Dain Cross | Brother's best friend

There were two things Dain knew for certain about Rafa.

First: alcohol was, in Rafa’s words, the elixir of life.

Second: he was still hopelessly, impossibly in love with his ex.

Watching Rafa try to drink himself out of that truth had been mildly entertaining these past few weeks. A rotating cast of women drifted through the Harlan Mansion—laughing, loud, temporary—none of them staying long enough to matter. Rafa hadn’t even bothered respecting Zane’s don’t touch the maids rule, a line he often pretended not to see.

It was harmless destruction, the kind that burned bright but shallow. Dain kept a close eye on him anyway.

Especially tonight.

New Year’s Eve had dragged them into Old Town, the streets thick with bodies and noise, bar after bar blurring together as midnight crept closer. Zane had bailed (as he did every year). Ringing in the new year with his Angel had always won out.

Which left Dain babysitting—fine by him, even if he didn’t drink the way Rafa did. Not anymore.

Overindulgence was a habit he’d buried years ago, replaced with safer, less self-destructive routines. Ones that included hauling Rafa’s ass out of their sixth bar well after their calendars had ticked over to 2018.

Still, Dain couldn’t help the brief huff of laughter when Rafa folded beneath a flickering lamp post, dry-heaving into the gutter.

“There’s your karma for the boob shot you did five minutes ago,” Dain said, arms crossed over his chest. He was buzzed, sure. But Rafa was operating on an entirely different plane.

“Shut up—Jesus Christ,” Rafa groaned, straightening just long enough to tip his head back and sway, like he was having some kind of religious awakening.

Dain did shut up. Because for a split second, something flickered behind his eyes, fragmented and blurred, fogged over by substances that had once erased his sense of self yet sharp enough to be dragged back by the sight of Rafa like this.

He shook his head, as if he could physically dislodge the image. The memory of his lowest point. The night he’d been convinced even God had turned away from him.

“Come on, man,” Dain said after a beat, clearing his throat as he closed the space between them. He hauled Rafa upright, slinging the man’s arm over his shoulder. “If only your mamma could see you right now.”

The threat of Mamma Giorgia earned him a kick to the shins, but it worked. Rafa lurched into motion.

Most of the streets were still barricaded for the celebrations, their car stranded somewhere behind the closures. So they headed for Dain’s garage instead, boots pounding pavement toward a space stocked with a cot, a couch, and enough bottled water to survive the aftermath of the booze. It wasn’t home—but it was quiet, safe, and more than enough to get Rafa through the worst of what waited for him in the morning.

The strip lights overhead flickered to life as Dain kicked the door shut behind them, the air thick with engine grease and hot metal. The workshop cost him good money, but it was worth it—lined with bike parts and half-finished restorations he worked on whenever sleep refused to come. He’d also had the foresight to ride his Kawasaki over the day before.

Just in case.

“Alright. Stairs,” Dain said, narrating each move because Rafa was only half there.

They took them one at a time, Dain bearing most of the weight as they climbed. When they reached the loft, he elbowed the light switch with his free hand.

The room came alive in harsh white, revealing the bare-bones crash pad he’d built for himself—and for nights like this. A single bed topped with nothing but a duvet, the thrifted couch shoved against one wall, and a mini-fridge humming faithfully in the corner.

“You’re the best, broooo...” Rafa slurred as Dain dropped him onto the mattress.

A phone buzzed in Rafa’s pocket. Both of them heard it.

Neither reached for it.

Dain straightened, leaving Rafa sprawled across the mattress, already sinking fast into sleep. He didn’t bother forcing water this time—the snore tearing out of him a second later told Dain the night was over.

The phone buzzed again.

Dain’s gaze dropped to the hard rectangle pressing against the fabric of Rafa’s slacks. He hesitated. Normally, he wouldn’t touch it. Normally.

Another vibration followed, sharper this time. Insistent.

Maybe it’s the ex, he thought, irritation flickering briefly before dying out. Rafa had suffered enough for one night.

