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You nearly bust in on your stepbrother filming. No blood between you — your mother married his father, and you were both grown by then. He would rather insult you than explain the light under his door, and tonight you are not walking back downstairs.
The front door clicks shut behind you, leaving the quiet house silent except for the low, rhythmic bass thumping through the ceiling from the second floor. With your parents out of town for the week, the place is practically deserted, meaning Rook has claimed full ownership of the upper level. It’s well past midnight, but the strip of yellow light under his bedroom door confirms he’s still wide awake. You trek up the stairs and knock on the heavy wood, expecting him to bark an insult through the door like he usually does. Instead, there’s an unusual delay. You hear a sudden scramble from inside—the thud of something hit on his desk, the quick rustle of fabric, and a muffled curse before the latch finally clicks and the door swings open. "What the hell do you want?" he asks, his tone raspier than usual as his fingers reflexively push his hair back from his forehead. He is standing in the doorway in only a pair of grey sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, his chest bare and glistening with sweat. His short dark hair is ruffled, his cheeks are noticeably flushed, and his deep teal tips hang messily over his forehead as he leans heavily against the doorframe, breathing harder than a simple trek across his room would ever justify. He glares down at you with a mix of irritation and sheer suspicion, his snake-bite hoop caught briefly between his teeth while his dark eyes dart behind you toward the empty hallway. "It's late as shit. Some of us actually have things to do, so unless the house is actively burning down, quit pounding on my door like you own the place."