the heart wants what it wants

by caked

Summary:

Under unfortunate circumstances, you’re called back to Linkon to temporarily stay at your stepfather’s home- the one you’d jilted as soon as you were able- and the only way to comfort yourself is by saying “it’s just for a little while.”

Like the best of plans tend to, though, they fall apart.

Chapter 1: pilot

In the night, the lights by the tarmac glitter like firelies.

Or stars: he closes his eyes and still sees the constellations there as lustering blurs, strewn along one another.

It’s beautiful.

The heel of his shoe scrapes the pavement like there’s something to be anticipated. The leather upper of it crinkles.

The evening is cold, crisp. He blows out a soft breath that shakes as it goes. Turns into vapor. Early December brings a chill not entirely comfortable, but Sylus doesn’t mind the thicker, cloudy skies one bit, or the gentle haze it drapes across the sun during daytime.

One thing’s on his mind. One thing only.

Propped against his car, hands stuffed in his pockets idly, Sylus tips his chin back. Overhead, your plane dips— a flashing set of red beams in the vast swath of darkness— the only one in the sky. Sylus watches it as it lands.

He lifts off from the car, then, and fully aware that the disembark will take some time, the sorting of the luggage and then the weaving between people and aisles to get to the front- where he’ll be waiting for you- minutes early, he goes to head in anyway.

You’ve come home.

✦

When you first spot him in the entrance, in a flurry of people bundled in coats- each from a different place but the same awed look as they watch the escalators- you’re almost stunned to see that same wide-eyed look on him, too. It… doesn’t quite suit him.

You note the absence of the twins with nothing beyond a small frown, albeit you’re internally glad for the reprieve- God knows you’re not capable of humoring three men in the state you’re in- but wonder why they chose not to come with their father to pick you up.

You wonder if it was their choice to begin with.

…But then again, you can appreciate the silence the lack of them brings. Between the boys and their father, you always got along a whit better with them despite their antics. Although… that makes it sound like you got along with Sylus to begin with. The truth suggests otherwise.

It’s also true that the truth has blurred somewhat while you’ve been gone.

Now that you’ve come back (temporarily; this isn’t a permanent arrangement- what it was before) you’re not so sure how these two weeks with your stepfamily will carry. Luke and Kieran were marginally easier to warm up to- though that was a chore in itself- but it’s always been a bit different with Sylus.

You’ve, always been a bit different with Sylus.

Estranged, but not... Cold as ice- but like a berg you’ve always got the implicit feeling that he could see everything below your waters.

It… unnerved you. Did all sorts of things to you, really, but that’s besides the point. For this small, temporary visit, it has to be.

For this trip, for the circumstances under which you’ve been summoned to Linkon, you’ll put all of your personal feelings (discomfort, bitterness- betrayal, even) aside.

You’re no longer a teenager balling her fists when things don’t go her way, stomping off to her room as a retreat- praying no one will follow but also praying they’ll care enough to come knocking later. And you’re no longer the woman you were almost seven months ago, the last time you visited. No, since then, you’re just a touch lonelier, although you’ll be hard-pressed to admit it aloud, and it softens some of your edge.

But for the sake of your coming here, you’ll put a lid on it all. The instability. The hurt. The…

“Sweetie, hey- Are… Are you able to talk? It’s…” A sigh on his end. “Important. I wouldn’t have pestered you otherwise.” You picture him with furrowed brows and minimize your distant persona as a streak of concern dashes through.

“Uh, yeah… I’m able. What is it?” To the point. No time wasted, no feelings worn. You want to be as bad-mannered as he’ll ever remember you. Unfriendly and unforthcoming— not that he’s ever been one to pale at the challenge that is loving you.

“I… have some news. Not the good kind. Find somewhere to sit down and breathe.”

Breathe.

He did say that: you remember, now. But at the time it all smeared together, all the seconds and minutes that you’d sat there hyperventilating.

The air outside is crisp. You inwardly curse yourself for packing your jacket; otherwise, you’d be putting it on now.

Stepping off the flight, you were shaky. A little strung out- as restless as you were fatigued. The bag you carry is heavy and requires you to constantly readjust it, but although Sylus is upright at your side and eager to take it off your hands, you wave him off.

“I-It’s fine.”

It’s not. None of this is, not really.

…But you came.

You wouldn’t miss it. Couldn’t forgive yourself if you did.

Overhead, the Ursa Major and Minor sit apart and form ladles. They fade in and out of view behind drifting clouds, hiding with other scattered, coruscating stars. You’re sure they have names, but you don’t know them.

He leads you to the car, but doesn’t leave your side to walk ahead. As he does, you can’t find it in you to stop yourself from slowly relaxing in his presence. Oh, you’ve never liked it, per se, but this truth is as obvious as it is embarrassing on your end: You feel safe in it.

He’d never hurt you. You know that.

…Yeah fine, he has the role of ‘paternal’ nailed to a fucking tree, sure, but you’ll always believe it was meant solely for the twins— not for you. That will never change.

Because you already had someone who covered for you, in that regard.

Maybe your mother was easy to give him up, but you were different. And perhaps she’d gushed at the wedding ceremony and doted all over the big glittering rock on her finger and the opportunity to call another man her husband—

But you’d never call another man your father.

…You suppose even interlopers have a seat at the family dining table, though.

And you know Sylus, you do.

He’s familiar: from his rich, bergamot scent that’s meant to disarm with its sweeter vanilla undertones, to his resounding voice that always dips a suspicious octave when he addresses you (uncommon as that is when he’s feeling masochistic)- gentler compared to when he speaks to the twins— hell, even the way he moves. It all screams comfort, if only because you’re so used to it by now.

When you cross the street, you’re so tired you don’t even look both ways. You let him do it for you- and with pleasure he does, broad shoulder brushing you as he hovers a weightless hand at the small of your back, herding you carefully alongside him.

Coming off the plane, you’re positively exhausted. For so many reasons, you’re aching to throw yourself into bed and sleep away your last handful of hours spent traveling. In particular, the reason behind them.

…But you don’t want to think about that now, especially with him here. Even if that’s the elephant in the room you choose to ignore as you drag across the busy but quiet parking lot and struggle to keep ahold of your luggage.

When the heavy clasp starts to slip off your shoulder for the umpteenth time, and you’re sore and your jelly arms can’t hope to adjust it, Sylus swiftly reaching out to take it from you— you actually let him.

Everything is silent. The night carries but without a word.

The late night, wintry air and the massive parking lot stretching around you holds a certain peace in it. The thud of shoes over cement is hushed and the small clusters of people dotted under the overhang gather mutely, like they, too (just like the silver-haired man at your side, stealing glances you try not to notice) don’t want to get on your nerves.

You’ll make this work, somehow. Fourteen days, give or take— and then you’re free to go and cope with this in your own way, however ugly that may look.

Your own breaths are slow and uneven, but gentle all the same; for all your fatigue, you’re a little surprised that you take a moment to look up at the stars and admire the view, hands tucked under your armpits as Sylus rounds the car to the trunk.

Should’ve brought your jacket, you think for the second time, and look forward to the warmth his passenger seat has to offer.

You’re so drowsy and lost in the smoky, faintly spangling sky overhead that you don’t really notice the thunk of the back of the car or the figure that pulls to your side, lingering with you for a few seconds with mist for breath.

It recycles itself fast. Too fast, maybe... But you ignore that, too. Sometimes that’s your best course of action, you think- pretending that what’s there isn’t.

He hesitates before following your gaze, looking up to the hazy sky.

You vaguely wonder where he came from before picking you up; what fancy outing called for a sleek leather jacket and tailored, black jeans, the expensive, yet fine chain around his neck— his attire casually oozing refinement. What or who he’s dressed for. Too low-key to be a business meeting,… but too put-together to be loungewear.

Classy. But not trying too hard.

For a second, eyes flitting down to his chest thoughtfully, you wonder if he’s met with an old friend- before dashing the humorous idea to bits. He’s always been something of a lone wolf.

His voice is cashmere-soft when he speaks. “Are you ready?”

There’s so much he wants to say- to do- but he’s barring himself off from being too doting, too greedy. Each time you’ve come back to visit in the past five years since your moving out, sparse as those occasions are growing to be (not a fact he smiles upon), Sylus thinks you’ve mellowed out a bit, that you’ve lowered a wall to him— even if by a few inches. But he still wants to play it safe.

He thinks of game nights with the twins and your mother, uno cards and monopoly and a Jenga tower stacked meticulously upon the table— how one wrong move, the slightest brush of the finger, can send the blocks in a fray— and restrains himself.

For as good as he is at upsetting you, that’s never once been his aim.

…Yet you’re more at ease, tonight. If he had a few drinks in him, he might even venture to say docile.

It warms his chest as much as it squeezes it, a rankling wound with a persistent, cloying ache.

“Sweetie?”

You don’t look over to him, but you give a nod and let him carefully close the passenger door behind you.

The airport, with all its late night, hushed bustle and its strange, fairy light-like serenity, disappears into a speck.

In two weeks or so, you remind yourself, you’ll be back.

✦

The light from the streetlamps cuts up her face in subsequent flashes. It limns her with slate.

Sylus, unable to keep from glancing off the road every so often to give a cursory glance- the knowing that he needs to pay attention made a smaller thing with her right beside him- doesn’t see the harsh fluorescence, though, but silver.

She’s home. And it’s all he can think. Whether it was by her own volition or otherwise, under pleasant circumstances or not— she’s come back.

That means everything to him.

I mean— not that it’d be easy to— but there’s about a million things he wants to say.

