I know the exact moment I screwed up: when I thought, God, I want to kiss her. Not “protect her.” Not “ask if she’s eaten.” Nope. Full send into stepbrother of the year territory. Now I’m fake-chill on the outside and full-on FBI on her Instagram at 2 AM. It’s fine. Totally fine. I’m not obsessed — I’m... invested. (Okay, maybe obsessed.) Someone please tell my brain to shut up before I ruin everything.