You Cheated on Me, So Why Are You Jealous of Your Brother?

NORA'S POV

The entryway of Julian's apartment was quiet, smelling of cedarwood and polished leather.

I stood on the dark hardwood floor, still clutching my winter coat against my chest like a shield. My fingers were stiff, white-knuckled around the wool. For five years, family dinners with Julian had been tense at best. He had always been the quiet, sharp-tongued brother who questioned Ethan's spending and rolled his eyes at my endless loyalty. I had spent half a decade defending my marriage against Julian's cynical remarks.

Yet when my life shattered on the bakery floor, he was the one who pulled me out.

Julian tossed his truck keys into a ceramic dish by the door. He didn't ask me how I was feeling. He didn't ask why I stayed as long as I did, or what I planned to do next.

He walked down the hallway, opened a linen closet, and returned with a stack of thick charcoal towels. On top of them rested a small brass key and a folded navy blue shirt.

"Second door on the left is the guest room," Julian said, his voice deep and steady. "Bathroom is connected to it."

He held out the stack. I reached out, my hands trembling slightly as I took the weight from him.

"The bedroom door locks from the inside," he added, meeting my eyes for just a second. "Take your time. Nobody is going to bother you."

"Thank you, Julian," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a single, tight nod and walked toward the kitchen without another word.

Inside the guest bathroom, I turned the hot water on full blast. I stripped out of my flour-dusted jeans and pastry tunic, letting the clothes fall into a heap in the corner. My coat and bag stayed on the guest-room chair. Stepping under the stream, I scrubbed my skin until it turned red, desperate to wash away the scent of vanilla frosting, Tessa's perfume, and the humiliation that clung to me like grease.

When I stepped out and wrapped the towel around my hair, I realized my mistake. In my panic to leave the shop, I hadn't packed a single bag. The clothes I took off were covered in bakery debris and tears.

I picked up the shirt Julian had given me.

It was a heavy, washed-cotton button-down. When I slipped it on, the hem fell past mid-thigh, and the shoulders dropped several inches past mine. The fabric smelled faintly of his soap, sandalwood and clean air. I rolled the stiff sleeves three times up my forearms so my hands were free, took a deep breath, and stepped into the hallway.

Julian stood by the stove, plating two bowls of chicken noodle soup with toasted sourdough on the side.

As the floorboards creaked beneath my bare feet, he looked up.

His eyes locked onto me, tracking the oversized collar sliding slightly off my collarbone down to the bare length of my legs. For three full seconds, he stopped moving. The kitchen went completely still.

Then, Julian looked down at the counter, clearing his throat.

He slid one of the bowls across the kitchen island toward an empty barstool. "Sit down."

I pulled the stool back and hovered by the counter. "Do you need me to grab spoons? Or set the table?"

"No," he said, cutting me off smoothly as he set a glass of water next to the bowl. "Sit down, Nora. Eat while it's hot."

I hesitated, the impulse to be useful pulling at my muscles. For years, every meal at home had meant me cooking, serving, and clearing Ethan's plate while he reviewed invoices on his phone. Sitting still while someone else put food in front of me felt entirely foreign.

I took the seat and picked up the spoon. The broth was rich, seasoned with fresh thyme and cracked black pepper. The warmth hit my stomach, and the tight knot in my chest loosened just a fraction. Julian ate across from me in comfortable silence, offering no small talk, demanding no explanations. For the first time all day, I didn't have to defend myself.

***

My eyes opened at 3:00 AM sharp.

Five years of early morning bake shifts had wired my internal clock to the minute. My mind snapped awake, bracing for the rush of kneading dough, timing the proofing cabinets, and prepping four hundred pastries before sunrise.

The room was pitch black. The silence of Julian's guest room pressed in on me, heavy and disorienting.

I threw off the duvet, unable to lie still with my thoughts spinning. I slipped out of the room and crept quietly down the hall, guided by the pale city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room.

Julian was letting me sleep under his roof after punching his own brother for me. The least I could do was leave something behind to earn my keep.

I opened the kitchen pantry, scanning the shelves until I found an unopened bag of all-purpose flour, a jar of raw honey, and a tin of baking powder. I found a ceramic mixing bowl and a wooden spoon in the lower cabinets, setting them on the counter with minimal noise.

I poured two cups of flour into the bowl, measuring by sight, the familiar weight grounding my hands.

"What are you doing?"

Julian's voice came from the edge of the kitchen, rough with sleep.

I jumped, dropping the wooden spoon onto the counter. Julian stood in the entryway wearing dark gray sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, his hair disheveled.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly, backing up against the counter. "I didn't mean to wake you. I just... I woke up early, and I saw you had flour. I thought I could make biscuits or honey scones before you had to leave for work."

Julian didn't answer right away. He walked across the kitchen, stopped right in front of me, and dropped a pair of thick wool slippers onto the floor by my bare feet.

"Put those on," he said. "The tiles are freezing."

I stared down at the slippers, then slid my cold feet into them.

Julian reached past me, took the ceramic bowl, and set it back inside the open pantry door. He closed the cabinet with a soft click.

"You don't have to earn your stay here with breakfast, Nora," Julian said, his dark eyes looking directly into mine in the dim light. "You're a guest. Not the hired help."

His words struck a nerve I hadn't known was raw. I swallowed hard, looking down at the stone counter to hide the sudden burn behind my eyelids.

"I just wanted to be useful," I whispered.

"You don't need to perform for me," Julian said, his voice softer now. "Go back to bed. The bakery isn't your problem right now."

I stood there for a moment, the silence wrapping around us.

A sudden memory flashed in my head: our first winter at the bakery, when Ethan stayed up with me through the four o'clock freeze because the oven pilot light kept going out. He had wrapped his coat around my shoulders, kissed my forehead, and swore we would build something amazing together.

Those days had been real. The love had been real once.

A sharp buzz broke the stillness.

My phone, which I had brought out with me and set on the island, lit up.

My chest seized. A small, desperate spark flickered to life. Maybe Ethan had finally realized what he threw away. Maybe he was panicking, looking for me, asking where his wife had gone in the middle of the night.

I reached out and picked up the phone.

Julian watched me as my thumb swiped across the glass.

The screen opened to a single text message from Ethan, sent two minutes ago:

*How do I handle this morning's dough batch?*