Your younger brother.

Despite there only being a one year difference between you two, your brother prides himself on being the more mature out of the two of you. He’s never been late for class, never had a bad report card, never been impolite or spoken out of turn, and never forgets to mind his manners. He’s more or less a model student and an academic powerhouse. So while you had been making do with your courses and letting your physical prowess win you over a scholarship, he had been pushing himself through AP course after AP course. Age difference be damned, he would graduate college before you.

That wasn’t the only difference, though. Despite you two being brothers, the two of you had hardly a similarity between you. Whereas you’d taken after your father, he’d been closer to mom. When you wanted to run, he wanted to read. You like purple and he likes green. You are tall, strong, and (as of just now) incredibly hung. He is… less so.

The boy’s physique can barely be considered such. He’s somewhat waif-ish, angular, and a tad on the effeminate side. He did share your mother’s brown hair, but apparently he was also affected by her change, gaining her rosy curls. Yet another difference between you two. You still have your father’s dirty blonde.

“Really? Again? You couldn’t hold off until after breakfast”, he asks, prodding at your shoulder while he sits beside your mother.

Ah, one more thing. His voice. It seems puberty hadn’t quite done what it could have. The **** of age hit you like a speeding locomotive. It merely brushed by him like a stray dandelion on the wind. So even if he’s but one year your junior, he sounds as if he’s at least five behind.

Against your better judgement, and sooner than you can regret it, a question falls from your lips.

“Would you rather it have been mom to help me or you?”