Page 21 of My Brother’s Best Friends Entanglement

Might what, Zachary?

I shake my head. Not. Going. There.

I make it all the way to my door when I hear it, a soft sound from the kitchen, a cupboard opening, muffled murmurings. I peer around the corner to see her.

She's up on her toes, reaching for a mug on the top shelf, one hand braced against the counter for a few extra inches of height, the other stretched up, her strappy, white crop tank riding up with the movement, a strip of skin peeking out above the waistband of her striped blue pyjama pants. I stand in the doorway watching for longer than I should before I cross the kitchen, coming up behind her as I reach over her for the mug. For the shortest of seconds, my body presses against hers. It's sheer and utter torture to move back.

She startles but doesn't say anything as I hold the mug out to her.

Her long wavy hair is bundled into a messy bun, a pen sticking haphazardly out of one side. She's wearing her glasses. Somehow they make her eyes even bigger as she looks up at me.

I press the mug into her hand as she stands there, almost as if she'd forgotten what she was doing in the kitchen at one in the morning.

"Oh," she says, her hand closing around the mug, and I try to ignore the way her fingers graze my palm. "You're home?" Half question, half "ugh, I was hoping I'd be long gone by the time you got back."

I try to focus on the question part.

"Er, yup. Earlier than usual. Quiet night." I move to the other side of the bench, putting it between us. "You're up late."

"First day," she says, turning to fill the kettle, and I track every movement, the shift of her weight, her bare feet quiet on the tiles, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear as she peers at the buttons on the kettle base.

"Good first day or bad first day?"

"Um," she says, distracted, frowning at the kettle and pressing a button, then pouting when nothing happens. "It was okay, I guess." Another button. Still nothing. I notice the tiniest stomp of her foot, but otherwise she doesn't say anything.

Somehow, in the six years since I last saw her, she's managed to become even more irresistibly adorable. I push off the island, risking the close proximity, and stand next to her in front of the kettle.

"Need a hand?" I ask.

"No," she responds, the frown morphing into a glare.

"Okay, well, I'd really like a cup of tea, so I'm going to press this button here" — I point to the second button — "it's already set for the right temperature to brew tea without burning the leaves. And then when I'm done, you can go back to playing guess the button."

Even without looking, I can feel that glare burning into the side of my face as I reach for a mug for myself.

"Chamomile? Peppermint?" I ask, pointing to the canisters lined up against the wall.

"Oh, I have some green tea. Sencha." She holds up a little tin, hesitates, then says, "Would you like to try some? I have a friend who sends it to me from Kyoto. Her family has a small plantation."

It's my turn to hesitate. Of all the things to happen tonight, I did not expect her to reach out to me, even in this tiny way.

Before I can reply, she shakes her head. "You don't have to, it's⁠—"

"No!" I almost shout, then, immediately quieter, I say, “Sorry. I just didn't want to take some since it's so obviously special to you. But thank you. I'd love to try it. I love Sencha."

She raises her eyebrows. "Could've fooled me."

Her response is so surprising I can't help letting out a snort.

"What? Why?"

Her lips twitch at the corners as she points to the drinks station. "Because you have this contraption that looks like it could take hi-def pictures of all of Jupiter's ninety-five moons, that 'heats water at the right temperature to not burn the tea.'" Her finger swings to the row of coffee bean dispensers, identical to the ones at all our bars. "Because there are literally twelve different types of coffee here. And almost twenty-five different teas." She points to a printed label. "This is Silver Needle White Tea. It costs $2,500 a kilo." She picks up the canister, looks inside. "I'm holding like $350 worth of tea in my hand right now." It makes a little metallic clang as she gently lays it down before facing me. "If you actually 'loved Sencha,' you'd have some. And I've looked. Trust me, I've looked, there's not only no Sencha but no Japanese green tea at all."

The look she gives me is challenging, and it thrills me to the core. Fuck, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed her.

Finally I grin and hold my hands up. "Busted. Okay, I don't have any Sencha in the house right now. But maybe that's because I've never had any really good Sencha before."

She shakes her head and scoffs before taking the mug from me and dropping a pinch of tea leaves into it. "Well, get out your diary, because today's the last day you'll ever be able to say that."