Chapter 1: Kicked Out, Rescued by Him

You might not believe it, but the day after my 28th birthday, my mom kicked me out of the house, saying our family doesn’t keep single strays. “We’re not a halfway house for grown singles, Natalie,” she added—flat as a gavel.

The words hit like a slap in the face, sharp and final. I stood there stunned, watching her cross her arms and glare, like she was talking about a lost cat instead of her only daughter. She flicked the deadbolt with a crisp click, tapped her foot like a metronome, and checked the time as if I were late for my own eviction. The faint smell of lemon furniture polish hung in the air, and I could hear the neighbor’s kids playing in the yard, oblivious to my little crisis. My jaw tightened, keys biting into my palm. That day, the world felt especially unfair, as if the universe was getting a good laugh at my expense.

Even more extreme, my parents actually teamed up while I was at work to pack up all my belongings and move them to the garage, not even giving me a chance to get back in and plead my case. I jiggled the knob on instinct, stared at the locked door, thumb hovering over the group chat to rant, then snapped a quick photo for Instagram Stories—deleted it a second later because even my pride had boundaries.

They didn’t even text me. It was like the ultimate cold shoulder—one minute I’m hustling spreadsheets at the office (Slack pings in the background, color-coded cells, the eternal petty coffee war), the next, I pull into the driveway and see all my stuff piled in a sad little fortress behind the lawnmower. I glanced at my iPhone lock screen—no missed calls, no “Mom” texts, Verizon bars full and absolutely no mercy. The boxes had my name in Mom’s neat handwriting, as if this was just a spring cleaning project. I almost laughed, but the urge to cry won out. My parents had always been a little extra, but this took the cake.

With no choice, I called my younger brother, Caleb. I scrolled past my bestie’s contact, hesitated, then tapped on “Caleb” because when things really go sideways, I always go to family first.

I could hear his signature ringtone—a snippet of Blink-182’s “All the Small Things” from high school—before he picked up. Just hearing his voice made me feel both annoyed and relieved, like always. Family, right?

But Caleb was on a last-minute business trip in Denver and couldn’t help. On the phone, he kept gloating, making me so angry I almost wanted to block his number right then and there. He bragged about his room at the Marriott near the airport, a $6 latte from the terminal kiosk, and a delayed flight text he was “not even mad about” because it meant more hotel points. I could see his smug grin through the phone.

Typical Caleb. He had that smug, "Guess who escaped the chaos" tone, and I could imagine him smirking in some hotel lobby, sipping overpriced coffee. He started teasing me about my luck, acting like this was the most hilarious thing to happen all week. I was this close to hanging up and ghosting him for a month.

Luckily, Caleb still had a shred of decency. Before I exploded, he said he’d take me in and find someone to help me move my stuff. I heard a long exhale and his voice drop a notch—the audible switch from teasing to protective.

He tried to sound casual, like he was doing me the favor of the century. But underneath it, I could hear the brotherly concern he’d never admit to in public. It was enough to keep me from unleashing a full-blown rant.

He didn’t say who, but I could guess with my eyes closed—it had to be Derek. Derek is the guy who shows up with a plan—and a box cutter and gloves—no drama.

The second Caleb dropped that hint, I pictured Derek’s face—impossibly calm, probably checking his watch, always reliable. Some people you just know will show up, no matter what.

Derek is Caleb’s college roommate. After graduation, the two started a business together, so now they’re not just colleagues, but also neighbors and close friends.

They practically share a life at this point. Their apartments are side-by-side in a newly renovated brick building downtown. They have matching coffee mugs, joint Amazon Prime orders, a shared Notes grocery list, and a habit of texting each other random memes at 2am. When I say "close friends," I mean the kind of bond that makes everyone else feel a little left out.

How close are they?

That kind of brotherly bond—everyone knows what that means.

If you saw them at a backyard barbecue, you’d guess they’d grown up together. Caleb’s loud, Derek’s quiet, but they finish each other’s sentences and never let anyone mess with the other. It’s the kind of thing you envy a little, if you don’t have it.

Derek arrived quickly, dressed in a black suit, looking steady and capable.

He pulled up in his Ford F-150 with mudflaps and a tidy toolbox in the bed, parking with precision like he was on a mission. A dealership sticker still gleamed on the bumper. The suit looked freshly pressed, tie slightly loosened, probably straight from some client meeting. Even the way he walked—confident, measured—made me sit up a little straighter, despite feeling like a total mess in my wrinkled tee and yoga pants.

I have to say, he was made for a suit. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, tall with long legs—he doesn’t just wear the suit with a formal, cool vibe, he also exudes a contradictory restraint. Anyway, it’s very attractive.

He looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread: the kind of guy who makes you believe all those corny GQ headlines. You could see the effort he put into his appearance, but nothing about him screamed try-hard. If I hadn’t been so down on my luck, I might’ve snapped a sneaky photo for Instagram, just to make my ex jealous.

