Page 194 of Rush

We eat. We talk—thankfully avoiding anymore awkward topics.

Marie tells a story about Broderick as a kid, how he used to build cities out of cereal boxes in their tiny Queens apartment. Georgia adds fun anecdotes about how hard Broderick worked for them growing up.The best big brother.

He groans, turns red, tries to shut her up with more food, but she keeps going—laughing through every word.

And I let myself laugh too.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her with a softness that knocks the air from my lungs.

I’d pegged him all wrong at the start.

He’s not just the guy who loves to workout, who travels the world and works too much, who wears designer suits and looks like he breaks hearts for fun.

He’s warm. Steady. Protective without needing to prove it. Kind in a way that’s quiet.

The kind of man who volunteers at soup kitchens even though he’s worth billions—who could write a check and be done with it—but instead shows up, sleeves rolled, putting in the time.

Above all things he’s humble. It’s endearing.

His sister adores him and the way he looks at his mom—like she’s the whole damn world—unspools something tight in my chest.

After the plates are cleared, Marie brings out the pie. Apple. Golden and perfect, vanilla ice cream already melting into the edges.

Broderick hands me a fork like it’s a sacred tradition. “She only makes this for people she likes.”

Marie snorts. “I made it because apples were on sale.”

“Way to cut his grass Ma,” Georgia quips, trying to stifle a giggle.

“Just keeping it real, as you kids say,” she says.

Broderick chuckles and shakes his head.

I take a bite. Still warm. Cinnamon sharp and sweet, crust buttery and falling apart under the fork.

“Okay, this is so much better than whatever Philippa would have ordered from that overpriced bakery,” I mutter.

Broderick grins. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She’ll blacklist you from SORA dinners.”

I shake my head, chewing slowly, trying to place the feeling blooming beneath my skin.

It’s not just comfort.

It’s the quiet understanding that I’m safe here with him.

Wanted.

And the terrifying realization that maybe—just maybe—Broderick isn’t the placeholder I thought he was.

He catches me staring.

“What?” he asks, mouth full of pie.

“Nothing,” I say brushing a crumb off the edge of his mouth.

He smiles, goofy and silly.

But I’m not sure if it is nothing. Not anymore.