Chapter 2: Puberty Does Wonders

Before I could even squeak out a "Stefan?", he scooped me up in a bear hug, lifting me clean off the ground. The world spun for a dizzying second, my feet dangling uselessly in the air. It was like one of those cheesy romantic comedies I binge-watched on Netflix, complete with a swelling orchestral soundtrack playing only in my head. I caught a few amused glances from the surrounding passengers, their lips twitching as if trying to suppress laughter.

I mean, seriously? Here I was, impeccably dressed, Chanel No. 5 lingering in the air, only to be manhandled like a rag doll by my own brother. It's already 2024, for crying out loud! People were more open-minded, but still! The image of me, the sophisticated chef, hoisted in the air by this…this…giant, was absolutely mortifying!

"Put me down, you overgrown oaf! I'll punch you!" I yelped, my voice a mixture of annoyance and relief. As soon as he set me back on my feet, I lightly swatted his arm, more out of habit than actual anger. He just chuckled, that familiar booming laugh that could disarm even the most uptight maître d'.

"Missed you too, Sacha~," he said, ruffling my perfectly styled hair, no doubt messing up hours of meticulous work. I glared at him, swatting his hand away, and tried to pat my hair back into place. It was hopeless. I sighed, resigning myself to looking slightly less than immaculate.

"Four years, Stefan," I grumbled, lightly shoving his shoulder. My hand rested and lingered for a moment, feeling the surprisingly hardened muscle beneath his black bomber jacket. My hand subtly pinched unconsciously before pulling away slowly. "Four years you were gone, and you couldn't even be bothered to send a decent selfie? Your Instagram is a shrine to stray animals!"

He just grinned, that annoyingly stupid grin that had always made it impossible to stay mad at him for long. "Hey, those furry friends needed me. Besides," he added, "I knew you'd be eager to see my glowing transformation in person." He puffed out his chest playfully, his hand hovered over his chest, moving down slowly as if presenting his transformation. Though I couldn't see much, he was wearing his jacket closed. All I could see was that he filled the jacket.

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help but grin back. He was insufferable, but he was home. And that’s all that mattered.

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The familiar streets of our gated community whizzed by as I expertly maneuvered my Porsche through the perfectly manicured lanes. I could already picture Mom's disapproving frown if she ever saw how fast I was going. She always did say I needed to be more mindful of the speed limit. "A gentleman never rushes, Sacha," she'd chide, her voice laced with that sweet Parisian lilt. But a gentleman also appreciates a good engine, and my Porsche's purr was music to my ears.

Stefan, ever the minimalist, only had his trusty travel backpack. He never was one for material possessions. I sometimes wondered if those years spent in a Tibetan monastery had instilled in him a level of Zen detachment I could only dream of. Me? I liked my creature comforts, my designer clothes, my K-pop merch.

Pulling into the driveway of our two-story haven, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. Home. Even with Mom and Dad off on one of their whirlwind business trips, the house held a comforting familiarity. Stefan stretched lazily, he had definitely grown even taller since I'd last seen him.

As Stefan exited the car, a wave of something unsettling washed over me. It was stupid, really. I mean, I knew Stefan had grown in the past four years, but seeing him like this, towering over the car... He looked so much like him. Mr. Jung. I barely remembered the man, just a fleeting impression of someone big and tall, always smiling gently down at him. Stefan, who was now a man himself, his features hardened by time and experience, a stark reflection of his late father.

I shook my head, pushing the thought away. "Come on," I said, locking the Porsche with a satisfying beep. "Let's go inside. Mom and Dad should be back tomorrow evening, so we have the place to ourselves." suddenly feeling dwarfed by Stefan’s presence beside me.

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Stefan had retreated to his old room, which mom maintained by occasionally cleaning it. It was strange, seeing him back in that space, his presence somehow making the once-familiar room feel…different. Like a faded photograph suddenly infused with vibrant color.

The rhythmic thump of his footsteps descending the stairs announced his reappearance. I glanced up from my perch at the kitchen island, where I’d been scrolling through Instagram, and my breath hitched. Okay, maybe "puberty does wonders" was an understatement.

Gone was the lanky, awkward teenager who’d left for Tibet. In his place stood a man who could rival any of the sculpted Adonis figures I’d drooled over in my K-pop magazines. His plain white tee shirt and loose sweatpants did little to hide the results of years spent meditating…and apparently, bench-pressing mountainsides. His arms were corded with muscle, his shoulders broad and strong. Even his neck seemed more defined, the line of his jaw sharper.

He caught me staring and flashed me an annoying grin. "What?" he chuckled, running his hand over his recently trimmed buzz cut. "See something interesting?"

I flushed, quickly averting my eyes back to my phone, pretending to be engrossed in whatever idol group was trending today. "Don't flatter yourself," I muttered, my cheeks burning. "Just admiring the…uh…decor." Of his plain white shirt. Right.

He laughed, that loud, booming laugh that filled the entire kitchen. I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help but smile. It was good to have him home.

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Stefan rummaged through the fridge, eventually pulling out a carton of strawberry milk. Even though Stefan was not with us, I ended up buying his favorite when I did the grocery. Stefan poured himself a glass, then leaned back against the counter, his gaze distant. "Actually," he began, "I wasn't planning on shaving my head. But I had this stubborn dandruff problem, couldn't get rid of it no matter what I tried." He scratched his head sheepishly.

"So," he continued, "I went to this little salon in Kathmandu. They recommended shaving it all off and getting a special treatment. And you know what? It was the best decision ever! My scalp has never felt so clean and free." He ran a hand over his buzz cut, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. "I used to hate how thick and unruly my hair was, but this…" He gestured to his head. "This is just…easy."