If it were a normal day, I’d be showering him with compliments. But right now, the more put-together he looks, the more it highlights my own miserable state. My mascara was smudged, and my hair was in a full-blown panic bun.

To break the ice, I deliberately said mysteriously, “Derek, looks like I’m about to get famous.”

I gave him my best "news anchor" voice, winking dramatically, hoping for a laugh or at least a smirk. He gave me the tiniest micro-smirk and a dry, “Congrats?”—like he couldn’t help himself—before I kept the bit going.

As expected, Derek was curious. He raised an eyebrow and gestured for me to continue.

He didn’t say a word, just cocked his head, one brow arched in that classic "I’m listening, but I’m skeptical" way. The silence dragged just long enough to make me squirm.

I cleared my throat and started spinning nonsense: “Really, tomorrow’s trending topic will definitely be—Shocking! A certain Miller family woman comes home from work and finds herself kicked out by her own parents. Is this a daytime talk show mess or a TikTok exposé? Next...”

I tried to sound dramatic, like I was reporting for TMZ. My voice trailed off as I realized my attempt at humor wasn’t landing. Derek didn’t crack a smile—just the faintest huff and a nearly invisible brow flick—probably wondering how I managed to make everything about myself.

The more I spoke, the quieter I got, because Derek was clearly unimpressed by my self-mockery. His gaze went straight past me to the luggage behind me, mouth set, focus locked on the problem.

“Is this everything?” he asked, opening the trunk of his pickup.

His voice was low and direct, the kind that made you want to answer honestly. He swung the tailgate open, clearing space among his work boots and a stray soccer ball. Corrugated cardboard scraped, a little dust puffed up, and the boxes reeked faintly of permanent marker as he shifted them with easy control. I shuffled awkwardly, clutching my purse like a shield.

“Mm.” I secretly made a face at him. He’s great at everything except having zero sense of humor—the human spreadsheet in a suit.

Once in the truck, I decided to pick up my dignity off the floor and talk to Derek about something deeper.

The engine hummed, country music playing softly on the radio. I took a deep breath, determined to say something real for once, instead of hiding behind jokes.

So I turned to him and asked seriously, “Derek, do you think maybe I’m not actually the biological child of the Miller family?”

My voice wavered. For a moment, I was half-serious, half-hoping he’d reassure me. I glanced out the window at the passing storefronts, waiting for his response.

Derek turned and gave me a look that said, ‘This is too complicated to explain.’

His expression shifted—eyebrows knitted, lips pressed tight, the classic "where do I even start" look. Then a slow exhale, a softer gaze that made the silence between us feel less harsh, filled with the hum of tires on pavement.

As expected, Derek had a spare key to Caleb’s apartment. I couldn’t help but click my tongue and looked at him with the kindness befitting an elder.

He handed me the key with a little flourish, as if he’d just solved the world’s smallest mystery. I clucked my tongue and gave him my best “wise auntie” pat on the shoulder. Inside, I was grateful for his reliability—even if he did act like a secret agent.

I’ve always thought there was something fishy between these two lifelong bachelors, and now here’s a living example right in front of me.

It’s practically a running joke in our family—Caleb and Derek, attached at the hip, never dating, always hanging out. I used to tease them about being an old married couple—hyper-competent, codependent roommates—earning myself endless eye rolls. Now, here I was, benefitting from their weird co-dependent friendship.

After coming in, Derek helped me put my things away and prepared to leave.

He stacked my boxes with military precision, then wiped his hands on a dish towel, ready to slip out the door. For a second, I felt abandoned again, but reminded myself he lived right next door.

Since he lived next door, I didn’t bother with polite farewells, just waved him off.

I gave him a lazy wave, half-hearted but sincere, then collapsed onto the couch. No need for dramatic goodbyes—he’d be back for dinner or to borrow coffee.

After I organized my luggage and collapsed on the couch for a while, my conscience finally caught up, and I realized I’d been too perfunctory earlier—not even a word of thanks.

Lying there, I felt the guilt creep in—Derek had just rescued me from my parental exile, and I hadn’t even bothered to say thank you. The silence of the apartment pressed in, reminding me how alone I really was.

So, a minute later, I rang the doorbell next door.

I hesitated for half a second, then grabbed my phone and padded over in socks, hoping Derek wouldn’t mind the intrusion.

“What’s up?” Derek asked after opening the door, but didn’t wait for my answer before hurrying back inside.

He gave me a quick glance—no questions, no judgment—then turned on his heel, leaving the door open behind him. The scent of something delicious drifted out, drawing me in like a moth to a flame.

I quickly followed him, stopping at the kitchen doorway.

The light in the kitchen was warm and soft, reflecting off the stainless steel appliances. I lingered at the doorway, suddenly shy despite my bravado.

