After waiting for what felt like an eternity, I heard it. Running water. From the bathroom. My mind snapped to attention. Who could it be? A thief? A stalker? But why would a thief break into my apartment? My thoughts started running at leopard speed—wild, sharp, uncontrollable. What do I do now? Call someone? Scream? Run? Instinctively, my hand slipped into my jeans pocket to grab my phone. The screen lit up. Low Battery. Your phone is about to die. Perfect. My brain officially began to crash. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to think. You can't just stand here freezing. I kept the apartment door slightly open—just in case—and scanned the room desperately. My eyes jumped from object to object, searching for something—anything—that could help if things went wrong. The layout of my apartment flashed through my head like a survival map. Everything was within arm's reach—too close, too exposed. One large bed pressed against the wall, offering zero cover. Three or four steps to the kitchen. No corridors. No hiding places. If someone rushed me, there would be no time to plan—only react. That realization pushed me into motion. Kitchen. Get something. Anything. I moved slowly, carefully, every step measured. My feet barely made a sound as I reached the kitchen, my pulse roaring in my ears. My eyes scanned the counter, the shelves, the sink. And then I saw it. A pan. Heavy. Solid. Metal. That'll do. I grabbed it tightly, my fingers curling around the handle as if it were a lifeline. It wasn't confidence holding it steady—it was adrenaline. I positioned myself beside the bathroom door, slightly behind it, heart pounding, muscles tense, pan raised instinctively. The sound of the shower stopped. Seconds passed. Too many seconds. The door creaked open. Before my brain could catch up, my body reacted. "GET OUT!" I screamed, swinging the pan in a blind arc. Thud. "Ouch!" The impact wasn't full force—more panic than precision—but the flat edge still caught the side of his face as he stepped out. The voice hit me harder than the pan had. That voice was… familiar. My breath caught. I slowly opened my eyes. Standing in front of me was my brother. The pan was pressed awkwardly against his cheek, my arm frozen mid-swing. His eyes were red—not from pain, but pure, unfiltered anger. I yanked the pan back instantly, my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest. "What the hell, Miss Ishita?" he snapped. "Why are you hitting me? Have you lost your mind?" I crossed my arms automatically, defense kicking in before logic could catch up. "Well, anyone would get hit if they entered someone's house without telling them!" I shot back. "I thought you were a thief… or a stalker." He stared at me—long and hard. Not confused. Not amused. It was that look. The elder brother look. The one that said: You messed up… and I'm deciding how much patience I have left. The kind of look that usually came with a sigh, a lecture, and a headache. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple like I had personally shortened his lifespan by ten years. His jaw tightened. His nostrils flared slightly. Oh. He's mad-mad. "Ishu," he said finally, voice tight, "I didn't just randomly show up." I opened my mouth to argue— then stopped. Something in his tone told me this wasn't the moment. "The last time we talked," he continued, forcing himself to stay calm, "we made plans to go home together." I frowned. "What?" I said honestly. "When?" He blinked at me. "Mom called you," he said slowly, like explaining something obvious. "She told you to come home. You even mentioned it to me on the phone. You said you didn't want to travel alone." That… sounded possible. My brain scrambled, trying to rewind the past few days. "The plan was simple," he went on. "I come to your place, you come with me, and we go together." I stared at him, my confusion obvious. "You said it yourself," he added, pointing at me. "Ishu! Three days ago I told you I was going home. And you said—very clearly—'Come to my apartment, we'll go together!'" Something shifted. The words hit a loose thread in my memory. And suddenly— Drinks. Loud laughter. Me sprawled on my couch, phone in hand, feeling far too confident about life. I remembered saying it casually. I remembered not thinking past the next five minutes. Oh. Oh no. "I thought…" I started, then trailed off. "You thought what?" he asked. "I just… forgot you were coming," I muttered. "And I was… not exactly sober at that time." He let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Of course you weren't." He rubbed his face, frustration finally spilling through. "You forgot we talked. You invited me here. Then you disappeared—no calls, no replies. What was I supposed to do? Stand outside like a guest?" "You could've called again," I said weakly. "I did," he shot back. "Your phone was either dead or you were too busy shopping like the world was ending." That stung—because it was true. "Ishu," he said quietly now, "I didn't break into your house. I came because you told me to." The weight of that settled heavily in my chest. "I'm sorry," I said again—this time properly. "I really messed up." He studied me for a moment, then shook his head slowly. "You scared yourself half to death," he said. "And you almost gave me a permanent face mark." I winced. "Sorry about the pan." "You better be," he replied dryly. "I walk out of the bathroom and my sister is ready to declare war." "Well," I said, trying to lighten the mood, "at least now you know I won't