That he’s missed her, for one. That it’s been a long time but all of it spent apart has done her better than it has him: she looks surprisingly well, all things considered. He hopes the darkness succeeds in masking some of the things he wears on his own face- the restless nights and the ‘why’ factor behind them, mostly.

But perhaps above all, Sylus wants to tell her that he loves her. That after everything that’s happened- the recent events and then the downright depressing phone call he had to make to her revolving them- he’s there for her. Whether she holds even half the bitterness she had for him years ago or still has her foot sticking out in the metaphorical doorframe of his life— it doesn’t change his availability when it comes to her.

He’s always had tough skin, but after living under the same roof as her for those couple years (a learning experience, to put it nicely), close to nothing can pierce through.

Except… Well.

Except her.

He swallows and looks out to the road.

Shadows eat at his periphery, blocks of yellow paint blurring in tandem. Outside the beam of the headlights, a vignette pours in.

On the drive in, he had some song playing on the radio- a poppy one, much too erratic for his liking, but to be fair, it did a good enough job at distracting him as his thoughts raced- but on the way back, he’s turned it off. Tells himself it’s to give the poor girl some peace and quiet— and that much is true, but it’s not the whole reason.

Sylus just has a little more trouble admitting he likes to hear the sound of her breaths, soft and even, as they occasionally cut back at the silence- and on paper it does sound bad.

He’s not like this with Luke, or Kieran. Helicopter parent taken to the max. Hanging on each word they say, every little move they make, internally grappling to piece together the why behind every seemingly trivial thing they do. Squinting at them through a crosshair but with his trigger on safety.

It’s just— his nerves are alight, okay? With her it’s all different.

Sylus can’t put a name to every emotion that flickers in him. Sometimes they pass like comets through his being, fast enough to blur by, but still hot enough to leave an impression— but for as compulsive as his thoughts around her are- as bad as it may seem- they’re not… nefarious. He cares for her an impossible amount, and yeah maybe he dwells on the idea of his stubborn, wayward stepdaughter a smidge often but it’s warranted. And it’s morally green in nature— she knows that, too.

So he can’t figure out for the life of him why some little bug in the back of his subconscious wants to flame him for it.

In any case. Sylus lets out a sigh, too soft to be heard, and spares a short glance her way, the corner of his lip quirking ever so slightly.

She’s come home.

And he’s thrilled- a little too fucking thrilled- but he knows she doesn’t do well with the doting so he tries his damnedest to keep it simple. She doesn’t like platitudes or small talk, oh, he learned that the hard way, but he also knows that she’d prefer it over the love bombing so that’s exactly what he settles on for the sake of lifting the somewhat dreary mood of the car.

…Hesitantly. “How was the flight?”

He wants to call her kitten but barely keeps off it. He wants to make his affection known but doesn’t want to upset her; he’s not exactly a man used to walking on eggshells, but he is the kind to make a sacrifice where the situation- the stakes- call for it.

To be clear, she- everything about her- calls for it.

Her response, placid from the standard wear and tear of traveling (but not entirely mean, not like she so often is) evens him out. Or maybe it excites him more, he doesn’t know.

“It… was okay,” she murmurs. “Good. The fanciest plane I’ve ever been on.”

Because up until now, she’s always made the long drive, refused the plane tickets he threw her way free of charge.

For whatever reason, he laughs at that, deep and hearty, like she’s told a good joke. She rarely ever sees him exhibit that sort of behavior even with his sons (albeit, most of the time, the twins are comedians only to each other), so she doesn’t really know what to take him for when he lilts in a pleasant tone, “Yeah? Good. I’m curious,” he adds with a slight dip of his chin her way, “Did they serve you anything?”

They did, actually. One of her favorite dishes. Which… was very convenient, but she didn’t really have the appetite.

“T-They offered,” she murmurs back, just a bit flustered.

I mean, look: she doesn’t particularly fancy the guy, okay? Nothing between them’s really changed since some years ago when she finally scraped up enough money to move out. At least, she tells herself so.

They go together about as well as oil and water. It’s just how it is.

…Perhaps it’s not entirely fair to Sylus to put so much blame on him, she’ll concede that much, but she can’t overturn the wedding, the uprooting of her and her mother from their small, beloved home in favor of a mammoth, modern estate- the way she was all but forced to leave her true father behind in the dust.

After enduring all that as a sixteen year old kid? sometimes it feels like a big ask for her to even act polite.

She will be… tame, though, in these two weeks.

“But I wasn’t really hungry.” Right then- embarrassingly loud- her belly gives a growl.

She shuts her eyes and prays the low purr of the tires over cement are enough to convince the silver-haired man beside her of her innocence- but to her slight horror, he just gives another soft chuckle.

Not deprecating by any means. Maybe she’d have preferred it that way, though, over the fond undertone in his voice- as subtle as it is uncomfortable for her to hear.

“No? I wouldn’t have guessed. Once we… get home,” he decides carefully, “I’ll have the chef make something for you. Would you like that?”

“It’s- It’s fine, thanks. I’m… I’m tired.”

“Ah,” he says as if ashamed, looking back on ahead at the road. “Why don’t you close your eyes and rest? I’m sure that the late night… ambiance will help you fall asleep.”

But she doesn’t want to, not in front of him.

It’s less out of not trusting him and more out of the fact that she doesn’t want him to take it as a sign that she so clearly does.

She’s always been stubborn.

And Sylus has always been patient with her, a trying man.

She doesn’t want to fall asleep here, to ‘turn her back to him’ in the more primeval sense, yet his voice is gentle,.. and the night is too, with its occasional groans of the engine and the silence that drones on in between.

She holds her eyelids open for as long as she can, but they want to droop.

On the plane, shot nerves and all, she was able to fight it off because that’s just what she does— she’s good at that- resisting. (And damn it all if the people directly involved in her life aren’t well acquainted with that simple fact by now.)

But now, she’s hanging on by a string. Her fiery spirit tires herself out.

She doesn’t like that his voice, all rich and throaty, every bit calming (albeit most of everyone else couldn’t say the same about it), is just like a lullaby. Like lyrics; simply set to the hum of tires as they roll over shadowy Linkon roads. The cadence they make is a languishing one.

And they slowly drift shut, her eyes. She inwardly tells herself that she’ll open them back up in a second; that she’s just resting them for a moment, but she’ll keep her ears open, her senses alert, her guard up—

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, “Rest.”

And oh, isn’t he good at that…?

Isn’t he convincing?

“I’ll wake you once we’re home.”

✦

He doesn’t.

No- contrary to his word, what you wake to instead is sunlight through sheer lace curtains and the foggy realization that you are not in the plane- or more recently, Sylus’s car. But what you slowly comprehend to be your bedroom.

Your surroundings prove to be… familiar: you catalogue them all as your mind lags a few seconds behind your eyes.

From a memory foam bed, you take in the cute frilly lampshade at your side (a little garish, yes, but it’s always lasted you), the floral quilt you’re comfortably tucked in and the posters strewn along your walls- cheap pops of color to enliven a lavish grey canvas.

When you moved into this room, sixteen years old and bitter- sixteen years old and hurting- you remember finding some joy in decorating your new, yet very much unwanted room with hot guys from vampire shows and wooden figurines your late father carved for you.

Right now, though, you don’t dwell so much on the wave of nostalgia that hits you as the confusion.

The door’s closed- which brings a small peace to your otherwise frazzled heart as you gradually come to. You take note of that and relax a little. You’re alone, and the home (a funny word when taking the sheer size of it into consideration; the too many rooms for the number of people it holds, the general lack of warmth) is quiet.

Tranquil, even, despite the lazy sort of bewilderment that notches your brow.

Did… Did he carry you in? But when…?

No, you let your eyes flutter shut and groggily plop your head back down. You pull an old stuffie closer and hold onto it, sighing out all your memory of the night prior as you bundle up again, ignoring the red lines of your digital alarm clock that tell you morning has long encroached on noon.

No, whether or not he carried you in- or maybe the twins, excitedly piling out the door as soon as Sylus appeared with your luggage in tow— doesn’t matter. All the events of yesterday, the stressful morning of packing and boarding, then the night which he stole after months of not seeing him- that fucking fond, almost breathless look he gave you as you stepped off the escalator—

None of it matters.

You don’t want it to.

✦

It’s almost 2 o’clock when you’re unpacking your bag and laying its contents out on the bed- still having not extricated yourself from the comfort of your room- when you hear commotion outside your door.

Ever so subtle but oh, you’ve grown the ear for it.

Your shoulders give a start at it.

“….think she’s still asleep?”

Then, they slump over and you sigh, hardly sparing a glance behind you.

“…I don’t know, bro, but the food dad left out for her is way too cold so I think we should just…”

The twins, no doubt, gumshoeing in the hallway, believing they’re sneakier than they really are as they press their ears to your wall, prying for information or- considering you’ve yet to visit the lower level or even the hallway- a sign of life.

Evidently, they’re not half the part of the secret agents they’d probably like to think.

…And you should be annoyed, you know. The bothersome pair of stepbrothers is lingering outside your bedroom under the illusion of secrecy and awaiting your next- your first- move since arrival: and it’s irksome. It’s not a hard invasion of your privacy, but it’s a nigh thing, and they’re well aware you don’t like all the breathing over your shoulder. That’s a fact that hasn’t changed since your teen years.

So the streak of endearment that comes, carving the smallest of smiles into your lips, is confusing to say the least, but you give in to it anyway.

Bed-head, dried drool at the corner of your mouth and all, you tiptoe over and open the door in a gust.

Luke and Kieran fall over and through like dominos.

