Chapter 17: The Driveway Standoff

Dominic Domingo was sitting upright in his hospital bed, blanket folded neatly at his waist and a permanent I hate being here expression carved into his face when I walked in.

I pushed the door open with my elbow, balancing a giant lunch box in my hands, and was immediately met with his dramatic shout.

“Gretta! Oh my God, I almost passed out. You’re seven minutes late. Do you realize a patient can die of starvation in that amount of time?”

By the window, Ruan Domingo was leaning casually against the glass, wearing a khaki linen suit with his sunglasses hooked onto the collar of his shirt. With his long black hair tied back in a lazy knot and his hands constantly moving as he talked, he looked more like a globe-trotting food show host than our older brother.

“I brought yours too, you diva,” I muttered, setting one of the containers on the fold-out table.

“In that case, you’re forgiven,” he said sweetly, then immediately sat down and opened his own box. “But just so you know, I canceled a lunch with a Mexican telenovela actress for this. She told me to choose. Fake lips or real blood. And look? I chose family.”

Dominic snorted. “Or maybe she got bored of you.”

Ruan pointed a plastic fork at him. “You’re in no position to be sarcastic, Señor I-Vanished-For-Six-Years-Without-A-Word.”

“I’m sick, not dead,” Dominic shot back, grabbing his spoon.

“Oh, please. That didn’t stop you from replying to his DMs last night,” I cut in, pulling out a chair and sliding into the seat between them.

“You DMed him too?” Dominic raised an eyebrow at me.

“He sent me a meme of an avocado talking about capitalism.”

Ruan shrugged unapologetically. “It was inspiring.”

The sound of chewing began to fill the room. I opened Dominic’s container. Homemade chicken mole, a little brown rice, and a jicama salad I’d thrown together this morning. Ruan was already poking around in his box, fishing out shrimp with delicate efficiency.

Dominic raised a brow as the smell hit him. “Seriously? Chicken mole?”

“You need protein. And a reason to keep going,” I said flatly.

“I need tequila,” he muttered.

“Did you see Mama this morning?” Ruan chimed in, his voice nearing hysteria. “She sent a photo of Papa sitting at the kitchen table like some furious Aztec statue just because you didn’t answer your phone.”

Dominic rolled his eyes. “She texted every family group, including the one that’s just dog pictures.”

Ruan slapped a palm to his forehead. “She even canceled her rhinoplasty appointment next week. Canceled, Gretta. Imagine that. Our Mama postponing a procedure to change her own nose. That’s the biggest sacrifice since World War II.”

I chuckled into my water bottle. “Did she really say that?”

“Verbatim. ‘My son is sick in a hospital and I’m out here worrying about my nostrils. What kind of mother am I?’ Then she cried. It was her final consult too. Do you know how hard it is to reschedule a facial structure overhaul?”

Dominic chewed silently, half-annoyed. “She’s being dramatic.”

“You’re her favorite,” Ruan said, tossing a salad leaf into his mouth like he was starring in a classic soap opera. “We’re just background characters.”

“You’re the flamboyant oldest child who used to throw himself birthday parties,” Dominic replied coolly.

“I never threw birthday parties alone. I invited people, okay?”

I leaned back in my chair, letting them toss barbs like middle schoolers fighting over the remote. And somehow... it was exactly what I needed.

After a week of corporate chaos, Reagan family theatrics, and the daily mental gymnastics of living under the same roof as a man too perfect to be real, sitting between two bickering older brothers felt like an oasis.

Ruan tossed a piece of bread at Dominic. “And seriously, Dom. Next time you almost die in another country, at least send a text. I thought you’d become a monk.”

Dominic didn’t flinch. “I don’t believe in organized religion.”

“Exactly my point.”

I looked at them both and muttered, “You do realize you’re both still insufferable.”

“So are you.” They said it in unison.

We all burst out laughing.

And for the first time since I stumbled back into a life I thought I’d packed away for good…

I felt home.

Even if it was just for this one lunch hour.