go down without a fight." He snorted despite himself. "Yeah," he said. "Remind me never to surprise you. Or come home quietly. Or exist silently." I smiled, the tension easing. Then his expression softened—anger giving way to concern. "You okay?" he asked. "Like… actually okay?" I nodded. "Just scared. For a minute." He reached out and lightly tapped my head with his knuckles. "Idiot," he said gently. "If someone ever enters your apartment like that, you call someone. Me. The security guard. A neighbor. Not defend yourself with kitchen equipment." I shrugged. "I panicked." "I noticed," he said, glancing at the pan. There was a pause. Then he shook his head with a small smile. "Next time," he said, "we stick to the plan. No drunk invitations." "And no pan attacks," I added. "Especially no pan attacks." The silence settled between us again—comfortable this time. He glanced at the pan once more. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "if you'd hit me properly, Mom would've grounded both of us." I snorted. "She'd ground you for traumatizing me and ground me for being dramatic." "No," he said. "She'd ground me for letting you live alone." I rolled my eyes. "Please. I survived just fine." "With a frying pan," he pointed out. "Very advanced survival skills." "At least I reacted," I shot back. "Some people freeze." "Some people," he replied smoothly, "don't forget they invited their own brother over." "Ouch." "You deserved it." I nudged him. "You enjoyed this too much." "Absolutely," he said. "I'm telling this story at every family gathering." "I swear—if you tell Mom—" "Oh, I'm telling Mom. Full cinematic version." "She'll never let me live." "She shouldn't. You attacked your own brother." "You snuck in like a ghost!" "I took a shower," he said. "Ghosts don't pay water bills." I laughed. He raised an eyebrow. "See? Five minutes ago you were ready to commit murder. Now you're laughing." "I was prepared," I said. "There's a difference." "Sure. Next time I'll announce myself with a trumpet." "I'd still hit you." He sighed. "Why do I even try?" "Because you love me." "That is highly unfortunate." I glanced at the pan again. "For the record, if you were an intruder, that pan would've hurt." "Only your confidence," he said. "Not the intruder." "I hate that you're right." "I know. Elder sibling privilege." I rolled my eyes. "Don't let it go to your head." "Too late. It's framed." Then, more quietly, he added, "Next time something feels off, don't handle it alone." I looked at him. "Even if I think I can?" "Especially then," he said. "You're allowed to be scared. You don't have to fight the world by yourself." I nodded— the jokes fading, the warmth staying exactly where it belonged....The silence lingered for a moment longer than necessary.
Then my stomach betrayed me.
A loud, very ungraceful growl cut through the room.
We both froze.
Slowly, my brother turned his head toward me.
"…Wow," he said. "So after attempting murder, you're also starving."
I groaned, rubbing my face.
"Can you not?"
He laughed—properly this time. Not teasing, not scolding. Just tired amusement.
"Come on," he said, pushing himself off and moving towards his bag . "Let's go out and eat something. I'll change first—"
"No," I interrupted immediately.
He paused, halfway to his bag.
"No?"
"I already bought dinner," I said, pointing toward the kitchen. "From outside. It's plenty. Enough for both of us."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You're telling me you almost killed me with a pan, and now you're offering food?"
"Yes," I said firmly. "This is how I apologize."
He studied my face for a second, then sighed.
"Fine. But if I get food poisoning—"
"You'll survive," I cut in. "You're built like a tank, remember?"
He snorted and dropped his bag, flopping backward onto the bed like he owned the place.
Which was hell of annoying—habit of his
I moved to the kitchen, pulling the containers out of the bag. The clink of plastic and foil filled the quiet space as I arranged everything on the counter.
Behind me, the bed creaked.
The TV clicked on.
Some random channel started playing—low volume, background noise more than anything. He stretched out, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling like the day had finally caught up with him.
I opened the microwave, slid the food inside, and pressed the buttons.
The hum filled the apartment.
"You look tired," I said without turning around.
"Because I am," he replied. "Long travel. Almost got assaulted. Emotionally scarred."
I smiled to myself.
When the microwave beeped, I pulled the containers out, the smell of food instantly making the room feel warmer. Safer. Normal.
I glanced back at him.
"You want something to drink?"
He didn't even open his eyes.
"Sure," he said lazily. "The gin in your fridge."
I stared at him.
"…Absolutely not."
He cracked one eye open.
"Worth a try."
"You're lucky I'm feeding you at all."
He grinned.
"See? You do love me."
I rolled my eyes and grabbed two glasses, filling them with water.
As I carried them over, he finally sat up, leaning against the headboard, exhaustion written all over his face now that the anger was gone.
The kind of tired you only show around family.
I handed him a glass.
"Eat," I said. "Before you say something stupid again."
He took it, smirking softly.
"No promises."
And just like that—
the apartment felt full.
Not of fear.
Not of panic.
Just siblings, food warming on the counter, a TV murmuring nonsense, and the quiet comfort of knowing neither of us was alone anymore.