Cursing, they climb to their feet and attempt to play it off. “Oh, hey sis—” (that’s Luke) “Oh, sis- good morning”— (and then Kieran) but you know better than to fall for their antics as they straighten out and cough up their excuses.

You also know better than to take any real offense to them; you suppose the seven or so years spent having to humor them will toughen up a person. It did you, anyway.

You cross your arms and let out a huff. “Boys,” you say in lieu of a real greeting.

And the whole scenario is distinctly familiar, like a memory reopened: their tumbling into you, your waking up in a too-big home and just praying the day will pass with as little contact with the big man as possible. You’re almost kind of stunned for a moment because it feels as if you never left this place to begin with.

As they rub the back of their necks and look sheepish, it’s hard to miss the interest in their eyes as they take you in- or the twinkle of excitement.

You wonder what they see as you stand there. If it’s the extra inches of your hair (mussed from sleep, a surprisingly pleasant one might you add) and the small physical differences here and there that are almost too subtle to spot- or if their eyes are raking over all that’s familiar. The parts of you they’re used to. The pretty, yet sort of mellowed eyes, the tension in your posture that never quite rounds out- the lips you purse into a thin line the longer they stare unabashed.

Luke is the one to break the silence when you dip your chin out of self-consciousness, snapping out of his daze with a grin.

“Sis- so good to see you again!” You can tell he means it. Oh, between the beaming look on his face and his hands that just barely hold off on yanking you into a hug, it’s pretty clear that he’s positively alight at your impromptu visit. But as your chest warms through, the best response you settle on is another huff and a dart of your eyes you can only hope appears nonchalant. Because it’s hard sometimes, okay-? to acknowledge you care for the twins a concerning amount.

The day you first met them— and their grandiose, debonair father, ever the expert at rubbing you the wrong way: he’s not to be forgotten— you made a vow to yourself to never accept them. Your mother’s second marriage ceremony you grudgingly attended with a new dazzling dress be damned— you were not a Qin, and all the legal documents she signed off on could burn in hell for all you cared.

The twins might always be troublemakers first to most of everyone else, you think, but to you, they’re… they’re your boys. As weirdly charming as they are cunning.

“It’s… good to see you, too, I guess,” you mumble.

They catch the tail end of your smile though as you try and fail to hide it with your hand, and it’s Kieran who ends up most emboldened by it.

Taking that first step forward, he wraps his arms around you in a brusque but warm hug before you can protest against it.

“Oh, c’mon, you know you missed us!”

In the next heartbeat, his brother joins, laughing at your ear as he slings an arm around you, pulling you from a clingy Kieran- albeit with some difficulty.

“How have you been? You know, we were waiting all morning to see you- we were so excited- but you’ve been a sleepyhead… You can’t blame us for coming up to check on you, right?”

You heave a laugh. “Oh, is that what the locals here call spying now? Just ‘checking in’?”

A chuckle at your left- Kieran, with his hand now perched at your hip as the two quietly settle on anchoring you between them. “Oh, please. By twelve o’clock, we started thinking you had actually died in your sleep.”

You shove at his chest- a fruitless action- but can’t bite back your laugh in time.

“Being the good brothers we are,” Luke picks up the sentence, seamlessly finishing where he left off, “We came to make sure you were still breathing.”

Maybe it’s bad taste, morbidly bantering back and forth about their assuming you’ve succumbed to this or that in your slumber- considering recent events, the ones that summoned you here, it certainly doesn’t look good. But the grim undertone flies over their heads.

It flies over yours, too, for a few moments as Luke tries to gives you a noogie and Kieran murmurs something about you missing breakfast, tugging absently at the fabric of your shirt (the one you’ve still yet to change out of) while he talks. But then one of them mentions something about how the last time they saw you was Mother’s Day and you just—

The world hiccups. You blink and push at their chests, respectively elbowing them away and this time they listen.

Backing up a touch, the boys watch your face as it falls and it’s not too hard to put the unseen pieces together- the three braincells they share irrelevant.

For lack of distraction, you fiddle with the hem of your shirt- already wrinkled from where it was toyed with- and back up to sit on your bed. Your half-unpacked things surround you and remind you of your initial task, which supplies you with a convenient excuse for them to leave.

“I- I’m not done settling in yet.” You blurt as if that’s a good explanation for your mini outburst, not looking their way. Partly because you’re too busy trying to swallow down the rising lump in your throat; partly because you’re only so immune to the kicked-puppy look they both wear on their faces.

You don’t cry anymore. Especially not in front of your stepfamily. However, the pang of grief that swoops down and seizes you is strong enough to take your words for a moment.

Breathe.

You curl your five fingers into your palm, and as every unique ribbon of hurt comes to you, you let it all go in a breath.

(Breathe: ah, that’s right, you remember it now. It was Sylus’s words; it was the phone call half your brain- the side absolutely bent on protecting you- wanted you so badly to forget.)

The boys observe you warily as you slowly puff out.

After a few seconds pass, you’re decent enough to flash them a smile (a too-tight one, but you hope they catch the hint and leave while you’re still polite about the how you give it aspect) and look to the door behind them. “And, uh… I still need to shower and get changed and stuff. Maybe I’ll see you both later.”

“In an hour,” Luke suggests in a light tone. “Y-You should come down then, okay…?”

It shouldn’t surprise you that he’s purposefully being more gentle with you after realizing they’ve unwittingly hit a sore spot- for all their pranks, they’re not some unfeeling jerks after all, and you’ve always been an exception to their nonchalance- but it kind of does.

You look him over thoughtfully, wringing your hands in your lap.

It’s always felt like a chore to get them to behave. Whether it be sitting still in their seats during class and keeping their limbs away from your own workspace, or quite literally pulling the rug out from the asshole who ‘accidentally’ spilled wine on the front of your dress at a business get-together your mother hauled you into- for as long as time, the twins have held a reputation for two things:

Being troublemakers; and their father.

…You wonder if he’s the one who gave them a talking-to before your coming. If they’re a little more mindful of their manners because they’re nearing 23 and finally maturing or because Sylus sat them down beforehand with a stern look and said behave.

An hour, like Luke proposed, is plenty of time for you to wash up and get dressed. Your shampoo bottle is with the few toiletries you managed to stuff inside your bag- and clean clothes are already strewn along your fluffy comforters; you need forty minutes at tops to make yourself presentable.

…But that’s not really the issue. The reason why you’ve been stalling on going downstairs and revisiting the airy living room, the kitchen (with, apparently, your cold breakfast), the sunroom that you loved to escape to with books and a handmade sandwich— now too cold to sit out in, you’re sure.

An uneasy swallow. Eyes trailing down a lanky set of legs, they eventually land on the floor as you open your mouth.

“I mean- even after I wash up, I still want to unpack my stuff, and…” To the boys’ credit, they’re patient- but you try to find your words quickly. “I just-“

When Kieran makes an unimpressed noise, his sibling jabbing his side, you close your eyes and drop the charade entirely.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to see him right now, okay? I just… I’m not prepared to deal with him right now. That’s all.”

Your act was poor to begin with. Everybody and their mom (well.) knows you’re not on the best terms with your stepfather. That’s putting it lightly.

But you’re trying. Oh, for the sake of this depressing, loathsome trip, you’re trying to put aside your own reservations about him.

One crosses his arms and taps his foot. The other sighs softly.

It’s Kieran who comments, “you know, you’re the only one who can get away with talking about our old man like that… Like he’s an overgrown toddler.”

Funny, the both of your step-siblings. Right now, though, you don’t laugh.

“He won’t punish her for it, bro, you know that so just let her get it off her chest-“

He pointedly ignores him, pulling away from the hand that goes to nudge him, continuing, “But he’s not gonna bomboard you with questions as soon as you go down the stairs or something… I mean, what’s the big deal anyway, Y/n? You saw him last night, didn’t you?” He asks. “Surely you squashed at least some of the beef with him-“

“It’s not just ‘beef’,” you snip back before resigning, “But… yeah, I mean- I did see him, obviously. But it was already late and I was tired. So… we didn’t really talk that much.”

Kieran blinks. Mulls over your words for all of three seconds before saying—

(And oh, damn it all if his brother doesn’t try to stop him, revving up an elbow to thrust straight into the pit of Kieran’s belly before his lips can get too loose.

…But Luke thinks that their own shortcomings, sometimes so preventable it’s painful- all their foolish slip-ups and fails- are just as unable to be helped as the sun rising every morning.)

“What? But dad said it actually went really well-“

“Bro! Shut up! Dad said not to tell her that stuff because it might make her slink back into her shell or whatever-!”

As the wave of confusion crests over you, and then something… else that puts a distinct awkwardness in the air as you digest their words, Kieran has the gull to look flustered as he unfolds his arms and stammers.

“Ah- W- shit, man,” he curses before glancing to you- slumped on your bed as if to disappear inside yourself, a whit embarrassed despite your indifferent facade- frowning. “Don’t tell dad I said that, okay?”

Luke, fairly innocent in it all, joins his cause and begins pleading, too. “Please, sis. He’ll get mad at us both... Just don’t tell him we told you any of this, okay?”

You heave a sigh, weighing your head in your hand. “Just- can you two leave? Please?”

“Pinky promise you won’t tell him first. Oh- and-,” he steps closer, bold but innocuous, and extends his finger with a hopeful twinkle in his eye. “Pinky promise you’ll be down soon, too. The three of us can have a late lunch, yeah? We really missed you, seriously.”

You’re afraid of that proposed three becoming an unwanted four, but you’re growingly reaching your limit with them both- your daily dose of the twins being literally fed through a needle into your veins- and you just want them to scurry out and go.

