Page 75 of Protected By My Best Friend's Brother

“Very professional,” I agree, stealing a quick kiss before the shop owner returns with our wrapped bottles.

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Emma’s apartment is exactly like her—organized chaos that somehow makes perfect sense. The space isn’t large, but every inch has been thoughtfully arranged to reflect her personality and passions.

Her bookshelves are color-coded not just by spine color, as I initially thought, but by what appears to be a complex system involving subject matter, personal connection, and reading frequency. Sustainability journals are mixed with well-lovednovels. Technical manuals nestle beside poetry collections, with small sticky notes protruding from many volumes, each color seemingly indicating a different category of importance.

The photo from the plant—us covered in grease but grinning like we’d discovered the secret to unlimited renewable energy—sits prominently on her coffee table. There’s even a corner of her kitchen counter that is starting to accumulate my favorite things: the coffee brand I mentioned liking last week, the granola bars I brought to the plant during our long days there, and a charging cable for my specific phone model.

The walls hold framed sustainability certificates and industry recognitions alongside personal photos—several featuring Sophie and her through various stages of their friendship, one of Emma with her parents at her college graduation, and surprisingly, one of me giving a presentation years ago that I don’t even remember being photographed.

“It’s not much,” she says, suddenly nervous as she stirs the sauce on her stove. “Not compared to your place, but—”

“It’s perfect.” I wrap my arms around her from behind and kiss her neck, breathing in her shampoo mixed with basil and garlic. “Though I notice my spare sweatshirt from the office has officially migrated to your apartment.” I nod toward the blue hoodie draped over a kitchen chair.

“It’s mine now. Corporate acquisition.” Her tone is matter-of-fact as she sprinkles something into the sauce.

“Very professional terminology.” I can’t help but smile at how seamlessly she blends business concepts into everyday conversation.

The sauce starts bubbling aggressively, and Emma yelps, nearly knocking over the pot in haste to adjust the heat. I steady her automatically, one hand on her waist, the other reaching past her to move the pot off the burner. The motion is as naturalas breathing—as if I’ve been cooking with her for years rather than experiencing her kitchen for the first time.

“Some things never change,” she laughs, leaning back against me.

“Thank goodness for that.” I reach past her to adjust the heat, noticing the carefully labeled knobs on her stove—each with a small color-coded dot indicating optimal settings for different cooking techniques. “Though maybe stir less enthusiastically? The sauce isn’t a quarterly report that needs revising.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know this sauce has a very sophisticated stirring protocol.” She leans back against me, fitting perfectly against my chest. “With clearly defined parameters for optimal consistency.”

“Did you create a methodology for sauce-making?” I’m only half joking, having spotted what looks suspiciously like a flowchart on her refrigerator.

“Maybe.” She points to the color-coded chart I’d noticed. “Different colors for different cooking times and temperatures. The blue sticky notes are for pasta timing, yellow for sauce consistency checks, green for ideal herb addition points...”

I can’t help but laugh, completely charmed by her systematic approach to something as unpredictable as cooking. “Of course, you systematized cooking. I bet you have a flowchart for breakfast.”

“Only for special occasions,” she admits, then adds softly, “I wanted tonight to be perfect.”

The vulnerability in her voice catches me off guard. This is Emma—brilliant, confident, and ready to challenge board members and reshape industries. Yet here she is, worried about impressing me with pasta sauce.

“It is perfect.” I turn her to face me, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Because it’s you. All of you—the brilliant analystand the adorably chaotic cook. The professional powerhouse and the girl who color-codes her pajamas.”

Her shy, pleased, and somehow relieved smile makes my heart expand in my chest. “Even if the sauce is slightly too garlicky?”

“Especially then.” I kiss her forehead, her nose, and then finally her lips. “Though maybe I can help with the garlic situation?”

Together, we salvage the sauce—me adding a splash of cream to mellow the garlic intensity, her insisting on following the precise timing indicated by her color-coded system. The kitchen dance feels natural as if we’ve been sharing this space for years instead of hours.

Later, curled up on her couch with empty pasta bowls and half-full wine glasses, I find myself studying the space that’s so completely Emma. Her apartment reveals layers of her I’ve glimpsed but never fully seen until now.

From this vantage point, I notice the little touches that show she’s been thinking of me—a spot cleared on her bookshelf where she mentioned wanting me to add some of my books, the phone charger she bought specifically for my model after I forgot mine last week, even her wine selection chosen with my preferences in mind.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, snuggling closer against my side.

“How much of yourself you’ve tucked into every corner of this place.” I play with her fingers, loving how she instinctively intertwines them with mine. “And how you’ve already made space for me here, too.”

Her bookshelf catches my eye again—particularly a section labeled ‘Lucas Recommendations’ with volumes I’d mentioned enjoying over the years. Some from high school and college, others from conversations between meetings or late-night texts. Books I’d forgotten mentioning, but she’d remembered.

“When did you start that?” I ask, nodding toward the shelf.

A blush colors her cheeks. “About a year after we met. Sophie thought it was ridiculous.”

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