Be witty

You stay under the thin sheet, the fabric still draped across your hips, and give her a small, crooked smile instead of waving her off.

“Little guy, huh?” you say, keeping your voice light. “That’s a bold claim from someone who hasn’t seen the evidence in years. Maybe he’s just conserving energy. Waiting for the right audience.”

Your sister pauses with the laundry basket against her hip. The corner of her mouth twitches. She doesn’t leave.

“Oh, we’re doing this?” she asks, stepping half a pace closer to the bed. “I make one comment and suddenly you’re trying to be charming about it?”

You shrug under the sheet, the movement making the fabric shift just enough to hint at the outline beneath without revealing anything. “I’m just saying. You’ve been walking around this house long enough to know better than to judge a book by its… morning cover.”

She lets out a short, amused breath. “Morning cover. Cute.” Her eyes flick down to where the sheet tents ever so slightly, then back up to your face. “Most books that small don’t need a hardback edition, though.”

The teasing lands, but the way she stays in the room instead of heading for the door makes it feel less like a dismissal and more like an invitation to keep going. You tilt your head against the headboard, still carefully covered.

“Maybe it’s not about size on the shelf,” you answer, voice still easy. “Maybe it’s about how it reads once someone actually opens it. Or maybe some people just like jumping to the last page and assuming they know the whole story.”

She sets the basket down on the chair with a soft thud, freeing her hands. Arms loosely crossed, she studies you with open interest now.

“You’re really leaning into the metaphors, huh?” A small, flirty edge creeps into her tone. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you want me to fact-check the table of contents.”

Heat crawls up your neck, but you don’t look away. The sheet feels thinner by the second. Your cock has firmed a little more underneath it—not fully hard, but no longer soft—and you’re fairly sure she can see the change in the way the fabric sits.

She notices. Of course she notices. Her gaze drops again, lingering this time, and a slow smile curves her mouth.

“There it is,” she says quietly. “The plot thickens. Or at least tries to.” She takes one more step closer until she’s standing right beside the bed. “So here’s the real question, little brother.”

She lifts both hands and makes exaggerated air quotes.

“Are you going to prove it’s ‘about average’… or are you just going to stay hidden under that sheet and let me assume you haven’t grown any in nine years?”

The words hang in the quiet bedroom. Morning light cuts across the bed. The laundry basket sits forgotten on the chair. Your sister waits, one eyebrow raised, eyes bright with challenge and something hotter underneath. The only thing between her and a clear view is the thin sheet you’re still holding in place.

She’s not leaving. The conversation has officially left ordinary territory.