Connection | 18+

Chapter Four

   Ethan steps aside, opening the door wider to let me enter before turning around and returning to the seat he was previously occupying.

   His movements are deliberate and seemingly calculated, enhancing the air of authority that surrounds him.

   Okay, I guess ignoring it is.

   I enter the apartment, my legs feeling wobbly as I step into this unknown territory. It’s not that I’m unfamiliar with the place; I’ve been here a few times, usually when I needed something that I didn’t have the time to shop for.

   But this time feels different. I’ve never felt welcomed enough to be here, to enter my brother’s home with the heart of a sister.

   And yet, I feel more like a stranger in my own brother’s apartment than I do at the café where I work.

   I can’t blame him; I know it’s on me. Still, it stings.

   After placing my keys and phone on the table in front of the couch where Ethan sits, I venture into the kitchen, where Dan is busily arranging something in the oven.

   The contrast between their presences strikes me—Ethan exuding dominance and intrigue, while Dan offers a familiar sense of comfort, albeit a strained one. It’s a stark reminder of the disjointed nature of our relationship.

   “I didn’t know you could cook,” I attempt to strike up a conversation, fully aware of its futility. I’ve never seen Dan show any interest in cooking, but I realize I don’t really know much about his life anymore, other than his seemingly endless list of romantic encounters.

   The unexpected revelation deepens the sense of unfamiliarity in a place that should have felt comfortable—at least, by conventional standards.

   But Dan and I are anything but typical siblings.

   Normal siblings wouldn’t have to wonder where their brother is when they need him the most, nor would they question whether he would answer their calls when they need someone to talk to.

   “Well, you never asked,” he replies, his tone as neutral as the expression on his face. He doesn’t offer a greeting or turn to face me, his back turned as he focuses on whatever is baking in the oven.

   The absence of such a gesture serves as a painful reminder of the underlying tension in our relationship.

   It stings so fucking much.

   “Why did you invite me? Or better yet, why didn’t you tell me that he was also here?” I accentuate, my frustration bubbling to the surface. I lean against the counter, crossing my arms defensively. “You could have informed me that you were having guests—”

   He turns around, oven mitts in hand, and mimics my stance, placing his hands on the counter opposite mine. The sharp slap of his palm against the wood makes me flinch back.

   “I don’t have to tell you anything. You want to leave? Then just fucking leave. Don’t ruin my dinner.”

   His words hit me like a slap to the face, and in that moment, I can’t decipher whether the anger I see in his eyes is genuine hatred or simply emotional detachment.