To that end, you twine your pinky with his- and then his just as eager brother’s- and nod. “Yeah, okay... Bye, now.”

“An hour,” they chirp in unison, heads peeking out from the door as it swings shut behind them.

“An hour, sis~! Don’t forget!”

Two weeks, you close your eyes and tell yourself, shoehorning each pesky feeling that squeezes in your chest before it finds the chance to erupt to the surface and bleed.

With a long, shallow breath out, you return to the pile of clothes, some folded, others strung out from your carelessness, and begin stuffing them in your otherwise empty drawers.

Two weeks until you attend your mother’s funeral, and then you’re free to go.

Chapter 2: the death of peace of mind

It’s hard to be secretive, tiptoeing down the hallway toward the stairs, when halfway through it opens up into the living room’s overhang.

If someone were sitting on the couch, and they heard so much as a creak from above, all it’d take is a glance thrown over their shoulder to spot you with a hand hesitantly placed on the banister, leery of stepping down to the first floor.

Nervewracking.

Perhaps it’s a bit dramatic to compare it to walking into the lion’s den- but you’re not the most talkative of persons, especially not with him, and it does seem daunting in your head to be cornered into conversation. Like prey meeting predator. Small meeting big. One delicate discussion could do you in, but you won’t bet on your demise being brought along so… easily.

To your immense relief, when you you peek around the stone column and survey the area below (mainly the L-shaped sofa, facing the massive wall-mounted TV above the fireplace), you find it empty.

At that, you let out a quiet breath. Some of your courage returns.

If you had spotted the twins, it would’ve been manageable, more so than if it was their dad, anyway.

It was only an hour ago (well, an hour and ten minutes, but you hope they won’t hold that against you— and considering all their tardy slips in highschool, they wouldn’t have the right) that you’d held conversation with them, and it went alright.

It’s a bit harder for you to admit that it was actually pretty nice to see them again.

Cathartic, even.

There’s a part of you that’s vulnerable and girlish- carefully stowed beneath the tough skin you lay on in front of most of everyone else- locked somewhere safe- and yes, it did miss them.

But you’re meant to dislike the three of them. Your meddling stepfamily who slipped into the cracks of your home, your mother’s heart, no different than an invasive species would. Stuck a foot into the door of your life and pressed until the hinge gave.

Once, it was easy. As effortless as breathing.

You didn’t have to think about it, or deliberate on it, or make all the justifications in your head- no, you hated them and that was it.

That feeling was meant to be final. Set in stone.

You thought it was.

For a time you even likened Sylus to Cinderella’s evil stepmother and his two conniving sons to the insufferable stepsisters. Oh, it’s childish, you know; looking back on those moments, you don’t know whether you want to hug the teenage girl you’d been or laugh in the face of her.

As it stands, though, Anastasia and Drizella aren’t half the monsters you’d once liked to believe. Awfully enough, you’ve warmed up to them, maybe even came to love them.

You’re stubborn, not stupid: Luke and Kieran have a special place in your heart and you recognize that.

You’re sure that they do, too. It’s what makes them bolder during every confrontation; brings out the smiles where they once paled. Scared you’d yell or shriek for your mom to just—

Get these two idiots out of my room!

That was then, though.

Things are different now. Changed.

…The ‘Lady Tremaine’ in this picture is still a work in progress. If you’re being honest, you wouldn’t be too terribly upset if it stayed that way—

No. But no, because…

Your mother would’ve been happy if you got along with him. Made amends. It’s a truth as sour as it is undebatable.

“Baby, please- he’s a good man, really. Can you just try, for me? I know you miss your dad, I know you do, I do, too-“

‘Does she?’ To save your hide, you bite that remark down, but listen on just as grumpily.

“-but I think that this can be a good thing if you just-“

Her words echo in the walls of your head. Plangent, bouncing. Like a gunshot ringing out through a canyon, it’s still loud in your conscience, even more so now that she won’t be around to nag you on the matter any further.

—“Smiled.”

If you don’t like Sylus, you’re the bad guy, right? And damn it all if that doesn’t dredge up an ounce of bitterness in you, but—

…For the sake of this trip, for the sake of her no longer being here (and oh, what you wouldn’t give so she could be here), you’ll do your best to swallow down your misgivings about your stepfather.

And you’ll be good.

Two weeks.

Reminding yourself of that for what must be the millionth time, you push off the truffle-wrap pillar to continue into the lofty hall. Starting down the wide, marble staircase in silence.

You’re not so sure where their father is. You definitely have your guesses— A fancy-shmancy meeting or outing that’s called him outside of the estate, or perhaps he’s simply in his study working, running an errand— All of which you hope are correct for the sake of avoiding him.

This late lunch of yours and the twins’ should be just that.

Yours and the twins’.

✦

The further you press into the first floor, the more you smell whatever the private chef is cooking.

Delicious, whatever it is. And no surprise there- the man who hired him demands only the best of the best. He’ll brook nothing less.

As you get closer, the aromas (some too faint to label, others almost dominating your senses: garlic, a pinch of ginger, the mouthwatering scent of meat) blend into a savory potpourri. A cohesive, expertly-made dish, you’re sure.

It’s true that in the past five years since your moving out that your visits have become more sporadic, far and few in between, but meals gathered around a tabletop brimming with tasty sides and entrées will always be a distinct memory you hold of this place.

I mean, you were all but forced by your mother to endure them. Thus, dinner became a special time for you and your stepfamily to bond.

Even Sylus, the endlessly busy CEO of some lucrative company you pretend not to know the name of, made room within his schedule where he could.

However, bonding is not what generally happened.

Teenage you always thought those dinners were stupid. Awkward at the best of times. Smiles too tight to be polite, hands passing around bowls you’d stick your nose up to. Not out of disgust, no, the platters never failed to make you drool- but because you’d take your dad’s homemade roast chicken over your stepfather’s insincere, gourmet trays any day of the week.

To be honest? you’d been mean to them, you’ll admit that much. Cruel even. A big brat with an even bigger bone to pick. You and your family didn’t come from rags, but your origins were infinitely more humble than the twin’s, than what Sylus had— yet you were prissy and rude in a way that they somehow weren’t... Presumptuous.

So upset with the new arrangement you couldn’t think straight.

“Y/n, pick up the fork for God’s sake- can’t you see your father went through all this just to have a meal with us tonight?”

Placatingly, “Honey. It’s alright.”

It’s not quite a snarl that you throw her way, but it’s close. With no one here to spank you, you’re allowed to mouth off a little, be unruly. No one’s here to stop you— your mother’s never had the arm for the paddle and regardless of that, she clearly shouldn’t be responsible over you if she can’t even make good decisions for herself.

To date, her worst decision yet is bringing that asshole around…

Pointedly ignoring the attention that’s gravitated to you, you scowl.

Maybe you are pushing the part of brat a touch too far- a shock, taking your past obedience into play- but how else will you get her to see you? Your hurt? I mean, the twins misbehave endlessly at school and at best, they get a slap on the wrist, no doubt because of their mogul of a father, but you don’t miss the laughs or rueful glances tossed their way.

The positive feedback.

“…Father?” You snip, eyes laser-focused on the woman at the far end of the table. The twins juggle between watching you and their dad with bated breath, half grinning in mischievous delight.

For several moments, the latter doesn’t move.

Sure enough, though, that cardinal gaze finds its roost on you. Not that you’re paying it any mind.

The air shifts when you open your mouth again, rising from the table with a start. The finely-placed cutlery jumps as you do.

“I don’t care if you’ve married him, made him your ‘quote on quote’ husband, that’s not my father and never will be. And these stupid boys that trail me all damn day long aren’t my family, either!”

“Whoa-ho! We caught a stray, bro!”

A beat of stunned silence.

Galileo crosses your mind; mainly what he did when the spotlight fell to him. The point is that there’s still time to recant, the rational part of your brain whispers. To backtrack.

Your cheeks warm. Heart pounding in your chest at the embarrassment of voicing your emotions, making a literal stand. But you can’t stop now. It’s too late to.

“A-And…” A tremble. You’re- You’re trembling, comes the small revelation. Ignoring it, you barely repress a wince, standing there uncertainly.

Finally, your mother- finding her bearings- angrily sputters out your government name.

You almost cow to it.

But you can’t be weak, not now, not in front of them, and-

In a frantic moment, your eyes dart over opposite the table to collide with his, your voice shaking wildly as the twins, at either side of you, snicker.

You swallow down the dregs of your self-consciousness to uncivilly pick up your fork and wave it at him.

“And you! Don’t even get me started on how awful you are! What you’ve done to me!”

All along you’ve done your damnedest to ignore him, only adding in your two cents where it was absolutely necessary. The last month or two you’ve spent under the same roof as him has been nothing less than an excellent demonstration of the cold shoulder on your part. You want the credit for that.

So when you point a literal finger, staring him down like you would prey through a muzzle and furrow your brow as unbidden tears wet your lash-line, his eyes actually double in size. Your stepfather, having forgotten to breathe by the looks of it (albeit, you have too), straightens by a fraction.

Good. That’s...

That’s good, you think.

Something in the back of your mind says ‘heel,’ says ‘don’t poke the bear,’ warns in every possible language you can think of that this is NOT a good idea. He’s rich enough to fill whole swimming pools with cash and powerful enough to move people like chess pieces— probably nudge them out of the game and off the board, too.

But he’ll never be the man of your house. You won’t allow it. So call it sheer stupidity on your end or just a death wish but—

“Y-You’ve stolen everything from me!”

