Right Brother
1280 Words
Clara's hands were wrapped in clean white strips of cotton before Elijah headed back out to the fields.
He left the door open behind him, letting the last of the breakfast smoke drift into the cool morning air.
A kiss.
A promise he wouldn't be long.
And a book was placed carefully in her lap.
Vingt mille lieues sous les mers.
"I told them my wife was very educated and loved books," he said, a little proud. "They told me it was the best one this year."
Clara smiled.
She did not have the heart to tell him she couldn't read French.
She turned the book over in her hands, studying it. The cover was beautiful, the paper thick, the illustrations detailed enough that she could follow pieces of the story without understanding a single word.
Strange machines.
Endless ocean.
Something that looked like a submarine.
Clara leaned in, tracing one of the images lightly with her bandaged fingers.
Okay.
So maybe she couldn't read it.
But she could absolutely pretend she could.
"Not even a little, huh?"
The voice came from the doorway.
Clara looked up, and paused.
Noah leaned just inside, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the book in her lap.
Too observant.
"He doesn't know you can't read French," Noah said. "Do you at least know the story?"
Clara blinked once, then lifted her chin.
"Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea," she said, a little proud she could manage that.
Then her eyes betrayed her.
Because Noah had made... choices.
His shirt hung open at the collar.
More open than necessary.
Which felt intentional.
Highly intentional.
Clara dropped her gaze back to the book a second too late.
"Should you be dressed like that?" she asked, aiming for casual and missing.
Noah's mouth curved, slow and amused.
Then he moved.
Two easy steps, and he was in front of her.
Too close.
He crouched instead of towering, bringing himself level with her, but somehow that made it worse. His presence filled the space anyway, steady and familiar in a way that made her chest tighten.
"Clare," he said quietly.
The nickname landed like it belonged there.
His hand lifted, then stopped just short of touching her sleeve, hovering like he was choosing not to cross a line.
"You're the one walkin' around in your underthings," he added, softer now.
Clara's breath caught.
She looked down.
The nightgown brushed the floor, high-necked, lace-lined, modest by every historical standard,
, and yet.
"Oh," she said faintly.
"That is... unfortunate."
"Come on."
Noah stood and turned toward the bedroom.
Clara hesitated.
This was a mistake.
A very obvious mistake.
...she followed anyway.
Her body betrayed her immediately, curiosity edging out common sense as she watched him move ahead of her, easy and confident in a way that made her think things she absolutely should not be thinking about her husband's brother.
This is how bad decisions happen, she told herself.
...while continuing to follow him.
He stopped beside the bed.
Their bed.
Her thoughts took a sharp, unhelpful turn.
Noah pulling her down.
Kissing her,
She blinked hard.
Nope.
We are not doing that.
"Here it is."
The moment snapped.
Clara looked up.
Noah was crouched by a large trunk in the corner. He pulled it open, and the air shifted instantly.
Inside were dresses.
Carefully folded. Each one layered with protective paper.
He lifted the wedding gown first, handling it with quiet care before setting it aside.
Then Clara saw the rest.
"Oh..."
She dropped to her knees beside him without thinking.
The dresses were beautiful.
Not store-bought pretty.
Not trendy.
Each one felt like something out of a story she had stopped allowing herself to want.
A fitted green jacket with a plaid skirt and tiny pearl buttons.
A soft cream dress edged in black lace and velvet flowers.
A pale blue one scattered with embroidered blossoms, the fabric light beneath her fingers.
Clara held it up and turned.
The skirt moved with her, soft and easy.
"Perfect," she breathed.
"Okay," she added, grinning now. "That did not disappoint."
Noah chuckled, lifting a finger in a slow circle.
"Turn around," he said, softer. "Let me help."
Clara hesitated.
Then turned.
The dress slipped over her head, settling around her like it had been made for her.
No.
Not like.
Exactly.
"It fits," she said, breath catching as her hands smoothed over the embroidery. "It fits perfectly."
Her fingers traced the stitching.
"It's like it was made for me."
Noah stepped in behind her.
Close enough that she could feel his breath at her neck.
His hands moved to the buttons, steady, practiced.
"Of course it is," he murmured.
Her breath hitched.
Not enough to stop him.
Just enough to notice.
The last button slipped into place.
"I wouldn't have gotten you anything less."
Clara's chest tightened.
His lips brushed the back of her neck.
Soft.
Dangerously easy to lean into.
His arms slid around her waist, pulling her gently back,
"NOAH!"
Elijah's voice cracked through the room.
Clara froze.
Noah didn't move right away.
His arms stayed around her.
Not possessive.
Just... not ready to let go.
Slowly, he turned his head.
"Elijah."
Too calm.
Elijah stepped forward, tension rolling off him.
"She's my wife."
Noah's eyes found Clara again.
Searching.
"I know," he said quietly.
That hit different.
Clara blinked.
Wait.
What?
Elijah frowned. "Then you'll step away."
Noah finally moved.
Not back.
Forward.
Just enough to see her clearly.
"Clare," he said, softer now, careful. "You don't... remember?"
That landed harder than anything else.
Not accusation.
Fear.
Clara's chest tightened.
"I don't know you," she said.
The words came out smaller than she meant.
Noah inhaled slowly.
Like that hurt.
"You do," he said.
Not arguing.
Just certain.
"We had a house by the ocean," he continued quietly. "You hated the kitchen at first. Said the windows were too small."
A faint, broken smile touched his mouth.
"Made me knock out a wall two weeks later."
Clara froze.
Because that,
That was her dream.
Elijah's voice cut in, sharper now.
"That's enough."
Noah ignored him.
Still watching Clara like nothing else existed.
"You used to leave your books everywhere," he said softly. "Said it made the house feel lived in."
Clara's breath caught.
Not a memory.
But close enough to feel like one.
"Elijah," she said, not looking away from Noah, "that's not, this isn't, "
"I know what this is," Elijah said firmly.
But something underneath it shifted.
Less certain.
Noah stepped back.
Not because Elijah told him to.
Because Clara didn't move toward him.
"I've already lost you once," Noah said quietly.
"I'm not doin' it again."
"I don't," Clara whispered. "I don't know you."
Noah didn't argue.
Didn't push.
He just looked at her like he was trying to reconcile two truths that didn't belong together.
Then, softer,
"You never drank it plain."
Clara frowned. "What?"
"Coffee."
He said it like it mattered.
Her pulse picked up.
Noah glanced down briefly, then back up.
"Triple shot vanilla latte," he said quietly. "Extra cream. Extra foam. You said it wasn't worth drinkin' otherwise."
Clara's stomach dropped.
Because she didn't remember telling him that.
...but she must have.
Noah exhaled slowly.
"I used to bring it home to you," he added. "Half the time it'd be cold by then. You drank it anyway."
Clara's heart slammed against her ribs.
That wasn't possible.
Elijah shifted beside her.
"What's a latte?"
Clara didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Her eyes stayed locked on Noah.
"How do you know that?" she whispered.
Noah met her gaze.
Something raw flickered there.
"Because you told me," he said.
Then quieter,
"Every time."
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD