Chapter 5: Candid Flashes and Chicken Wings

He’s really tough, but his cooking is amazing. Like, genuinely next-level. I wondered how many late nights he’d spent watching Food Network between games.

Going downstairs to eat at mealtimes was my only interaction with him these days. Our worlds overlapped for half an hour, then split again like clockwork.

Although we didn’t talk much, I was especially happy. Just seeing him—real, up close—felt like a little win every day.

I could see him every day. And I savored it, even if I barely said a word.

When he cooked with his apron on, I’d rest my chin in my hands behind him, secretly raising my phone to take pictures of his back. My camera roll was full of these secret snapshots—him in profile, hair wild, focused on the stovetop.

I don’t have any photos with him—only some group shots from my brother’s parties. In those, we’re always on opposite sides, a world of people between us.

I’ve saved them all, along with the occasional candid over the years. I scroll through sometimes, pretending the memories are more than they are.

I tapped my phone lightly, the screen flashed, and the flash was blinding in the cozy kitchen. My hands shook as I fumbled to turn it off, silently begging the ground to swallow me.

I froze, panicked, and turned my phone over as he looked back. Busted.

“What are you doing?”

He was holding a spatula, his handsome face looking annoyed. I caught a glimpse of his eyebrow arching up—classic Ryan.

I stammered, holding up my phone. “S-selfie.”

I don’t know if he believed me. He frowned at me for a while, then turned back to cooking.

I let out a sigh of relief and quickly turned off the flash. My hands shook a little as I fiddled with the settings.

Dang, when did I turn the flash on? Seriously, rookie mistake.

I was still upset, feeling guilty and not daring to look up. My cheeks were burning, and I poked at my phone just to look busy.

So I didn’t see him shoot off a quick text: “Your sister complaining about me yet?”

The reply was instant: “Emily? She’d apologize to a houseplant. You’re fine.”

He snorted in disagreement. “Not sweet at all.”

She calls everyone ‘big bro’—except him.

My brother replied after a pause, a little helpless:

“Is it really like they say, do you not like Emily?”

“Everyone likes her, says she’s sweet. Only you think she’s not.”

Just as the food was ready, he brought it to the table.

The girl in soft pink and white pajamas obediently scooped rice under his gaze, then blinked up at him. I fiddled with my spoon, trying to seem casual.

As if asking if she could start eating.

He snorted a laugh and spat out a single word:

“Eat.”

I smiled at him, picked up a BBQ chicken wing and praised him enthusiastically:

“Ryan, these wings are criminally good. You sure you didn’t order them?”

I deliberately lowered my voice, not sure why, but it felt a bit like I was acting cute. It’s embarrassing, but I couldn’t help it.

A little awkward.

We’re not close enough for me to act cute to him.

He tried to hide a smile, but his ears went a little pink. His tone was still tough: “If it’s good, eat more. Why so much talking.”

Like a bristly cat. I almost laughed out loud.

I was surprised to find that Ryan really likes being praised. It made me want to find new things to compliment, just to see if he’d soften again.