I watched him, a strange feeling bubbling up in my chest. It was a mix of amusement, admiration, and maybe a tiny bit of envy. Stefan had this effortless confidence, this ability to embrace change without a second thought. I, on the other hand, meticulously planned every aspect of my appearance, from my perfectly side-swept bangs to my meticulously curated collection of designer sneakers.

Maybe Stefan’s Tibetan adventure had rubbed off on him more than I realized. Maybe it was time I loosened up a little myself…but not the hair. My hair was staying put.

I couldn’t resist reaching out and running my hand over it, my fingers tracing the contours of his skull. Stefan's buzz cut was surprisingly soft. Like velvet. The tiny hairs tickled my palm. It didn't feel like hair at all, more like a layer of soft fuzz.

A random thought popped into my head. I leaned closer, sniffing discreetly. "Do you still shampoo?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

Stefan paused, mid-sip, his eyes widening slightly. "Never," he replied finally, setting down his glass of strawberry milk. Pink residue showing like a mustache.

My eyebrows shot up. Okay, that wasn't the answer I was expecting. "Do you…even use shampoo before?" It was a ridiculous question, I know. It's shampoo, not some kind of ancient Tibetan secret. But the way Stefan's face contorted with a subtle look of scandalized horror…

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. My hand moved to pull out my handkerchief, and with practiced ease, wiped the pink residue from his mouth. "Please tell me you at least use your body soap on your hair?" I mean, the boy lived in a monastery for four years, not under a rock! I had visions of monks scrubbing themselves with harsh lye soap, hair included. The thought made me shudder.

"Yeah, don’t worry. I use body soap on my hair," Stefan confirmed, as if reading my horrified expression. I just sighed, shaking my head. Some men really did live like cavemen.

I mean, here I was, carefully curating a collection of shampoos and conditioners for every occasion – volumizing for when I felt like channeling my inner K-pop idol, moisturizing for those days when Parisian humidity threatened to turn my hair into a frizzy mess – and Stefan was perfectly content with a bar of soap.

It was baffling, but also…kind of endearing? Maybe.

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The aroma of garlic and herbs filled the kitchen as I sautéed vegetables for our stir-fry. It was a simple meal, but cooking always calmed my nerves. Plus, it was a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of Stefan’s return. He’d only been back for a few hours, and already the house felt brighter, louder, more alive.

Stefan, true to form, was sprawled out on the kitchen floor, flipping through one of my K-pop magazines. He’d raised an eyebrow at the abundance of men gracing the pages, but he didn’t tease me about it. Probably another one of those things he learned in Tibet – acceptance, or whatever.

"So, work tomorrow?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the sizzling pan. We hadn’t really talked about his plans, and a part of me was nervous to hear what he’d say.

"Yup," he replied, his voice muffled by a mouthful of prawn crackers I’d left out on the counter. "Got a lead on a construction gig downtown. Seems they need an extra pair of hands."

Construction? Seriously? I mean, I knew Stefan wasn't afraid of hard work – he’d spent his teenage years doing odd jobs around the neighborhood for extra cash, much to Mom’s dismay. But still… "Construction? What about Dad’s offer to work at the resort? You know he’d love to have you there."

Stefan snorted, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table. "Yeah. Desk job? Have me stuck in an office sitting all day in front of computer? No thanks. I’d rather be out in the sun, getting my hands dirty."

I sighed, shaking my head. "You’re just like Dad, you know that? Always going for the unconventional choice." It was true. Dad had built his entire real estate empire, starting with nothing but a head full of dreams. He’d always encouraged Stefan to be just as ambitious, to reach for the stars.

But Stefan, he was different. He didn't crave wealth or power. He craved…experiences. The thrill of a new challenge, the satisfaction of a hard day’s work, the freedom to choose his own path. And I couldn’t blame him for that.

"Dinner’s ready," I announced, sliding two plates of steaming stir-fry onto the table. "Come on, caveman. Let’s eat."

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The rhythmic clatter of chopsticks against porcelain filled the air as we ate, our eyes glued to the muted television screen, catching snippets of the night news. It was a familiar scene, one that had played out countless times during our childhood. But tonight, something felt different. Maybe it was the way the warm light cast shadows on Stefan’s newly chiseled features, or the fact that he no longer had to reach across me to grab the soy sauce, his arms now long enough to reach it with ease.

This wasn’t the scrawny teenager who’d once shared this table with me, sporting a perpetual sniffle and a trail of crumbs down his shirt. The ghost of a memory flickered – Stefan, at fifteen, his nose running as he attempted to discreetly slurp back a particularly stubborn glob of snot, his eyes wide and innocent as he met my disgusted gaze. I shuddered. Thank goodness puberty had been kind to him. And thankfully, tissues existed.

Pushing the unsavory memory aside, I let my gaze linger on Stefan as he shovelled a heaping mound of noodles into his mouth. He might have traded his messy mop of hair for a buzz cut and traded his adolescent awkwardness for a casual confidence, but some things never changed. He still ate like he hadn't seen food in a week.

Watching him, I couldn't help but draw parallels between us. We might be different in so many ways – he, the carefree adventurer, content with odd jobs and a simple life; me, the meticulous chef, striving for perfection in the culinary arts – but we were both driven by a desire to forge our own paths. Dad, with his real estate empire, had always envisioned Stefan following in his footsteps. But Stefan, just like me, had his own dreams. And just like me, he wasn’t afraid to pursue them, even if it meant defying expectations.

Sure, Dad’s resort was nice, but it wasn't The Grand, the city's most prestigious hotel. My dreams resided within those hallowed halls, amongst the clanging of pots and pans, the intoxicating aroma of spices, the delicate dance of creating culinary masterpieces. And who was I to deny Stefan his own version of The Grand, even if it was a construction site instead of a five-star kitchen?

Yeah, maybe we weren't so different after all. It was really good to have him home.