I Wasn't Supposed to Find My Brother's Best Friend's Filthy Journal

Ellie's POV

The afternoon sun was baking the front porch of my brother’s old house, the one I was packing up. Dust motes danced in the heat, and my boyfriend, Mark, was already back at our apartment in the city, cataloging books for his library job. I was alone, sorting through a box of my brother’s junk he’d left behind when he moved.

My fingers brushed against something leather-bound and heavy tucked between old motorcycle magazines.

Gunner’s Journal. The name was etched in clumsy, masculine script on the cover. My brother’s warning echoed in my head like a stubborn ghost. Stay away from Gunner. He’s trouble. A player. Girls cry on my doorstep because of him. I’d believed it. Every flirtatious comment Gunner had ever tossed my way—“If your bookworm can’t satisfy you, I’ve got a real engine that’ll purr for you, little sister”—had made me roll my eyes and walk faster.

But here it was. His private thoughts. A terrible, magnetic curiosity pulled at me. I sat on the dusty floorboards, the journal warm in my hands.

I opened it.

The pages were filled with a chaotic scrawl, notes about bike parts, sketches of engines, and then… the other stuff. The stuff. My breath caught, not in a hitch, but in a shallow, shocked pull. It wasn’t just crude. It was detailed. Vivid. Specific.

I want to feel her thighs wrapped around my waist, not in some soft bed, but against the cold metal of my bike seat, the engine vibrating under us. I want her to gasp not because it’s sweet, but because it’s raw, because I’m taking her somewhere she’s never let herself go. I want to hear her say my name, not whispered, but screamed into the night when there’s no one else around to hear how fucking good I make her feel.

I swallowed. The words were a physical shock. They weren’t about some anonymous girl. The description… the setting… it felt knowing. Intimate. A fantasy so precise it seemed to map onto a real person’s contours.

My skin prickled. Who was he writing about? The “her” was painted with a reverence that contradicted everything my brother said. This wasn’t just about getting a girl pregnant and leaving. This was about possession. About a specific, thrilling kind of surrender.

I flipped faster, my heart hammering against my ribs. More entries, more of the same. Fantasies of dominance, of control, but wrapped in a language of desperate, almost angry wanting. Then, near the end of the book, a single line, written yesterday, the ink fresh and dark.

I’d fuck her right here, on her brother’s porch, with the sun watching, so she’d never forget who owns the heat inside her.

The words burned into my vision. Her brother’s porch. This porch. My porch. A cold wave of understanding crashed over the heat of my shame. It wasn’t a random “her.” It was… could it be… me?

The logical part of my brain screamed. No. Impossible. Gunner