Her Brother’s Best Friend

Cheap Red Wine

Riley:

By the time I dragged myself through the front door, every part of me ached. My shoulders burned from hours hunched over charts, my feet throbbed from running hall to hall, and my brain was mush. Twelve hours of fixing everyone else’s mess left exactly nothing for myself.

The smell hit me first—garlic, butter, roasted vegetables. My stomach growled so loud I almost winced.

I blinked into the kitchen, expecting to see Logan messing around with bacon again. Instead, Cade stood at the stove, sleeves shoved up, forearms flexing as he set a pan aside.

He looked up. Just once. Then went right back to what he was doing.

“There’s food,” he said flatly.

That was it. No, hi, how was work? No, I made this for you. There’s food.

I dropped my bag by the door and narrowed my eyes. “You… cooked?”

“Yeah.” He grabbed two plates, scooping chicken and vegetables onto them like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Couldn’t live on Logan’s grease another night.”

“So this isn’t—” I gestured vaguely at the table, the glasses of wine already poured, the candles burning low. “—for me?”

His mouth twitched, the barest flicker of a smirk. “You eat too, don’t you?”

I stared at him, equal parts irritated and disarmed. Only Cade could roast a damn chicken, set the table like a restaurant, and then act like it was all a coincidence.

“Fine.” I slid into the chair across from him, picking up my fork. “But if this tastes like shoe leather, I’m ordering pizza.”

He arched a brow and settled opposite me. “Try it.”

The first bite nearly made me groan. Juicy, garlicky, seasoned like he actually knew what he was doing. I chewed slowly, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Well?” he asked, tone casual but eyes sharp.

“It’s edible,” I said primly, taking another bite.

He huffed out a low laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a terrible liar.”

We ate in silence for a while, tension simmering under the quiet. Every now and then, his gaze flicked to me, quick, like he didn’t want me to notice. And every time it did, I felt my chest tighten.

When the plates were mostly empty, I pushed mine away, folding my arms. “You know, you went a little heavy on the wine and candlelight for a guy who didn't make dinner for me.”

“That’s called having standards,” he shot back, lifting his glass. “You wouldn’t understand. Hospital cafeteria food probably killed your taste buds years ago.”

I snorted, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”

“Better than useless.” He leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the back like he owned the room. “Bath’s upstairs. Water’s hot.”

I froze, fork halfway to the plate. “Excuse me?”

“Tub. Soap. Hot water.” He didn’t even look at me when he said it, like it was just another fact. “Figured you’d want it after being gone all day.”

My mouth went dry. “You drew me a bath?”

He finally glanced at me, but his expression was unreadable, his voice flat. “I filled it. Don’t make it weird.”

I bit down on a smile that wanted to creep out, refusing to give him the win. “Right. Not weird at all.”

But as I stood, wine warming my chest, exhaustion heavy in my bones, I couldn’t shake the truth: Cade might act like it was nothing, like I just happened to benefit from his own comfort.

But I knew better.

Every plate, every candle, every drop of lavender steam curling up the stairs was for me.

No matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise.

Cade:

The moment she disappeared up the stairs, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My chest still felt tight, my pulse hammering like I’d just walked out of a fight.

It wasn’t the dinner. It wasn’t the bath. It was her face when I told her, the way she’d gone still and her eyes had searched mine like she was trying to peel me open.

I sat there, finishing the last of my wine, pretending I wasn’t listening for every sound from above. Water running. Pipes creaking. A soft sigh that could’ve been steam shifting, could’ve been her.

By the time her footsteps hit the stairs again, my body went rigid.

And then I saw her.

Not in scrubs. Not in work clothes. Just pajamas—simple, cotton, loose-fitting. But God, it hit me harder than it should’ve. The fabric hung soft against her, brushing her collarbones, skimming her thighs. Her hair was damp, curling around her face, skin flushed from the heat of the bath.

And it undid me. More than the scrubs had this morning. More than anything. Because this wasn’t Riley the nurse, Riley the fighter, Riley with the walls pulled tight. This was Riley at home. Riley stripped of her armor.

My heart wouldn’t calm down.

Before I could find words, the front door slammed open.

Logan stumbled in, his date clinging to him like a vine. She was laughing too loudly, heels clattering against the hardwood, her hands everywhere. He was grinning, equally loud, knocking into the table, sending one of the empty wine glasses spinning to the floor.

“Sorry!” Logan barked a laugh as it rolled, steadying the girl with one arm while she kissed his neck. “Don’t wait up!”

They tumbled up the stairs, bumping walls, leaving a trail of perfume and chaos in their wake.

Silence crashed down again.

I looked back at Riley.

Her face was scarlet, and a flush spread down her neck. Her hands twisted together, like she wanted to vanish into the floorboards.

Something in me cracked wide open.

Before I could stop myself, I reached out. My hand brushed her cheek, hot from the bath and hotter still from embarrassment. Her breath caught, lashes fluttering, but she didn’t pull away.

I let my thumb trace lightly across her skin, every nerve ending in me screaming.

“I like your freckles,” I said quietly.

The words were rougher than I meant, almost broken. But true. So damn true.

Her skin was warm beneath my hand, softer than I had any right to know. For one wild, reckless second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to close the distance, to tilt her chin up and taste the freckles I’d just confessed to liking.

My chest tightened, pulse thundering.

Then I caught myself.

I cleared my throat, low and rough, pulling my hand back before I did something we’d both have to live with. Leaning back in my chair, I grabbed my glass as if the moment hadn’t happened, as if my veins weren’t still on fire.

“Wine’s decent for a cheap bottle,” I muttered, swirling the last sip. “Logan’ll be pissed he missed it.”

Nonchalant. Flat. Controlled. Exactly what I needed to be.

But from the corner of my eye, I caught her face still flushed, lips parted like she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get it out. And God help me, it took every ounce of discipline not to reach for her again.