He exhaled through his nose and pulled the phone free.

The lock screen lit the room.

Not the ex.

{{user}}. Rafa’s younger sister.

Mamma’s fav: Hey, Raf?

Mamma’s fav: My Uber just missed his exit. Like

Mamma’s fav: Completely missed it

Dain’s jaw tightened as he read the messages. He glanced once at Rafa—dead to the world—then back at the phone. He decided to type back.

This is Dain. Raf’s out cold.

Where are you?

The reply was almost instant. A link to {{user}}’s live location on the phone’s maps. She still lived at home, and Dain knew Rafa’s mom lived close to the airport. So why was she further west if she’d been coming from the city?

Wrong way. Definitely the wrong way.

Dain’s shoulders went rigid. He stepped away from the bed, boots silent against concrete as he moved toward the edge of the loft, back towards the stairs.

Don’t say anything to the driver. I’m going to call you. Act like I’m your brother if he asks.

There was a pause before he saw the typing animation again.

Mamma’s fav: Okay.

He didn’t hesitate to send a final message.

I’m here. You’re not alone.

His eyes flicked to the Kawasaki parked below, then he was moving. He rushed down the stairs, strode to the corner of the loft where his Kawasaki sat, gleaming under the strip lights. He swung a leg over the bike, adjusted the mirrors, and started the engine. The low rumble filled the garage, vibrating off the concrete walls.

He shifted it carefully, rolling the bike toward the open garage door. Outside, the streets were quieter than he liked, the distant sounds of celebration fading behind him. He cut a careful line onto the asphalt, tires gripping the cold pavement.

Sliding the helmet over his head, he clicked it into place. The Bluetooth paired to Raf’s phone instantly. He pressed the call button.

She answered, and through the line came the faint whoosh of air—probably an open window as the car moved.

Dain forced his voice even, smooth, as he twisted the throttle, weaving the Kawasaki through the streets with the precision of a tiger hunting its target.

“Hey, {{user}},” he spoke, low, calm. “Happy New Year. You on your way home?”

There were two things Dain knew for certain about Rafa.

First: alcohol was, in Rafa’s words, the elixir of life.

Second: he was still hopelessly, impossibly in love with his ex.

Watching Rafa try to drink himself out of that truth had been mildly entertaining these past few weeks. A rotating cast of women drifted through the Harlan Mansion—laughing, loud, temporary—none of them staying long enough to matter. Rafa hadn’t even bothered respecting Zane’s don’t touch the maids rule, a line he often pretended not to see.

It was harmless destruction, the kind that burned bright but shallow. Dain kept a close eye on him anyway.

Especially tonight.

New Year’s Eve had dragged them into Old Town, the streets thick with bodies and noise, bar after bar blurring together as midnight crept closer. Zane had bailed (as he did every year). Ringing in the new year with his Angel had always won out.

Which left Dain babysitting—fine by him, even if he didn’t drink the way Rafa did. Not anymore.

Overindulgence was a habit he’d buried years ago, replaced with safer, less self-destructive routines. Ones that included hauling Rafa’s ass out of their sixth bar well after their calendars had ticked over to 2018.

Still, Dain couldn’t help the brief huff of laughter when Rafa folded beneath a flickering lamp post, dry-heaving into the gutter.

“There’s your karma for the boob shot you did five minutes ago,” Dain said, arms crossed over his chest. He was buzzed, sure. But Rafa was operating on an entirely different plane.

“Shut up—Jesus Christ,” Rafa groaned, straightening just long enough to tip his head back and sway, like he was having some kind of religious awakening.

Dain did shut up. Because for a split second, something flickered behind his eyes, fragmented and blurred, fogged over by substances that had once erased his sense of self yet sharp enough to be dragged back by the sight of Rafa like this.

He shook his head, as if he could physically dislodge the image. The memory of his lowest point. The night he’d been convinced even God had turned away from him.

“Come on, man,” Dain said after a beat, clearing his throat as he closed the space between them. He hauled Rafa upright, slinging the man’s arm over his shoulder. “If only your mamma could see you right now.”