On your right, Luke blinks with hesitant awe, his amusement petering out. Kieran’s jaw shuts. The foot he’d been kicking you with under the table draws away from yours. He exchanges a brief, suddenly sobered look with his brother as everything you’ve been holding back on these past several weeks looses to the surface.

“Y/n-!”

“You took it all! My mother, my dad’s honor, even my fucking house-!”

For the second time, your government name flies across the panel of demurred faces, but you’ve reached your melting point. The watershed where fear and politeness, all the conventional little things you’re supposed to respect and operate by, warps into hot unbridled anger.

This is a cut that originated from your father’s death, one exacerbated awfully by Sylus and his two sly, obnoxious sons- so you think it’s due time to let it bleed.

Bleed, it does.

But then- “You ruined my life, you-“

A breath. Stuttering and shallow and tender. It’s horrifying to realize it came from you.

“Y-You….”

Through the blur is a low, gentle murmur.

Rich and thick. You think even if your ears ceased to work, something in your chest could still recognize it; the bass moves through your ribs and rattles them.

In your periphery, for as fogged as it’s become what with the tears that suddenly speckle the room- the ones you vaguely acknowledge but do all you can to hold, even if just for a few more moments- the silver-haired man sets down his utensil. Nonchalant per usual. With unrivaled class.

It pisses you off.

Without looking at your frazzled mother, he raises a hand to calm her. “Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright. Let her speak.”

Speak…?

Oh- Is that what he fucking thinks this is? That you’ve stood, clinking the side of your glass with a spoon to humbly direct the diners’ attention from the plates spread tastefully before them to you as you prepare a fancy speech of sorts-?

This isn’t an announcement you’re making. This is not even a conversation. It’s just-

It’s just-

The epiphany that every set of eyes is on you including the chef’s (still tucked in the kitchen, as poor as any man could be as he hurriedly cleans up)— and that you are being treated no different than a dangerous animal that needs patience and slow movement to be handled, corralled back into a fucking cage—

It’s so infuriating you go quiet.

Your brain reaches a lapse and you shut up. Lips flattening into a pursed line immediately, you ball your fists and scamper back off to where it’s safest.

Your room.

“Sis, wait, Kieran said he’s sorry for kicking you under the table-“

You’d ignored it all and then you’d cried.

“Kieran,” an unexpected growl. “A word.”

…You suppose time has a funny way of soothing, though, because right now when you recollect the moment, you find the humor in it and scoff quietly.

“Dad, wait, I-I was just kidding around with her!”

Yeah okay, it was a bit embarrassing- you were a bit embarrassing- but you won’t hold that against sixteen year old you. She knew fuck all else how to navigate.

The big house is familiar and airy as you walk through the lower floor, as quiet as you left it.

Even if you’d forgotten the layout, whatever fragrance wafting from the kitchen would be enough to guide you there.

You wonder if it’s some kind of stirfry. A far cry from the humble PB&J’s you’ve been making yourself at home with chips sometimes as a side, but your tummy growls for it all the same.

You haven’t ate since sometime yesterday. As your tongue wets itself in anticipation, you’re made very aware of that now.

You spot the rice cooker on the side counter when you finally walk in and the blurred figures of the twins as they turn to look at you.

Luke, perched on a bar stool to eagerly watch the chef work his magic, hops off just to pull out another one at its right. The look in his eye, glittering, full of anticipation, tells you verbatim to ‘sit right here’. You don’t bother protesting- you’re already some minutes late after all- and climb up onto the seat between them.

Kieran, at your left, scoots closer to sling his arm over your shoulder. You let it happen with a small wince. The chair supporting the other twin gives a short screech when he, too, inches closer to fold his arms on the counter, lean his head on them, and angle his cheek to look at you.

“So, sis, how do you like Linkon so far?”

Not paying them much attention, you quirk an eyebrow.

Between watching the chef as he deftly tosses the pan back and forth (broccoli, you see now, with meat cubes he folds in) and glancing at the archways connecting the rest of the house into the kitchen- eyes peeled for someone- the twins are not your priority right now.

At the top, that list looks something like this: Eat a nice midday meal without any incident involving their dad.

“I’ve lived in Linkon almost all my life, don’t act like this is my first time here,” you poke back, albeit in a somewhat hushed tone. The walls might as well have ears.

Kieran reaches out to run an idle finger down the jut of your shoulder, his chin lazily propped up by his hand.

He looks at you.

“Sis, do you even realize for how long you were gone?”

His voice is light. Conversational. You’re not so deluded, though, by their indifferent, laidback act. You’ve known them not for a decade but not far off from that either, and you’ve learned to catch the whiff of trouble in the air before it blows its wind your way.

When you finally throw them each a gander, hesitantly prying your gaze from the open entries, the delight masked behind each placid set of eyes is absolutely there— just hiding well.

They’re getting much more amusement out of this than they’re letting on.

You’ll give them credit here: they’ve gotten better at pretending they’re not up to no good,… but there’s no bamboozling you.

You think about it for a few seconds before quipping back. “Almost seven months,… right?”

“Right,” Luke chirps beside you, “Seven whole months!” You turn your head to focus on him now.

(Ah, that’s right- you inwardly alert yourself upon notice- no matter who you’re facing, the other will inevitably be in your blindspot… Have to keep on your toes these upcoming weeks if you don’t want them pulling a trick on you.)

He pouts his lips, ever dramatic, to play up the kicked expression and make it all the more impactful as they guilt trip you. “Seven whole months where Kieran and I were left alllllll on our lonesome. Left to fend for ourselves.”

“Oh, you big babies.” With a huff, half-smiling, you lean out to flick his forehead. His hood slips off when he tries to nod away from your attack, laughing softly as wild, red tufts come loose.

“You’re plenty old enough now to care for yourselves. You can’t always rely on me for everything. Besides,” you start, thoughtful, and this is when your already quiet voice slinks into a whisper, one the boys draw in to hear.

Luke’s attention drifting past your shoulder, “you already have the big boss man covering your asses in every sense of the word.”

From the archway, a sonorous voice rings out.

“She’s right, you know.”

You and Kieran snap your heads over to look. The chef (and you don’t why you’re suddenly staring at him, or the ground, for that matter, nervous) gives a little glance his way, dipping his chin respectfully, but doesn’t note him beyond that. A big grin blooms across the lower half of Luke’s face. You’d smack it off if you could.

Beside you, Kieran suddenly lets out a chuckle, both of the twins once more very interested in you- particularly the reaction you’re trying to hide- as you swallow and look away.

Under the broad arch, their stepfather adjusts his sleeves before casually propping himself against the wall, arms folded.

You risk a glance over and instantly regret it when you catch his eyes on yours, a brow quirked teasingly.

…Directed at the boys, you realize when he speaks again. Of course. “You two lean on your sister far too much, don’t you think? I’d say you’re lucky she’s been so patient with you both.”

A huff from one of them. But they’re so similar it might as well come from the other. “Hah, I have the patience of a saint, especially when it comes to her! Don’t forget, dad, how long it took for me to get her to even talk to me-“

Frowning, you open your mouth to argue against that, to defend your past-self’s choices (because she had every reason to ignore the obnoxious pair), but to your suprise Luke beats you to the punch.

“Bro, you have to admit,” he starts with a sheepish laugh, “we were kind of annoying kids… I mean, we were pretty much always trying to find a new way to bother her…”

Curtly, you close your mouth. That deep, rumbling voice sounds out again- light in tone- and your heart skips a beat.

“Honesty’s not a bad start... Kieran, you might benefit from taking notes from your brother.”

“Eh…”

From behind the island, tucked in front of the stove- you swear you hear the cuisiner chuckle.

The pan sizzles. Your mouth waters and you’re reminded of how hungry you are, but the longer the silver-haired man lingers in the entryway the more you’re afraid he’s there to stay.

It was supposed to be just the three of you eating together. Not- Not him. And yeah, sure, this is his house at the end of the day— you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t already painfully aware of that- a fact that’s more obvious than ever now that your only real tether to this place, your mother, is gone— but why did he have to show up now of all times?

As every gripe starts to form in your head-

Two weeks. And then, and then it’ll be over for the last time.

-you silence them.

A moment passes and Luke, still studying you with the ghost of a grin, asks what you all really want to know.

“So, dad, are you staying for lunch?”

A beat. You furtively glance up in time to watch him check his expensive wristwatch, his brow furrowed.

“Lunch, you say?” He chuckles, ruby-red eyes practically sparkling when he lifts his chin, one corner of his mouth curved- though you can tell he’s trying to mask it. “And I guess this is the early bird special?”

“Sleepyhead Y/n here rolled out of bed late.”

You huff, crossing your arms, distracting yourself with the busy chef. “And these two all but barged in while I was still busy unpacking.”

Like clockwork, much of the mirth in his expression wanes. He frowns expectantly, voice neither stern nor flat but something in between. “Boys. What did I tell you about not pestering our guest while she’s still here?”

Luke and Kieran snicker. You bite down on a grin.

“Yeah, boys,” you murmur to be annoying, just loud enough for them to hear. That’s the hope, at least.

Sylus’s little smirk returns with a vengeance. He refolds his arms, adjusting.

“…Anyway, though. I can’t stay. I have a meeting I need to sit in at the main office, unfortunately. I would’ve…” A raking of his eyes between the three of you, interested, and a brief pause, “Enjoyed that, though.”

He hums, saying more to himself now than to any of you, “another time.”

For a number of moments, the air seems oddly tense. A miasma of something unsaid hangs between the four of you, thickening the air between, and in the split second before someone breaks the silence, you’re struggling to pinpoint the root cause.

It’s just the ice from last night, you decide quietly, the bits of it that didn’t break. The friction left over.