:::

Ruan Domingo’s car always reflected its owner, smelled like cologne that was way too expensive to be called cologne, and played smooth Latin jazz through speakers that sounded like they belonged in a Manhattan lounge. But today, the vibe felt… less glamorous.

I sat in the passenger seat, leaning against the window, while Ruan drove one-handed, absentmindedly spinning a mint between his fingers like it was a cigarette he wasn’t allowed to light in a hospital parking lot.

“So,” he said finally. “You’re really living with him again.”

I didn’t answer.

“Gretta.”

“I heard you,” I muttered, watching the trees blur past outside.

He scoffed. “So what? You just enjoy torturing yourself?”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Ruan.”

“Too convenient, huh? The guy whose family once mentally wrecked you magically reappears, and suddenly you’re packing your bags?”

“Don’t be dramatic. I have two bags. That’s not enough for a full-blown betrayal of my principles.”

He snorted. “You’re funny. And stupid.”

I shot him a sharp look, but he didn’t glance over. His face stayed calm. Too calm. I knew that expression. It was pressure disguised as stillness, like lava that hadn’t erupted yet.

“I didn’t go back for love or some lost fantasy,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s about work. The project. Stability.”

“And you seriously believe he let you live in his house just for the project?”

“Yes.”

Ruan let out a low, rough laugh. “Gretta… the man is still in love with you. Everyone can see that.”

I exhaled sharply. “And you need to stop acting like you’re the only one allowed to protect me.”

“I’m not. But someone has to. Because clearly, you’re not doing a great job of protecting yourself.”

I sighed, long and deep. “And you’re one to talk? You’re still sleeping with two influencers a week and giving Mama anxiety attacks because you refuse to settle down.”

Ruan grinned. “That’s my business. And those women aren’t a national threat like the Milano family.”

“As long as you don’t punch Reagan, I don’t care who you sleep with.”

“Haven’t punched him yet. Don’t give me a reason.”

The car rolled slowly past a tall iron gate, the kind with a digital access code. Ruan glanced at the security guard, who bowed with almost military respect.

“And look at this,” he said, nodding toward the pine-lined drive, the perfectly manicured grass, and the sound of a lake trickling somewhere nearby. “This house… it’s basically your old moodboard brought to life. Twilight-core with a Forbes budget. Big glass windows. Woods. It’s like the man built a literal version of your brain.”

I bit my lip. “It’s just a coincidence.”

“There are no coincidences in Reagan Milano’s life. You know that.”

The car slowed to a stop in front of the house, a facade that looked like it had been lifted straight out of a vampire romance, but upgraded: bigger, richer, and somehow... too perfect.

And there he was.

Standing in the middle of the driveway, hands in the pockets of tailored black trousers, sleeves of his white shirt rolled halfway up his forearms—him.

Reagan Milano.

The evening light caught the edge of his cheekbone, his dark hair slightly tousled like he’d just come back from wrestling the cosmos, and that crooked smirk at the corner of his mouth said everything he didn’t need to say: I knew you'd come back.

Ruan opened his door with one sharp movement.

Reagan stepped forward and gave him a polite nod, but his eyes… ice-edged.

“Domingo,” he said coolly.

“Milano.” Ruan’s voice was equally flat, but it carried a quiet threat, like a storm just off the coast.

They stared at each other like two rival senators at a televised debate..only hotter. And significantly more dangerous.

I stepped out before the air got any thicker. “Ruan, you don’t have to—”

“I’m just dropping you off,” he cut in quickly. Then he leaned down and pressed a long, firm kiss to my forehead. “Don’t be too nice. Don’t be too stupid.”

I held my breath, swallowing the urge to hug him and say I know. I know.

But he was already walking back to his car, waving casually as he disappeared into the pine-lined road. When I turned around, Reagan was still watching the car pull away.

“You know,” he said lightly, “I think Ruan’s really warming up to me.”

I sighed. “Sure. Like a cat warms up to a vacuum cleaner.”

He grinned, then pushed open the door. “At least he didn’t punch me. That’s progress.”

I looked at him for a long moment, then walked inside. “Yet.”