The first time I met Alden, he was only eighteen.
He wore a yellowed T-shirt, his pale skin almost glowing under the light, his lips pressed together slightly, and his eyes downcast, too shy to look at anyone.
Stepmother Mary smiled as she introduced him:
"Brooks, this is my son Alden."
She tugged at Alden's hand and pointed at me:
"Alden, this is Brooks, your Brooks."
He timidly raised his eyes and softly called out, "Brooks."
I coldly snorted, then turned around and slammed the bedroom door shut.
I hated Mary Ayers; she was my father's secretary.
After my mother's suicide, she didn't even bother to hide it and moved into our house.
I hated Alden even more, despising his obedient, downcast demeanor.
This mother and son duo had driven my mother to her death and taken my father away from me.
Alden was three years younger than me.
When he was in his senior year of high school, I was already a sophomore in college.
Since my mother's passing, I had been particularly rebellious and my grades had dropped.
My father, perhaps feeling guilty, had always tried to buy my affection with money, indulging me and spoiling me.
But Alden was the model student, acing every exam. My father always praised him for being studious and polite.
It was as if I was the outsider in that house.
That year, I rarely went home and hadn't spoken a word to this "stepbrother."
Until one day, when I was curled up in pain from dysmenorrhea at home, Alden brought me a cup of brown sugar water and a painkiller, placing them in front of me.
I clutched my stomach and snapped at him, "Go away."
He stared at me without moving. I impatiently told him to get lost again.
He furrowed his brow, paused for a few seconds, and then squeezed out:
"Drink this, and I'll leave."
In the end, I reluctantly drank the brown sugar water and swallowed the painkiller, and he silently left.
Not long after that, I saw a little thug bullying him outside the school gate.
I didn't think much of it and directly kicked the thug, shouting:
"Try touching him!"
Then I couldn't help but mock him:
"What's wrong with you? Why are you so spineless?"
The thug, seeing that I was a girl, suddenly had a different idea.
He made a phone call, and soon, three or four people came out from a nearby alley.
That day, Alden swung his fists fiercely at them, tightly hugging me to shield me from the blows.
In the end, he was covered in injuries, his wet eyes gazing at me as he quietly asked, "Why did you help me?"
I didn't know why I helped him back then. Maybe it was to repay him for bringing me medicine.
Or maybe, on some subconscious level, I thought I could bully him, but no one else could.
He graduated from high school and entered the top university in the city. My father was ecstatic.
He even reminded me to take good care of my "little brother."
And I did take care of him—just not in the way he expected.
Instead of ignoring him like before, I mischievously decided to bully him.
I would force him to eat my leftover food.
In the middle of the night, I'd tell him I was hungry and ask him to cook for me. After he worked hard to make the meal, I would eat a few bites and then deliberately throw the rest away.
I'd throw my dirty clothes at him and make him wash them.
In the scorching summer, I'd sit in the air-conditioned room, ordering him to queue for two hours to buy me bubble tea.
There were so many things I did to bully him on purpose.
Mary took my father, so I thought I could get back at her by tormenting her son.
That little sense of comfort and the pleasure of being the victor was all I had left.
Alden, being the quiet and soft-spoken person he was, never resisted my unreasonable behavior and always quietly complied.
I even felt that he deserved to be bullied—it was something he owed me.
The real change came during Alden's senior year.
It was the anniversary of my mother's death. My father had completely forgotten, and he and Mary were vacationing in the Maldives.
That day, I had been drinking and stumbled home in a haze.
Alden helped me sit on the sofa, but I shoved his hand away, feeling an overwhelming sense of disgust for him.
"I'm craving some burgers," I said.
I knew making dumplings was complicated, but I just wanted to make things hard for him.
Alden made me a cup of honey water and, after placing it down, said:
"Alright, wait for a moment."
Then he went to the kitchen.
Bored, I picked up the phone on the sofa. When I tried to unlock it, the fingerprint verification didn't work. Without thinking, I entered my birthday.
When the lock screen opened, I realized it was Alden's phone.
As soon as I realized what I had done, I couldn't help myself and began scrolling through his phone.
In the photo album on my phone, there was a folder labeled "Brooks."
Inside, there were two to three hundred pictures, all of me.
The earliest ones were taken four years ago.
I flipped through them, until a voice, full of embarrassment, interrupted me:
"Brooks… I…"
Alden stood in front of me, his face flushed, tightly gripping his fists, looking like he had something to say but couldn't get it out.
I smirked, waving the photos in my hand:
"Do you like me?"
He bit his lip tightly, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, but his gaze was firm and unyielding:
"I… I like you, Brooks."
I raised a mysterious smile and hooked my arm around Alden's neck:
"I like you too, Alden. Let's have a secret relationship."
I pressed my lips to his, smiling brightly at his startled expression:
"Do you know how to kiss?"
"I… I don't really know how…"
He nervously held me.
I raised an eyebrow, smiling seductively:
"I will teach you~"
I dragged Alden, this once cold and distant figure, down from his pedestal. I deliberately teased him until his face turned bright red, loving the sight of his usually calm expression flushing with desire, and more so, when he shyly called me "Brooks" in a hoarse voice.
I tore off his aloof mask and looked down at his repeated submission to me.
