I twist in his arms, desperately try to make out his face in the dark. "What did you say?"

He repeats himself, mouth moving along my cheek. "I love you."

My heart explodes and the sensation sends ripples through my body. I latch onto him, encircling my arms around his neck. "I fucking love you, too." I don't realize the words were true until I say them out loud—the phrase comes more naturally to me now than it ever has.

He laughs into the crook of my neck, where his head is forced because I'm holding on so tightly. "Thank God."

And I laugh, too, squeezing him harder as the butterflies rise up my torso. "Say it again."

He rolls us so I'm straddling him, his hands running down my sides to rest on my ass. His chest is warm and as my breasts push onto him I can feel his bulge swell. "I fucking love you, Wren."

I release my hold on his neck, let myself tease him by moving my hips. "Again."

Even in the dim I can sense his grin. His fingers find the hem of my shirt, which he pulls ever so slowly towards himself to expose my bare skin. "I love you," he whispers.

I feel my core pulse, become wet. I lower myself down a little more on his erection, and he responds by rising himself up to meet me.

There's too much fabric between us.

I let out a soft moan as I continue to rub myself against him. "Please tell me again."

"I love you."

My mouth finds his. He tastes like spearmint toothpaste with a hint of the apple pie we all had for dessert. He parts my lips with his tongue, makes his way inside my mouth. Hands on my hips, he pulls me down roughly onto him, and I let out another moan.

When we break apart for air I gasp. "I love you, Arlo Levitt."

He flips us so I'm on my back and he's got his legs between mine. He brushes my hair away from my face, lets his fingers get tangled in it before giving me a soft tug. "Again."

Now I grin as a shock runs through me at the pressure on my scalp. "I fucking love you."

He lowers his body against mine, his erection hard against me, begging to be released. "Again."

"Fuck, I love you, Arlo."

He grinds against me, pulls my head back so he can get to my neck. His tongue trails up my jugular, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His free hand slips under my shirt to cup my breast. His thumb plays with my nipple.

I have to bite my lip to keep from groaning. "Please," I say.

He pinches my nipple between his fingers, gives my neck a nip. "Please, what?"

"Say it again."

He pulls my shirt completely off and our half-bare bodies crush together when he lowers himself back onto me. His skin feels so, so good against mine.

His lips hover over mine, our noses touching. "I love you."

An ecstatic thrill runs through me, lands right below my belly button. I can't take it anymore; I can feel myself wet through my shorts, and his dick is so hard I wouldn't be surprised if it poked a hole through his sweats.

"Fuck me," I say, leaning up to kiss him.

His mouth responds immediately, and a hand even moves down over my stomach, inches to my hipbone, slips under the top of my shorts. But then he stops.

"Ollie."

My hands find either side of his face. "This isn't about him."

"The rule, Wren," he says, though is voice is strained.

I want to say, This is about us—we're the ones in love. Do you think he feels the same way about me? How could I ever feel the same way about him?

But even as the words float through my mind, rest on my tongue, I can't bear to say them. I can't bear to think how painful they would be to let out. I don't think Ollie is capable of loving anyone other than his brother. It's a bond I wouldn't be able to form with him, no matter how long we spend in this relationship. Even if I were to be in his life forever, Oliver would never—could never—love me. The thought hurts in a way I can't comprehend, almost like how it would hurt if Arlo didn't love me.

I don't completely understand it, but it's just enough to stop me from begging Arlo to make love with me.

"You know it's a rule I've never broken," he says, though his tone holds some resentment.

"I know," I say quietly. "I understand."

"I-I'm sorry," he says, lowering his head to rest on my chest. His body is trembling and he wraps his arms around me.

I run my fingers through his hair, listen to his breathing. "Don't be. I agreed to this. You're a package deal."

"A burger," he says quietly.

I can't help the smile that creeps onto my face. "Yeah, a burger."

He gives the spot above my heart a soft kiss. "Can't have a burger without a patty, though."

Thanksgiving Break goes by in a blur—everyday the same, yet different and all blending together. Arlo doesn't sneak to my room to see me again, and I'm thankful because if he did I probably wouldn't be able to control myself. He also limits telling me he loves me only when we get a moment or two alone—the words, whispered in my ear, never fail to give me goosebumps. But I like our little secret and don't mind keeping it between us for now. It feels like I've got a part of Arlo just to myself. Ollie, thankfully, doesn't seem to know what happened that night; if Arlo told him he loves me then he's hiding it, and I'm not about to bring it up with him.

Though we get a severe snowstorm and are basically confined to the house, claustrophobia never sets in. The twins get on well—too well—with Mom and Dad. Arlo's Mom's right-hand in the kitchen; though I've never even seen him boil pasta before, she trusts him enough to baste the Turkey on the big day. Ollie and Dad flip between ESPN and National Geographic when they aren't discussing books written by guys who died long before the invention of the TV. Even Lila cuts me some slack about "hiding" Arlo from her—I think she still feels bad about what happened with Noah, though she'll never know the whole story. Hopefully her guilty conscience will extend to when we get back to the city.

By the time we're all packed up and ready to head back, everyone's so chummy they can even tell the twins apart.

To my horror, Mom gives both boys a hug goodbye and a tin of cookies to Arlo. Dad gives Ollie a book, and the shocked expression at being given a gift is something I'll never forget. When Dad moves onto Arlo, his parting gift is a handshake and a "I've got my eye on you" look.

As we're packing up our cars, I feel a tug at my heart at the thought of leaving home; it's more severe than at the beginning of the semester—for some reason, this goodbye hurts more. Because of this I opt to ride with Lila. I want to be in the company of some family when the homesickness sets in, plus I don't want to blubber in front of the boys. I know Arlo wouldn't mind, but with their rocky history with their own parents I don't want to dump my feelings of missing my perfect ones on them.

As I dole out my final hugs to Mom and Dad, they both leave me with some parting words:

Mom: "You sure picked a good one, Wren."

Dad: "Just remember boys his age only have one thing on their mind." But he has a sly smirk on, and I know he approves of Arlo—and Ollie, but I can't let him know that matters.

Lila heads straight out after we get home; our bags barely hit the floor before she's showering and changing. I want to ask her if she's going out to see Brian or Roark, but I bite my tongue. Best not poke the dragon yet.

After a long bath I pull on one of Lila's LU hoodies and try to figure out what's due for school tomorrow. The week off wasn't long enough. Art History is the one class I could go to everyday, and not just because it's the one I share with Arlo, but because I'm genuinely loving it. The styles of the times, techniques, what it says about classes and society are more intriguing than I ever remember school trips to museums being.

Just as I'm about to sift through the millions of school emails that piled up, I get a text from Arlo that makes my stomach drop into my feet.

He knows.