A Recipe for us

Night had fallen, and the apartment was too quiet.

Ryan tossed his keys onto the entryway table. The clatter of metal echoed too loudly in the hollow space. He didn't turn on the lights, or the TV, or music—just stood there, staring at the blurred outline of the sofa.

The warmth of the day still lingered in his memory—Emily's laughter, her sambal eggs, her eye rolls, her quiet company.

Now, the silence hit like a slap.

He drifted into the kitchen, opened the fridge, then shut it again. Empty stomach, but no appetite. His fingers moved on their own, pulling open the drawer by the desk—the one he never touched.

Inside lay remnants of another life.

A Polaroid of him and Kai at Taman Tugu—grinning like idiots, sweaty, coconut smoothies in hand. A worn keychain from their first apartment. A receipt from a Thai restaurant, "Happy Birthday" scribbled in Kai's handwriting.

At the very bottom, a dusty portable hard drive.

Ryan stared at it for a long time before plugging it into his laptop.

It buzzed to life, reluctant, as if it too wasn't ready for what was inside. The folders were named plainly: "Design," "Photos," "Work." But one stood out—

"SG Weekend – K"

His stomach clenched.

He clicked it open.

Dozens of photos loaded—Kai with another man. At restaurants. In hotel rooms. In bed. The dates stretched over two years—the exact two years they had been together.

Ryan's hand hovered over the trackpad. He clicked on a video.

Kai's voice came through the speaker, lazy and intimate. "Stop filming… Come here already…"

He slammed the laptop shut.

His chest tightened, not with rage or despair, but with a strange, icy calm—like finally confirming the thing you'd always suspected.

The truth he hadn't wanted to name.

He opened the laptop again, selected all the files.

Delete.

Confirm?

Yes.

Empty trash?

Yes.

He stood and reached for his phone.

"Emily?"

"Ryan?" Her voice was soft, tired.

"Can I… crash at your place tonight?" His voice came out rougher than expected.

A pause. "What happened?"

"I saw something I shouldn't have."

Another pause. "Come over. I'll leave the door unlocked."

Twenty minutes later, Ryan stood at her doorstep. The door was ajar. He pushed it open gently.

She sat at the small dining table, two cups of tea in front of her.

She rose when she saw him.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat clenched. His eyes burned.

And then—he cried.

Not sobbing, not breaking down. Just silent tears that slipped down his cheeks like rain tracing glass.

Emily didn't move. Didn't rush to console him. She just stood there, letting him cry.

"Kai…" Ryan choked, "he's been…"

"I know," she said softly. "Or at least—I suspected."

He looked up. "How?"

"Instinct," she shrugged. "And the way he looked at you—like he was weighing risk, not looking at someone he loved."

Ryan wiped his face. "I thought maybe… we could end with a little dignity."

"Some people don't deserve dignity at the end."

He looked at her—hair messily tied up, oversized T-shirt and shorts, standing in the kitchen light, so real it hurt.

"I was going to tell you today," he said, breathing in. "About the fake marriage… I think it's not fake anymore. At least, not for me."

Her eyes flickered.

"Not that I'm saying this is anything serious—just… being with you feels more real than the years I spent with Kai. That's pathetic, isn't it?"

"No," she whispered. "It's not pathetic at all."

They sat in silence. The tea had gone cold.

"Couch or bed?" she asked.

"Couch is fine."

She nodded and fetched a blanket and pillow. He slumped onto the sofa, fatigue washing over him like a wave.

When she returned, he looked up at her. "Thanks. For everything."

She hesitated, then bent down and kissed his forehead—so quick it almost felt imagined. "Goodnight, Ryan."

The light went off. He lay there in the dark, listening to her quiet movements in the other room, that kiss burning on his skin like a brand.

This wasn't part of the plan.

No script.

Just something broken, raw, and terrifyingly honest.

—

The next morning, Ryan stood outside Emily's door with two cups of milk tea and a packet of nasi lemak.

She answered in pajamas, hair tousled. "You're early."

"I wanted to talk before you see Lucas," he said, handing her the food. "He knows. About… us."

Emily froze. "Everything?"

"Everything."

They sat at the table, the steam from their drinks curling upward.

"He has photos, transfer records, even surveillance of our first café meeting."

Emily tapped her cup lightly. "And his response?"

"Surprisingly calm. He said he'd 'help make it work'—but made it clear that doesn't mean he approves."

"That doesn't sound like Lucas."

"I thought so too," Ryan said quietly. "He called it 'damage control.'"

Emily didn't respond. The air turned heavy.

"If you had the chance to walk away now," she asked suddenly, "would you?"

Ryan looked at her. "No. Would you?"

She met his gaze, then looked away. "I… don't know."

The answer dropped like a stone in his gut. He forced himself to eat, but everything tasted like paper.

"We should get going," he said at last.

She nodded and went to change. He watched her disappear down the hallway, realizing—this whole thing had slipped beyond his control.

He no longer knew what it was.

—

An hour later, they stood outside Lucas's office.

Ryan held Emily's hand. Her fingers were trembling slightly in his.

"Ready?" he whispered.

Emily took a deep breath. "No matter what happens, remember—this is our choice."

He nodded and opened the door.

Lucas stood with his back to them, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, Kuala Lumpur's skyline casting reflections across his frame. He wore a dark shirt, sleeves crisp, posture perfect, as if every movement was rehearsed.

He turned slowly. His gaze was sharp, expression unreadable.

His eyes landed on their joined hands.

For a moment, the air froze.

"So," he said calmly, voice like stone. "Shall we begin?"

His stare was cold, cutting—like a prosecutor reading witnesses. Nothing escaped him.

—

But beneath the still surface, his thoughts flickered.

I'm watching your performance.

Fine. You want to act—I'll be the audience.

But don't forget—Ryan is my brother.

And tonight, he smiled.

Not that polite, guarded smile I've seen for years. A real smile. One that reached his eyes and softened his shoulders.

Maybe in this entire charade, the only thing not fake… is his heart.

So I'll protect this relationship—not because I trust you, Emily…

But because I know he's falling for you.