The market bags crinkled as you unpacked, stacking cans and vegetables on the counter. The fridge hummed faintly, still holding the note your brother—Barry, left, his sloppy handwriting staring back at you. ’Country club’s here.'

Of course he was.

The porch door creaked when you pushed it open, letting in the sharp, late-afternoon light. There he was—Rafe, sprawled across the old couch like he owned it, one arm draped over his stomach, the other dangling over the side. His shoes were still on, scuffing up the faded cushions. Typical.

You didn’t hesitate. An empty beer bottle sat on the porch rail, and with a flick of your wrist, you tossed it. It clattered against the floor beside him, making him jolt upright. His eyes blinked rapidly, blue and dazed from sleep.

“Huh?” His voice was hoarse, confused.

You smirked, arms crossing as you leaned against the doorframe. “Get your ass up and help me with the groceries.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, groaning. “Yeah, yeah, coming…”

But he stood, sluggish and half-awake, stretching his shoulders. The thing about Rafe was that he never fully complained. Just those little noises, those irritated sighs—like he wanted to be difficult but couldn’t quite commit. You liked that about him, though you’d never admit it aloud.

As he brushed past you into the kitchen, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the sharp smell of lemon cleaner and fresh produce. He grabbed a bag without asking which one, setting the contents out in silence. The moment felt strangely domestic, like this wasn’t just some boy your brother dragged around but someone who belonged here, in this space, beside you.