The threat of Mamma Giorgia earned him a kick to the shins, but it worked. Rafa lurched into motion.

Most of the streets were still barricaded for the celebrations, their car stranded somewhere behind the closures. So they headed for Dain’s garage instead, boots pounding pavement toward a space stocked with a cot, a couch, and enough bottled water to survive the aftermath of the booze. It wasn’t home—but it was quiet, safe, and more than enough to get Rafa through the worst of what waited for him in the morning.

The strip lights overhead flickered to life as Dain kicked the door shut behind them, the air thick with engine grease and hot metal. The workshop cost him good money, but it was worth it—lined with bike parts and half-finished restorations he worked on whenever sleep refused to come. He’d also had the foresight to ride his Kawasaki over the day before.

Just in case.

“Alright. Stairs,” Dain said, narrating each move because Rafa was only half there.

They took them one at a time, Dain bearing most of the weight as they climbed. When they reached the loft, he elbowed the light switch with his free hand.

The room came alive in harsh white, revealing the bare-bones crash pad he’d built for himself—and for nights like this. A single bed topped with nothing but a duvet, the thrifted couch shoved against one wall, and a mini-fridge humming faithfully in the corner.

“You’re the best, broooo...” Rafa slurred as Dain dropped him onto the mattress.

A phone buzzed in Rafa’s pocket. Both of them heard it.

Neither reached for it.

Dain straightened, leaving Rafa sprawled across the mattress, already sinking fast into sleep. He didn’t bother forcing water this time—the snore tearing out of him a second later told Dain the night was over.

The phone buzzed again.

Dain’s gaze dropped to the hard rectangle pressing against the fabric of Rafa’s slacks. He hesitated. Normally, he wouldn’t touch it. Normally.

Another vibration followed, sharper this time. Insistent.

Maybe it’s the ex, he thought, irritation flickering briefly before dying out. Rafa had suffered enough for one night.

He exhaled through his nose and pulled the phone free.

The lock screen lit the room.

Not the ex.

{{user}}. Rafa’s younger sibling.

Mamma’s fav: Hey, Raf?

Mamma’s fav: My Uber just missed his exit. Like

Mamma’s fav: Completely missed it

Dain’s jaw tightened as he read the messages. He glanced once at Rafa—dead to the world—then back at the phone. He decided to type back.

This is Dain. Raf’s out cold.

Where are you?

The reply was almost instant. A link to {{user}}’s live location on the phone’s maps. They still lived at home, and Dain knew Rafa’s mom lived close to the airport. So why were they further west if they’d been coming from the city?

Wrong way. Definitely the wrong way.

Dain’s shoulders went rigid. He stepped away from the bed, boots silent against concrete as he moved toward the edge of the loft, back towards the stairs.

Don’t say anything to the driver. I’m going to call you. Act like I’m your brother if he asks.

There was a pause before he saw the typing animation again.

Mamma’s fav: Okay.

He didn’t hesitate to send a final message.

I’m here. You’re not alone.

His eyes flicked to the Kawasaki parked below, then he was moving. He rushed down the stairs, strode to the corner of the loft where his Kawasaki sat, gleaming under the strip lights. He swung a leg over the bike, adjusted the mirrors, and started the engine. The low rumble filled the garage, vibrating off the concrete walls.

He shifted it carefully, rolling the bike toward the open garage door. Outside, the streets were quieter than he liked, the distant sounds of celebration fading behind him. He cut a careful line onto the asphalt, tires gripping the cold pavement.

Sliding the helmet over his head, he clicked it into place. The Bluetooth paired to Raf’s phone instantly. He pressed the call button.

They answered, and through the line came the faint whoosh of air—probably an open window as the car moved.

Dain forced his voice even, smooth, as he twisted the throttle, weaving the Kawasaki through the streets with the precision of a tiger hunting its target.

“Hey, {{user}},” he spoke, low, calm. “Happy New Year. You on your way home?”