The family flame 🔥
825 Words
The late July sun hung heavy over the Rivera backyard like a promise it had no intention of keeping.
Smoke curled lazily from the massive grill Marcus had hauled out that morning, carrying the rich, charred scent of ribs and burgers across the lawn.
Laughter bounced between clusters of relatives and friends, the kind of easy, familiar noise that made Alex Rivera feel both anchored and slightly suffocated.
Alex stood at the grill in a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms.
At twenty-Seven, he’d perfected the art of looking put-together without trying too hard—dark hair neatly styled, jaw clean-shaven, and a smile that could charm clients or deflect his mother’s questions about his love life.
As a junior architect at one of the city’s rising firms, he spent his days turning ambitious sketches into steel and glass realities.
Tonight, though, he was just the reliable older son flipping patties and pretending he wasn’t hyper-aware of every movement across the yard.
“Alex, mijo, you’re burning those!” his mother called from the picnic table, waving a spatula like a conductor’s baton.
Maria Rivera ruled the family with warmth and relentless optimism. She still hoped he’d bring home a nice boy one day—someone steady, preferably with good career prospects and a willingness to endure endless Sunday dinners.
“I’ve got it under control, Ma,” Alex replied, flashing her a grin.
He adjusted the heat and turned a few burgers, the sizzle masking the low thrum of tension building in his chest.
Because Damien Kane was here. Of course he was.Dami leaned against the wooden fence at the far end of the yard, one boot propped behind him, a beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers.
The black T-shirt stretched across his shoulders and chest in a way that should have been illegal at a family event. Dark hair fell into hazel eyes that always seemed to carry shadows, even when he laughed.
Tattoos snaked down his left arm—intricate designs Alex had never allowed himself to study too closely.
At twenty-nine, Dami worked nights bartending at a downtown spot and played guitar in half-empty bars on weekends.
He’d been Marcus’s best friend since their freshman year of college, practically family. Which made him untouchable.
Marcus—Alex’s older brother by three years—stood beside Dami, clapping him on the shoulder as they shared some story that had them both grinning. Marcus was the golden child in every way that counted:
former college athlete, now a steady project manager, married to his high school sweetheart with a baby on the way.
He’d always looked out for Dami, pulling him into the Rivera fold when Dami’s own family fractured under the weight of his father’s anger and disappointment.
Alex’s gaze drifted again. Dami’s head tilted back in laughter, exposing the strong column of his throat.
Something low and warm uncoiled in Alex’s stomach. He forced his attention back to the grill, gripping the tongs a little too tightly.It had always been like this—subtle, simmering, easy to ignore if he tried hard enough.
A lingering look when Dami helped move Alex into his new apartment two years ago.
The way Dami’s voice dropped when he teased Alex about his “fancy architect clothes.”
The charged silence that sometimes fell between them during late-night group hangouts once the others had gone home.
Alex told himself it was nothing. Just proximity and the fact that Dami was unfairly, devastatingly attractive.“Need a hand, little brother?”Marcus’s voice snapped Alex out of it.
His brother approached with two fresh beers, Dami trailing a step behind like a shadow Alex couldn’t escape.
“I’m good,” Alex said, accepting the beer anyway.
Their fingers brushed. Nothing. Just cold glass.
Dami stopped beside Marcus, close enough that Alex caught the faint scent of his cologne mixed with smoke and summer sweat.
“Smells killer over here,” Dami said, voice low and rough around the edges, like he’d spent the previous night singing through cigarette haze.
His hazel eyes met Alex’s for a beat longer than necessary. “You always did know how to handle the heat.”
The words were innocent.
The look wasn’t. Alex’s pulse kicked up. He forced a casual laugh.
“Someone has to keep Marcus from charring everything into hockey pucks.”
Marcus snorted and shoved Dami lightly.
“Hey, I grill better than you play guitar, asshole.”
Dami smirked, but his gaze flicked back to Alex. “Debatable.”
The three of them fell into easy banter—Marcus recounting a disastrous work story,
Dami adding dry commentary that had Alex chuckling despite himself. It felt normal. It always felt normal on the surface.
But every time Dami shifted his weight or gestured with those inked hands, Alex noticed. He always noticed the little things,
- Writer