You’re still settling in, after all.

…And yet when his gaze finds yours again, something not to be uttered in it as cherry hues zero in on you, his lashes fluttering ever so slightly—

The pulse in your chest trips and picks itself back up again.

You blink, looking down to his chest. When your stare sweeps up again to his face, almost hesitant to find what may be waiting there, he’s addressing the twins and it’s already gone.

“Well. I’m out, then. Boys: don’t drive your sister crazy. And… Kitten…”

Your brow pinches unwittingly. There, again, is that strange yet patient twinkle in his eye and it steals all the breath from your lungs in one fell swoop.

Either side of you, Luke and Kieran trade off between appearing uncertain and then appearing just as eager. Behind the steaming stove, even the chef, cottoning onto the shift in atmosphere, tosses the briefest of looks over his shoulder to assess the situation.

You nervously wet your lip. “Y-Yeah?”

Promptly, your stepfather’s countenance smooths out into an easy, pellucid smile. A whit challenging; a whit encouraging— but not at all reluctant, no, the mite of intimidation in his gaze is a simple result of your clouded thinking these past few days. Nothing more.

“Don’t pull your punches if they do.”

A swallow. “Alright.”

The twins, no different than conspiring, bothersome little rats, slap a hand over their mouths to hide a laugh, and then their dad is skimming between all three of you in your row at the counter. Albeit, his tone is too gentle for them—

“Call if you need something,” he suggests.

And then he’s gone.

A tumbleweed blows through. Kieran turns to you afterward, Luke’s hand idly dangling off your shoulder, the pair far too comfortable with taking up your space- but for now, obedient enough.

“Well, chef, how’s it looking?”

Lunch is served on a silver platter.

Swallowing down your reservations, your typical discomfort with their casual, sumptuous lifestyle, you fold to your hunger and dig in.

Kieran, ever the pest, laughs when you finish before them, shoveling a share of his saucy broccoli onto your plate. His grin is shit-eating, but you can appreciate the generosity laced under his teasing remark for what it is.

“Wow, someone’s hungry, huh? Bet you’re wishing you ate during your flight!”

✦

In the hours after, you trampoline between idling through the massive home, revisiting various memories you hold of each room and long corridor, and sitting down with a hand over your full belly. Thinking.

Maybe all the reflection isn’t for the better, though, as much as you try to keep optimistic by playing dumb to your circumstances.

You don’t blame the boys for being so energetic, even amidst the doom and gloom that’s reared its head in just the past few days— it’s a lot to handle, everything with your mother, sure it is, but they’re known for their mischief, for being nothing but happy-go-lucky. Besides… sometimes grief manifests itself in strange ways. Whether it be through inconvenient fits of laughter or a stone-faced apathy, it’s all of the same brood: an interesting yet no less instinctual coping mechanism.

Considering you’ve been forcefully naive surrounding your reasons for being flown out, you know plenty about those mechanisms yourself.

It’s not impossible that they’re mourning her in their own way, the twins. Behind all the admittedly strange, insouciant remarks and the carelessness around such a delicate situation- tasteless at the best of times- you think you see it, the cracks.

The fleeting blips of unease in Luke’s eyes. The moments where the room goes quiet after a good joke makes its round through and he has to blink something away from his conscience. Or the gelidity of his brother, for that matter. The wide-eyed stare into nothingness before he, too, shakes it away like whatever it is is no more than an intrusive thought to be tossed aside and disregarded.

Not to mention they’re gentler with you. More… chivalrous, almost.

Exhibit A:

The boys approach you closer to sunset in your bedroom, their polite, small smiles and knocks before coming in pleasant surprises each.

Perched on your bedroom’s dormer window, you boredly flip through a book you’ve read at least thrice as they ask if you’ve found a dress yet for the funeral, as respectful as they ever could be.

On cue, your world weathers at the edges. Like paper thinning through after its corner is put to a lighter.

Right, right. A dress. The- The funeral….

You’ve not even been in the Qin estate for 24 hours but you’re already letting these things- these very paramount things- slip from your mind. They should be in the forefront of it, but the more you dwell on them (your priorities: using these two weeks to prepare for the ceremony, finding suitable attire, hopefully going through her belongings once you’re ready enough), the more it hurts, so you just shut it out.

See, all of this— the dreadful knowing that your veritable mother is gone and in terms of blood and bone family, you’re now left utterly alone (that maybe if you’d just- fucking hung around a bit more you somehow could’ve reversed her fate)— has obviously affected you as much as it has your stepfamily if not more- considering they were the ones who found her and all. But the twins, and even their father, are demonstrating a master class in composure, and you don’t know whether to find gratitude in their lack of flying off the handle (in this hell, someone needs to remain coolheaded) or be offended by it.

It almost feels like she was never here.

Like nothing went wrong... But you can’t really blame them for their cool and collected behaviors, because you’re putting up a strong front yourself.

Maybe your mother wasn’t the twins’ given at birth, sure... But they operated as a true family. Even when you were bitter and stuck-up and rude, the four of them were tight-knit, so much so that eventually you felt like the fucking interloper in it all, the outlying number in the equation.

So you quietly understand that there’s hurt involved on their side around her death- whether they’re being loud about it or not- and choose not to tally it against them.

…Perhaps, you think, it’s high time for you to retire your childhood grudges, anyway.

You close the book, smoothing over the cover.

If the five-second rule applies— you use four and a half to pick up your pieces off the floor and formulate a reply, not hiding how crestfallen you are.

“No. I… I haven’t even went shopping yet. I mean, I figured-“

A thick swallow on your end- and an exhale that sounds more like the stirrings of a panic attack and the boys are at your side in a moment. Their softer facets coming through as they join you on the loft window.

Luke takes the worn stuffed animal he almost crushes, dutifully ignoring its matted fur, and places it in your lap to distract you as you struggle to articulate your emotions. Kieran does his best to not scrutinize you too much, knowing you typically don’t like the attention, while you fidget with the plushie and give them an odd show of vulnerability.

I mean, fuck it. They see you as their sister, and you’re tired of pretending to be too tough to rely on them as your brothers, so—

“I- I figured we had two whole weeks, you know? And… And that’s plenty of time to just get a dress later. Have- Have you two gotten everything ready for it?”

“Yeah,” Luke murmurs back, taking your hand in his to swallow it up in warmth. It surprises you but you don’t make a comment. As if wanting to be included as well, or maybe he’s just mad his brother beat him to the punch, Kieran quietly nudges the plushie from your other hand and intwines his fingers with yours.

Your cheeks warm.

Your heart, ricocheting in your chest, whispers something you don’t quite catch as one of them sluggishly props his chin on your shoulder, mumbling a hey, it’s alright as you furiously blink, and you’re inundated with a foreign sense of- of—

Security? …Is that it?

“We went with dad yesterday to buy the suits.”

“Before he picked you up at the airport,” Luke clarifies in a light tone.

At your back, the sun glares over a chilly courtyard, lighting the fountain and iron-wrought gates with liquid, reflective gold. It only makes the near identical visages either side of you look all the more daring and impish— boyishly handsome— as dusk washes its hues over the three of you.

It’s just a little jarring.

A set of knuckles, almost experimentally, caresses your toasty cheek.

…For perhaps the first documented time in history, you don’t bite.

“We can take you, if you want? There’s a place in town that can tailor something perfectly for you. We can go tonight to get your measurements, sis, what do you think? Just get it done?”

It’s… not a bad idea. Far from it, actually.

You’d be able to quiet the restless part of your mind. Accomplish this seemingly easy task that’s become gargantuan in your head all within the span of just one night. To top it all off, it’d be with the added bonus of the twins’ brotherly support.

“A-Actually,” you start, lifting your chin to look at Luke, and then Kieran, voice thin, “I was, um, wondering if you two could take me somewhere else.”

They wait, owlish.

You meekly continue, “I’ve already read all the books I have here. I was thinking if you could drive me to that store downtown, just so I can pick up a few. Something to, um, fill in the time while I’m here, you know?“

Kieran blinks at you, dark eyes examining your face carefully, like he’s taking it in in a new light. You’re sure they don’t know what to make of you right now: for most if not all of your teen years, you played the part of distant stepsister very well, never wore your emotions on your sleeve and hesitated to be open with any of the members of your stepfamily.

Perhaps they think you’re taking a page from their book— setting them up for some grandiose joke so you can cackle in their faces.

Luke, smiling faintly, nudges your shoulder with his and leans in. “Sure, sis. Me and Kieran will take you. I guess you haven’t changed too much while you’ve been gone, huh? You’re still a big bookworm.”

“A big nerd.”

“Alright, you two,” you chuckle lightly, jabbing them both playfully- to which they both offer up a fake, dramatic grunt of pain to- before wiping the tear that almost beads at your eye. You hope they don’t notice. But if they do, they don’t make any sly remark about it. For that you’re thankful.

It seems you’ve all matured quite a bit since pre-adulthood, but it’s somehow more obvious this time around.

This visit is different from the last in more ways than one.

Looking between them both, hardly able to hold their respective gazes as your pulse swings in your throat— “Thank you”— you murmur, gentle.

For as embarrassing as it is to be vulnerable, you let yourself be just a little sweet with them... Considering your mother is gone, and the unsteady grounds you stand on with Sylus especially- the veritable owner of this home- you think you’re less of an inhabitant here and more of a… guest.

Once these two weeks are up and the funeral concludes, you’ll be going away again. Probably for the last time. Nothing will call you back.

(You’d been such a brat. What would want to?)

The twins, unable to hide the little, genuine smirks rippling across their faces, regard you inquisitively when something like sadness flashes across your gaze.

