Marrying the Wrong Brother, Again

The first time, he married me to honor his brother's dying wish—but he never laid a finger on me. Not until he was gone.

His final letter, written before that last mission, held just one line: "Next life, could you meet me first?" That was when I finally understood the love he'd buried beneath that quiet, stoic exterior.

And then I woke up—eight years in the past, face-to-face with a college-aged Jake.

His eyes burned with something unspoken, but his voice was ice: "So, how am I supposed to help you chase my brother this time?"

The last time I saw Jake, he was in a casket.

Even after the mortician's work, he looked wrong—too still, too pale. The man I remembered was all sharp edges and quiet intensity, but now he just lay there, lifeless as a discarded doll.

I went through the motions—arrangements, paperwork, the hollow condolences. Then they handed me his personal effects.

Inside was the letter.

I knew the drill. Before every mission, they wrote one—just in case. And if they didn't come back, those words became their last.

His held a single sentence:

"Next life, could you meet me first?"

Beneath it, a diary. Pages filled with a teenage boy's longing, and the truth about his brother's accident.

When I finally pieced it all together, I came clean—about Jake, about us—to clear his name from the rumors that he'd stolen his brother's girl.

And for that, I died on a rain-soaked street.

Then I blinked—and there he was.

Twenty-year-old Jake, standing in front of me, his eyes alight with something he couldn't hide, even as his voice stayed cold:

"So, how am I supposed to help you chase my brother this time?"

In our past life, I'd always gone to him for help chasing his brother. He'd scowl, lecture me—then give in every time.

The man was a fortress. Five years of marriage, and I never guessed.

If not for that diary—pages upon pages of my name—I'd have died never knowing he'd loved me since we were kids.

But I'm back now.

This was my third attempt to recruit Jake as my wingman. The first two times, he'd refused outright—only caving when my eyes welled up.

His excuse? "You're my classmate. If you marry my brother, it'll be weird."

His diary told the real story: "She's the one I love. If she becomes my sister-in-law, how am I supposed to breathe?"

Yet he'd rather choke than watch me cry.

So here we were—again.

Jake sighed, rubbing his temple. "Fine, I'll help. Why are you crying?"

His thumb brushed my cheek, warm and rough. "I said yes. Why are the tears worse now?"

I blinked up at him, lashes wet. "Will you really do anything I ask?"

He went rigid. "Yeah."

"Even if it's hard?"

"Yeah."

"Then..." I swallowed. "Can I be your girlfriend?"

"Yeah." He froze. "Wait—what?"

I sniffed. "You promised. Jake, we're dating now."

His gaze turned razor-sharp. "Is this another scheme to get close to my brother?"