Born To Be Your's

Chapter 17

Later that night, the cold of the house had been replaced by the comforting, regulated warmth of the new boiler. But Blake couldn't sleep. He lay on his bed, staring up at the dark, familiar underside of Travis's mattress.

Laura dig into him as soon as he returned from Livs house. He had been subjected to the full force of her exhausted fury—not only was he suspended again, but he had dragged Liv down with him. She had screamed about his recklessness, about the police, and about the impossibility of keeping a family alive when he kept trying to dismantle it.

But the anger, the threat of jail, and the financial chaos barely registered. What was in Blake's mind was the dark, electrifying heat of the janitor’s closet.

He remembered how she felt—hot, wet, and intensely tight around his c**k. He remembered the desperate, raw sounds she made when he thrust inside her, the way her body trembled against his. It was the best s*x he'd ever had, a shattering experience that made every previous encounter feel like a hollow imitation. He’d slept with a lot of girls, treating them like a necessary physical transaction, but nothing compared to this.

And the worst part about it was… he wanted more. He craved more. He wanted to taste her sweet mouth again, smell the unique scent of her skin, touch the silky smooth curve of her back, feel her body tremble against his, and hear her gasp and moan his name in his ear.

The door creaked open, and Travis slipped into the room, dressed in oversized sweatpants. He sat on the edge of Blake’s bed, sensing the heavy energy radiating off his brother.

“Laura finally shut up,” Travis whispered. “She’s drinking beer on the back porch now. You okay, B?”

Blake let out a long, shaky breath, pushing himself up onto an elbow. “Liv told me they can never do it again. She just wants to be friends.”

Travis nodded, his gentle features soft with understanding. “Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, once Francis pays off her student loans, they’re sending Liv back, right? It’s probably easier that way.”

Travis looked at Blake's face, a look he rarely ever saw: pure hurt, stripping away all the sarcastic armor.

“And that’s a bad thing?” Travis asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

Blake shook his head slowly. “That’s the thing, Trav. I don’t want her to leave.” He paused, looking at his younger brother, his most trusted confidant. “I don’t want her to go back to the system. I want her here. I want her next door. I want her in my classes.”

Travis sat quietly, patting Blake’s leg awkwardly. “You’ll be all right, B. You always are. There are plenty of other girls at school. Plenty of girls who—”

“No,” Blake interrupted, the word sharp. He shook his head again, vehemently. “That’s the thing. I don’t want other girls. I wanted… Olivia.”

Blake looked down at his own hand, flexing the fingers that had just hauled a boiler and then pleasured the most beautiful, broken girl he had ever met. He brought his gaze back to Travis, the dark confession heavy on his tongue. The word was foreign, terrifying, and profoundly real.

“I… I think I’m in love with her, Trav.”

Travis stared at his older brother, utterly motionless. His eyes, usually so kind and mellow, were wide with shock. Blake Copper, the cynical, detached genius who used s*x purely for transaction and treated emotional vulnerability like a contagious disease, had just confessed something that completely defied the architecture of their survival.

“You’re in… what?” Travis finally whispered, the question ragged and slow, like his mind was struggling to process the foreign concept.

Blake took a deep, shaky inhale, gathering all his courage. He forced the word out, clearer and slower, accepting the terrifying truth of it.

“Love,” Blake said. “I think I’m… falling in love with her, Trav.”

Travis blinked, running a hand over his own face as if to wake himself up. He didn't know how to handle this. His solution to every problem was practical—get money, steal, or run. This was an emotional catastrophe.

“I… I don’t know what to say, B,” Travis admitted, looking down at his hands.

Blake ran a frustrated hand through his messy hair. “I don’t know what to do. She’s all I think about now. I got a taste, Trav, and now I just… I want more. I want to be with her. I want to tell Francis to kiss my ass and take Liv out on a date. I want to keep her here.”

Travis nodded, recognizing the genuine torment in his brother’s voice. Blake wasn’t joking, or being sarcastic, or even just horny. He was hurting. Travis looked down at the floor, offering the only comfort he knew how to find in this house of perpetual anxiety.

“Want to get high?” Travis offered quietly.

Blake chuckled softly, the sound brittle but real. It was the best, most practical offer he’d heard all night.

He nodded, pushing the shame and the terrifying word away, just for a moment. “Most definitely.”

Travis rose, moving toward the window, ready to provide the temporary oblivion they both desperately needed. The problem—Olivia, love, and the imminent threat of her departure—would still be waiting for Blake when the high wore off, but for now, they had a truce with reality.

---

The next few days crawled by, long and excruciating for Blake. The emotional exhaustion from the janitor's closet confrontation was compounded by the fact that he and Liv were now stuck in a fragile, agonizingly platonic truce.

Thankfully, the charges against Liv for the gym fight were dropped. Paul, learning the exact, vile nature of Bethany’s taunt—and the fact that the girl had brought up Liv's foster care history—had been absolutely furious. Liv, breaking down, had confessed the core of the altercation to Francis and Paul (leaving out the s*x with Blake part). Paul, recognizing the systemic abuse and the emotional trigger, went full protective dad. He stormed down to the police department and raised hell, leveraging his military background and legal savvy to ensure the school district and the police dropped the charges against Liv and Blake immediately.

The ordeal, ironically, cemented Liv’s place in the house. Paul and Liv found an unexpected bond, swapping stories about their shared struggles navigating the foster care system. They started talking more, and Liv even managed a few genuine jokes with Paul.

For Blake, however, the arrangement was torment. He and Liv maintained a respectful, intelligent, and highly charged friendship at school, but the physical craving was maddening. He tried to distract himself, satisfying his s****l needs elsewhere, but it was failing miserably. No one compared to her. Every girl he touched only highlighted the absence of Liv's fierce, consuming passion.

One Friday afternoon, Blake was grabbing his jacket, preparing to leave the house for a purely transactional "booty call" with a girl who didn't threaten his emotional stability. He walked past the kitchen, where Laura was methodically preparing dinner and Francis was perched on a stool, scrolling through her phone.

Francis, still carrying a residual grudge over the suspension, fixed him with a raised eyebrow. “Hold up, Copper. Before you go do whatever depraved thing you have planned for tonight, I have a thing for you to do. You need to make up for the chaos you encouraged last week.”

Blake grabbed a mug of coffee, mimicking her raised eyebrow. “And what exactly is that? I’m not f*****g you, Francis. Believe it or not, I do have standards.”

Laura chuckled, sliding a tray of chocolate chip cookies into the ancient oven.

Francis made a dramatic, sexy pose, crossing her legs. “Baby, you couldn’t handle me. No, I need my sink fixed. It’s leaking again, making the wood rot. Since you’re so good with your hands when they’re not wrapped around some jock’s throat, can you fix the leak and replace the wood underneath?”

Blake sighed. The request was practical, necessary, and would require him to use his hands for actual work instead of crime or temporary s*x. “Don’t you have a husband for that?”

Francis laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Paul knows how to break things, B. Not fix them. If I had him do it, he’d blow it up with C4 and try to claim the insurance money. You’re the smart one.”

Blake smirked, conceding the point. The task was easy enough, and Francis needed help. “Fine. But if I find any of Paul’s explosive residue in the plumbing, I’m calling the bomb squad.”

Francis patted his chest, her green eyes twinkling with gratitude. “Thanks, B. You’re a lifesaver. Now go fix my house so my foster kid doesn’t think we’re total slobs.”