You clear your throat. That thought of finally escaping your stepfamily- your stepfather and all he represented- for good shouldn’t make something in your heart tremble. But oh, it does.

Politely, you brush off their hands and rise to your feet. You’re not sure what’s gotten into you, but you plaster on an awkward yet no less friendly smile and cross your arms.

“So, boys? You ready to go now? Or…?”

Kieran, the utter moron he is, comments something about how he was born ready, jumping up, and then they’re ushering you out the door and into the hall, towards the stairs, in a two-person stampede.

✦

You buy a book.

Three, for good measure, each thicker than the one before. Just something to occupy your mind in the windows of silence you’ll no doubt spend idling around the mansion before the ceremony.

On the way back, the sky is black underneath a cladding of clouds. Ash as far as the eye can see. The stars are hiding, but you lean your cheek against the car window and look up as if trying to spot them, anyway.

Lost in your mind, your own musings holding you close as the bag sits atop your lap, you don’t pay much attention to the boys when they ask if you wanna stop somewhere to eat because they’re getting munchy.

Without looking, though, you do tell them ‘no thanks, you’re getting kind of sleepy’ and Kieran makes the turn home— albeit not without a dramatic sigh.

It’s… pleasant though, surprisingly. Being with them.

It’s like luck is finally shuffling over to your side. Like things are finally looking up- no matter how trife or trivial they seem. For as shitty of a week it’s turned out to be, you need all the silver linings you can get. So (although with some reluctance, some… confusion) you’ll count this time with them as a small blessing.

Maybe, just maybe, this impromptu trip to Linkon is finally taking a turn for the better. Maybe each and every one of your efforts to remain patient and open-minded and mature with your stepfamily have actually begun to pay off. Maybe you won’t be tearfully pulling hair from your scalp after all, driven mad.

The twins’ harmless griping is a backdrop you smile at as the gates of the estate come into view through the woody road.

In the warmer seasons, it’s a monolithic modern thing erected atop rolling lawns striped green. As it stands now, though, the courtyard is a dull, frosted sage, quiet and cold. The fountain will need to be turned off soon before everything freezes, before the snow comes. You vaguely wonder if one of the workers or bush trimmers that come along every week or two will remember before Sylus even gives them the order. It’s likely.

A thud. “Are you sure, sis?” Your door closes behind you.

Hand still on the wheel, Kieran waggles his eyebrows as his sibling hollers from the passenger seat, thinking you’ll take his lilts as an invitation to get back into the vehicle.

“I’m sure,” you murmur fondly, actually stopping at the driver’s window for a moment to hear them out. You adjust the plastic bag in your grasp and throw a look down the rest of the driveway, towards the house.

“You want us to bring something back, at least? We found this cool new place that opened up that has the best—“

A chuckle. “I’m alright, really. We had lunch and dinner together, ‘member?” Then, you give your throat a soft, innocuous clear, scuffing your shoes over the pavement. “By the way, uh… Do you think your dad’s home yet?”

With the garage closed, the path empty and only the lights you left on in the house warmly shining through, it’s hard to tell if anybody else has come by.

Kieran actually snickers at your hesitance, the little bastard.

You reach forward to flick his forehead and he reels away with an excited shout. “Calm down, sis, I didn’t even say anything!”

“Yeah, but I see you laughing you dummy-“

“It’s just cute, is all. You’re always so worried about our old man and what he’s up to.”

You huff at that, maybe even visibly fluster. But before you can say anything, hop to your own defense, a puckish voice overlaps yours. “If you were in a cartoon, you’d have steam coming out of your ears right now.”

“Ugh! You two are unbearable-!”

“Hey, Kieran said it, not me-“

“But you thought it, didn’t you? You two share the same handful of braincells after all!!”

They both laugh, more endeared by your insults than offended- much to your dismay- and you put your tongue in your cheek. Your narrowed eyes drift back to the titanic of a home. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you almost swear you see a shadow flutter by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows on the bottom level and—

“Did you see that?” You untuck your arms from their weave at your chest and squint. The boys, still sniggering, follow your gaze. “I think he is home.”

A beat of silence passes.

You turn over. Luke faces ahead in his seat, wetting his lip wordlessly, but Kieran dangles his arm out the side of the fancy, sleek car (that his father surely bought for him as a toy) with his eyes set on you.

Holding your gaze with a shake of his head, his smirk is a tenuous thing, but it’s there. “Nah, I’m pretty sure he’s gone, sis.”

If you ever write a guide on surviving the Qin family, the first page would say: step one, do not believe the twins if they utter anything even a stone’s throw from the two words—

“Don’t worry.”

You frown, uncertain.

He laughs at your pouting. “Kieran- just tell me the truth-“

“I’m serious! He’ll be back later tonight, probably midnight. You know how it is. His schedule is spotty.”

A wind sweeps through and you shiver ever so slightly, clasping either of your arms as you hug them close to your body. Your lips are getting that uncomfortable dry feeling but you know it’ll only worsen if you run your tongue over them. So you don’t.

You eye the lavish, yet unassuming front of the home, ruminating. “Kieran-“

“Now go back in before you catch a cold. Dad will really kill me and Luke if he finds out you were standing out in the dark just to bicker with us.”

“I’m innocent in this,” his brother murmurs before exaggerating a yawn.

You analyze the crafty duo one more time before sensing no dupe on their end and sighing, marching up towards the house.

“Fine,” you call over your shoulder, just a little testy. You don’t want to be fooled, but there isn’t a big reason for them to lie about whether their dad’s returned or not- and even if he did make it back already, it’s no major thorn in your side. There’s a fat chance you’ll just casually, quietly, pass him by as you head to your room- and that’s even if you bump into him in the first place. The place isn’t exactly small or conducive to chance meetings.

“But if you’re lying,” you start, before blushing because you can’t quite think of a good threat. “You’ll- you’ll regret it.”

The engine purrs and the car pulls off- thank God- carrying the harmless yet bothersome mocking words of your stepbrothers with it. “Ohhhh so scary! See you later!”

You cluck your tongue, shaking your head at no annoyance of theirs in particular as you hop up the steps and fish for the key in your pocket.

Giggling under your breath. Idiots.

✦

You’re not giggling when you enter the open foyer, locking the door behind you, and spot a figure in the living room, splayed out on the large L-shaped sofa.

No, you’re not even thinking about the boys anymore, just the dilemma laid out before you as you press your lips together in a thin line and turn your feet into feathers to begin making your way through.

God’s hand must be over your life though, because upon closer, very furtive inspection, tiptoeing towards the archway, he’s…

Asleep.

You let out a soundless sigh of relief at that, shoulders slumping.

…And you should take the opportunity- glad it’s even come to you- and go, you know. It’s as good a moment as any to slip off, undetected, and retreat into the privacy of your bedroom.

It’s all but waiting for you.

What you told the twins was as much of a truth as it was a good excuse— you’re tired and it’s encroaching on that time where you want to plop into bed and curl up under the covers.

Not because it’s past your curfew or anything, no- honestly, you usually have a penchant to stay up late- but because you’re still a little jet-lagged from the flight and you’d prefer to sleep instead of loaf the evening through with the unwanted company of whatever thoughts that might creep in.

You’re not… incredibly close with Sylus. Unbidden feelings of safety and peace in his presence nudged aside, you’re not chummy with the guy and you really have no reason to stick around especially when you’re growing tired but—

Approaching the archway, you slowly reach a hand to rest on it, and you watch.

A half-touched mug of coffee sits on the table before the couch. Strewn beside it is his laptop, mousepad and mouse, and one of those yellow, lined notebooks that you quirk a brow at only because it’s deceptively cheap for a man so expensive.

It’s closer to something your own father- your real, now deceased one- would use to mark out measurements for his woodworking projects, or keep on the fridge under a magnet as a note to himself.

…Huh.

A mite amused by the sight of your generally very awake, proactive stepfather, you fight off a grudging smile- all too entertained by the languid display- and rest your shoulder against the wall.

Dim, golden lights fall over him in a gentle haze, but the shadow cut by his bumped nose is sharp.

You know they’re not related, Sylus and his unruly sons. The twins are splitting images of each other, but they mirror nothing of Sylus’s face— so when you heard the casual murmurs between him and your mother behind closed doors one evening about their ‘adoption’ long ago, you shouldn’t have been surprised. Yet you were.

For as much as you disliked him, it was never because he was a bad father.

The opposite, if you’re completely honest.

He’s always been good to the boys. Nothing short of nurturing (in his own indirect way, of course), paternal, and teacherly. Offering a hand of guidance where it was needed but never ironlike or suffocating with how he used it. If anything, he was even a smidgen lax with them- which you’d quietly admire but only in absolute secret.

Every parent has their faults, that’s a given.

Sylus had very little.

A head full of silver (and some grey, albeit it’s hard to notice his age just because he handles it so gracefully, so boldly) tipped against the back of the couch with an arm resting on the side of it- the shaggy throw blanket on his lap with the wintry chill kept in mind— he’s more than just peaceful. He’s…

Domestic. Relaxed.

This is his territory, you’re reminded again.

You’re just passing through it.

A five o’clock shadow dots the slant of his jaw. His lashes don’t even flutter in his sleep; you reckon he’s deep into it. A pen hangs between his fingers, limp.

Interest dashes through you as you quietly observe him.

You’re not… spying, per se, it’s just- You’re just curious, alright? And to be fair, he wouldn’t have any right to call you out on your observation even if he wanted to, because the number of times you’ve felt and ignored his patient, hopeful, or outright (for whatever reason) amazed stare is too high to be logged.

