brushed over my knuckles, slow and warm, and the smallest, saddest smile touched his lips.

"I know," he said softly. "That’s why I told you."