In the kitchen, Derek had just plated a dish and started heating oil for another.

He moved with practiced ease, flipping a spatula, eyes focused on the skillet. The sizzle of onions and garlic made my mouth water—cast-iron pan, a little garlic-butter baste, the kind of technique you only learn by doing.

I have to say, men who cook have a special charm, especially Derek, who could mesmerize people with just his looks.

There was something hypnotic about the way he moved—a little Jamie Oliver, a little suburban dad—with a sturdy Lodge pan and a sharp Wüsthof knife catching the light. Even the way he sprinkled herbs made me want to record him for TikTok. I felt a flutter in my stomach, half hunger, half crush.

His movements were skillful, his expression focused, every gesture pleasing to the eye.

He chopped, stirred, and plated with a quiet confidence. The kitchen filled with the sound of sizzling, the air fragrant with basil and pepper. I found myself watching, totally absorbed.

The whole apartment was filled with the warmth of cooking, softening his overly cool aura and bringing out just the right touch of gentleness, making my heart race uncontrollably.

It was like watching the best parts of a rom-com come to life—the tough guy showing his soft side over a frying pan. My heart thudded against my ribs, and I almost forgot to breathe.

After a while, I forgot why I’d come, just stared at him in a daze, lovestruck.

I leaned against the doorway, lost in my own daydreams, imagining a life where Derek cooked for me every night. I didn’t even notice when he turned around, until his voice snapped me back to reality.

Suddenly Derek turned around. “What are you looking at?”

He caught me red-handed, eyes flicking to my mouth as the spatula paused midair. I blushed, scrambling for an excuse that wouldn’t sound too obvious.

The words ‘looking at you’ almost escaped my lips, but I swallowed them and exaggeratedly sniffed twice, half-truthfully saying, “Smells so good.”

I inhaled dramatically, hoping he’d focus on the food instead of my embarrassment. My cheeks felt hot, but I tried to act cool.

Derek snorted, sounding proud: “Just admit you want a free meal.”

He shot me a side-eye, lips twitching into a smug grin, with a little head tilt and one eyebrow climbing—his signature charisma move.

“...How did you know?” I played along, grinning ingratiatingly.

I widened my eyes, hands raised in mock surrender. If freeloading was an art, I was Picasso.

Two dishes and a bowl of mac and cheese were quickly ready.

The kitchen table was set with mismatched plates, and the creamy smell of cheese mingled with the savory aroma of stir-fry. He’d made the mac from scratch—bubbly cheddar and Gruyère with a crunchy breadcrumb top—not a box in sight. Derek wiped his hands and gestured for me to dig in, like a master chef serving his signature meal.

At the table, I used the food as an excuse to thank Derek.

I speared a piece of chicken, chewed thoughtfully, then leaned over and said, "Seriously, thanks for everything. I owe you big time." His ears turned a little red, and he quietly slid a napkin closer to my plate as if to take care of me without making a fuss.

Derek seemed used to my shamelessness, shot me a sidelong glance, and kept eating.

He barely glanced up, just rolled his eyes in that familiar way. I could tell he didn’t mind—he’d put up with worse from Caleb.

I took a few bites, praised the food, then slyly asked, “Does Caleb often come over for free meals?”

I tried to sound innocent, but my curiosity was obvious. Derek raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.

Derek nodded, “But he’s not as easy to feed as you—he’s picky.”

He stacked his fork against the plate, looking mildly exasperated. “No onions, hates cilantro, and steak has to be exactly medium-rare,” he added, the corners of his mouth twitching with their old inside joke.

“...”

I couldn’t tell if he was complimenting me or mocking me.

I stuck out my tongue, unsure if I should thank him or fake offense. Either way, it felt like a win.

After a pause, I cautiously asked a question I’d been holding in for a long time: “Derek, do you not like me?”

My voice came out smaller than I intended, almost a whisper. He’d avoided eye contact all day and skipped the nickname he used to call me—no “Nat.” I fidgeted with my napkin, afraid of his answer.

After I asked, I clearly saw Derek’s hand pause mid-serving, then he slowly looked up at me.

His fork hovered mid-air, eyes narrowing as if searching for the right words. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts.

Unlike his usual calm, this time his gaze was complicated, mixed with emotions I couldn’t decipher—like looking at someone who twists things around.

He looked at me with a strange intensity, the kind that made my chest tighten. I wondered if I’d crossed a line, or if he was about to finally say something real.

Ugh, for the first time I realized my language skills are terrible—what kind of lousy metaphor is that!

My inner monologue was a disaster, full of bad rom-com clichés. I silently cursed myself, wishing I could hit rewind.

Derek stared at me for a while before saying, “No.”

His voice was steady, but softer than usual. Gentle eye contact and a slow exhale cushioned it. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders.

“That’s good, that’s good...”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

I let out a long breath, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. Maybe things weren’t as awkward as I’d feared.