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He really loves his little brother.

I tap one of the pictures to make it bigger.

The kid can’t be older than nine or ten.

Messy brown hair, gap-toothed grin.

Pure chaos, yet so adorable.

I scroll back to Luke.

Then the kid.

Then Luke again.

Honestly whoever takes these pictures deserves a raise.

None of them feel staged.

Half of them are taken mid-laugh.

One of them catches Luke looking at the little boy instead of the camera, content, like he doesn’t know anyone’s watching.

I keep scrolling.

A woman with bright white hair wraps Luke in a hug while laughing so hard her eyes are closed.

The caption reads: She still beats me at Scrabble.

Whoever she is, I already like her.

I glance at the time in the corner of my phone.

Twenty-three minutes.

I’ve been scrolling this man’s Instagram for twenty-three minutes.

This feels...slightly unhealthy.

Harper would be insufferable if she knew.

I tap another picture.

Luke and the little boy again. Except he’s a lot younger in this one.

This time they’re sitting on the tailgate of a truck eating melting ice cream cones.

Then my thumb slips.

A little red heart appears on the screen.

No.

No, no, no.

I stare at it in horror.

The date at the top of the post catches my eye: June 2022.