Page 94 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"See," he says, watching my assessment. "Not much to look at."

"It's nice," I say, and mean it. There's a simplicity to the space that feels authentic, unforced. "Very you."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" he asks, setting the food on the kitchen counter.

"Definitely a compliment," I assure him, following him into the kitchen. "It's clean, organized, functional. I like it."

He smiles, looking pleased. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll grab plates."

I take a seat at the kitchen island, watching as he moves around the space with easy familiarity. He finds plates, utensils, even cloth napkins that I suspect aren't used often. There's something intimate about witnessing these small domestic motions—Sanderson setting a table, uncorking a bottle of sparkling water, arranging containers of pasta and salad like it matters.

"Everything good?" he asks, catching me watching him.

"Yeah," I say. "Just not what I expected."

"Let me guess," he begins, serving me a portion of fettuccine. "You thought I'd eat straight from the container, standing over the sink?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," I admit with a smile.

"I have some manners," he protests, handing me a fork. "My mom would kill me otherwise."

"Tell me about her," I say, genuinely curious. "Your mom."

Something softens in his expression. "She's amazing. Strongest person I know. Raised me and Cade alone after our dad left, worked two jobs so we could play hockey, never missed a game." He pauses, a wry smile crossing his face. "Probably the only person on the planet who can still make me feel like I'm ten years old with just a look."

"She sounds wonderful," I say, touched by the clear affection in his voice.

"She is," he agrees. "You'd like her. She'd like you too."

The casual implication that I might someday meet his mother sends a warm glow through me. It's such a normal thing—meeting parents—but in the context of our unconventional beginning, it feels significant, a sign that he's thinking beyond the immediate, beyond the physical. I wonder how that would make Cade feel given that we barely spoke about our families to each other.

We eat at the kitchen island, the conversation flowing easily from family to childhood memories to future plans. I learn that he wants to coach hockey someday, that he speaks passable French because of French Canadian teammates, that he's terrified of spiders despite his tough exterior. Each new revelation feels like a gift, another piece of the puzzle that is him.

When we finish eating, he clears the plates with the same care he set them out, refusing my offers to help. "You've been studying all day," he says. "Relax."

I wander into the living room while he cleans up, drawn to the photos on the wall. There's one of a much younger Sanderson with his arm around Cade, both in hockey gear, grinning widely despite missing teeth. Another shows him with his team after what appears to be a championship win, covered in sweat and triumph. A third captures him with a petite woman who shares his eyes—his mother, I assume.

"Baby pictures," he says from behind me, an edge of embarrassment in his voice. "Mom insisted I display at least a few in here. The roommates don’t mind."

"I like them," I say, turning to face him. "Does Cade play too?"

He glances at the photo. "He did but it didn’t stick. He got injured and quit."

I look at Cade who’s smiling for the photo. "I had no idea." The realization that I truly have no idea who Cade is dawns on me.

Sanderson steps closer, his expression turning serious. "Do you want a house tour? It's not much, but…"

"I’m all yours," I joke softly.

He shows me the rest of the apartment—the small bathroom with its single towel rack ("roommates each have their own bathroom, thank god"), the kitchen with its surprisingly well-stocked refrigerator ("protein is important for recovery"), and finally, his bedroom.

I pause in the doorway, struck by the contrast to the rest of the apartment. Where the living room was sparse, almost impersonal, his bedroom feels lived-in, distinctive. A queen-sized bed dominates the space, neatly made with dark blue bedding. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with more volumes than I expected—sports biographies, leadership manuals, a surprising amount of historical fiction. A desk in the corner holds a laptop and stacks of notes that appear color-coded in a system that reminds me of my own.

"What?" he asks, noticing my surprise.

"You have books," I say. "Actual, physical books."

He laughs. "Don't sound so shocked. I do know how to read."

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