A pair of glasses rests on the tip of his nose, sloping off. There’s no way to tell just when he got home, but it’s obvious he had been hard at work with something on his computer.

Humming thoughtfully, you pull your gaze away before sluggishly pushing off the threshold.

You shake your head at yourself, readjusting your bag as you find the trace of humor in your desultory actions. Why you let your curiosity get the better of you, you don’t know. It’s very possible at this point that something’s possessed you. Either that, or your cold, guarded heart is thawing out at rates National Geographic needs to get an angle on ASAP.

In any case- you really ought to head up for bed now.

Quiet as a mouse, careful lest you wake and alert him to your presence, you pad behind the couch and across the width of the massive living room to the just as opulent stairs.

You look up to them—

Looming. Dark.

In your mind’s eye, so unrealistically steep- so dangerous—

Breath suddenly hitching, you glance down to your feet, planted firmly beneath you- unmoving- and remind yourself of good things. Other, things.

Puppies. Kittens. Rainbows with pots of gold waiting at the other end with leprechauns to greedily guard them- varying flights of fancy.

Awfully enough, in all your attempts to distract and soothe yourself, four portraits pop up into your brain and three of them belong to none other than your stepfamily.

You want to be callous. But it’s not working this time around.

This wound of yours that your mother’s death left behind is too open, too fleshy, for you to pretend that your skin is so hardened.

Reopening your eyes, you swallow down the bad gut feeling that twists like a knife- the inexplicable unease disappearing as quickly as it came- and reach a hand for the railing.

Bed. Bed. Clearly, you need the rest—

“Kitten?”

A groggy voice. That, and a shuffle.

You flip around.

You’re too shocked to even remember you’re meant to dislike him, hand flying over your heart in a trice. “Y-Yeah?”

Your stepfather, looking sideward over the couch at you, blinks away sleep casually.

Oh, God. It’s just him…

“Oh,” he mumbles, “Sorry, Sweetie. I didn’t mean to scare you…” lazily tossing a glance to the unoccupied space around him, even the banister overhead; checking for something, you realize as your heart slowly takes its foot out from your throat.

You sigh out, visibly deflating.

You think you see his gaze drop to the bag in your hand, giving you a once-over, but his ruby eyes are catching the light in a way that makes it near impossible to discern. You can only tell he’s looking at you because he’s facing you.

“Where’s the boys? You left with them, didn’t you?”

Your lashes bounce against your cheekbone, rapid as you collect your bearings. “Oh, they…”

His tone gets a little stern, then, his eyes a little clearer now as he dips his chin and quirks a searching brow. Incredulous, very. “Is… everything alright? They behaved themselves, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, no- the boys were fine,” you shake your head, rubbing nothing from your eye. Fatigue, maybe, as it drapes itself over you. It takes a second for you to remember the events that led you here before opening your mouth to speak on them. “Um, they just wanted to get a snack and I wanted to be dropped off, so…”

He takes a moment to ponder that.

Unconvinced, “But everything went well?” His attention skims over you hastily. You see that, now. The intense glitter in his eye, wholly transfixed, as the dregs of his slumber wear off- however, the gravel in his voice is more stubborn to go.

He sighs, long-suffering. “You can tell me. I won’t let them know it was you.”

You struggle to imagine how that would go, but shake your head in the next moment anyway.

“Really, it was fine. Everything went well.”

“Good.” He hums, then, seemingly satisfied.

He pores over you, curious all over again as a tiny bunch forms between his brow, wrinkling it slightly. “You’re… heading up for the night now, I guess?”

Oh, yes actually, you think to yourself in time with his reminding you of it- but you go to reply and hold off on it when he glances down at what you correctly assume to be his wristwatch, pausing thoughtfully.

“Oh, my. It’s gotten pretty late out now,” he drawls. “Hm. I must’ve drifted off while I was waiting for-”

You quirk a brow. “Ah. Waiting for this spreadsheet to get interesting,” he smoothly chuckles, looking at the screen of his computer and the low battery sign that pops up as a window on it.

Before you can think to respond- “Goodnight then, Kitten,” he lilts as high as his sleep-addled voice will allow, “I’ll see you in the morning. Should I,” a pause again, “wake you for breakfast?”

You swallow, momentarily glancing at the top landing of the stairs. “No thanks.”

“Are you sure?” He breathes.

Persistence is needed in business, you know that; it’s why you don’t hold it against him when his first instinct is to push rather than pull away. His realm is different than yours. And anyway, he’s just being polite— playing the part of the concerned, doting, yet nonetheless hesitant stepfather who is terribly uncertain with how to best handle his grouchy stepdaughter. He does it well.

“You’re not afraid of missing out?”

You offer a mildly amused huff, choosing to indulge him just this once- just for these two weeks. “On my sleep, maybe.”

He chuckles. It’s a full and rich sound. There’ll come a day where Luke and Kieran will coax more of the same out of him, and you’ll give them genuine, congratulatory claps on the back each for the achievement.

For now, though, that feat is yours and yours alone. Not that you’re… exactly proud of it.

“Alright, alright, I get the hint, little miss night owl… I won’t disturb you tomorrow. You have my word.” He smirks just barely. Just safe enough.

“Sleep tight, Sweetie.”

The ice is melting between you both, yes- a phenomenon you both curiously, warily observe— but he will watch his step.

You set your foot on the first stair, “T-Thanks. You too.”

…As will you.

Chapter 3: love on the brain

He comes like a flashbang into your life.

And to preface this: you get it, alright? that your mother misses your late father, she’s not doing half as well as she used to be and she technically can be considered single, open for the dating market. This is a trying time for you both. God as your witness, you’ve been slipping down the slope while she’s been putting her nose to the grindstone; there’s no shortage of struggle for you both since your dad died- but finally, it’s settling in for her.

The loneliness.

The need for something- someone- more.

And you somewhat bitterly suppose you just don’t qualify, do you?

It was an inevitable thing.

Away from the metaphorical sand you buried your head in, deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before a new man walked into her life- some actually half-decent, upstanding suitor- and flipped your world off its feet.

It wasn’t a maybe. Not a what if, either.

It was a when.

…Call it naivety on your end or just sheer stupidity, though, your sixteen-year-old brain having a lapse in judgement, but for whatever reason, you didn’t think that when would come.

You prayed against it. Childish or not, whether it can be considered a secret little attempt to sabotage your mother’s possible, budding relationships you had no proof of but suspected all the same (you recognize her perfume; not the rich cologne lingering on her blouse when she finally comes back from work)- you’d hoped she’d keep off from it, anyway.

From, you know,…

The whole ‘falling in love’ thing…

You’re not so deluded to believe it’s infidelity, her quietly seeking out another man outside of your father whole years after he’s passed (anyhow, you’re sure the legal side of it, the paperwork, doesn’t hold up the same), but that doesn’t ease the blow that is the idea of it.

Sure. He’s gone. That much is clear to you…The days pass- weeks, two years- and it’s almost like your life has reached a stopover, waiting for him to come back. I mean, sometimes, it’s almost like he was never even there.

…But at night, when darkness comes with its unbroken silence, you lie there and your heart thinks of him. Wherever you remember him, it hurts.

And yeah, maybe your mother seems growingly eager to leave your father behind… to truly make him a thing of the past even in memory- the final thing you have left of him. But you’re not so chummy with the silent suggestion of joining her there.

You don’t want that ‘when’ to come. Desperately, you don’t.

Oh, but it does.

Out of the blue like a comet from the sky, blindsiding you.

Swinging through the door, chuckling at something she’s said over her shoulder, you think, but the amusement on his face is almost too bare, too shadowed, to tell from where you sit.

You jolt in your chair.

The microwave, droning on, beeps, signaling your frozen dinner’s finally thawed out. But while it draws the attention of your drunken mother- otherwise distracted by the stranger she leads inside your little apartment- your growling stomach becomes the furthest thing from your mind in the moment.

Apparently, the stranger— tall, broad-shouldered, all suave with his sidepart and tailored leather jacket draped behind him like a cape— couldn’t care less for what’s cooking, either.

He doesn’t take his shoes off.

For that, you’re grateful, observing him with a reasonable sum of doubt as he lingers by the entry: It means he doesn’t have plans to stay long.

Which is good, because if he did, you think with a morsel of unease, your brow slowly creasing, you might’ve had to consider grabbing the broom and brushing him out.

The con is that he does wipe them off on the mat, though. Evidently, he plans to step deeper in.

His eyes, a ruby red, sharp as a hawk tracking prey, find yours from where you sit at the table, caught unawares as you scramble to hide your bare legs under your shirt, and he raises a subtle, curious brow at the observation.

“Oh,” he cocks his head, the front door- your front door- clicking behind him as he swiftly fixes his slight surprise into a cool, inscrutable mask.

“What a surprise. Your daughter, I presume?”

Distantly, in your head, a warning bell chimes.

…O-Or maybe it’s just the microwave, but—

Your mom turns it off, “Oh, honey,” in lieu of a greeting, she says, giggling as she walks over and sets her purse down on the tiny, round table you sit at.

Her work blouse is at least intact: you’ll give her that much. But her shift ended four hours ago and by the looks of it, she’s forgotten that promise to stop by the store on her way home- clearly occupied with something else- and in any case, you can’t really say the same for the stranger…

Dapper as he is— what with his perfect posture and urban get-up, the image of dashingly handsome, debonair, imposing (yet somehow just a touch weathered, too, however that may fit)- just to list a few traits off the bat— his top buttons are undone.

His hair, a natural silver all the way through, is almost imperceptibly disheveled. And maybe those things could be reasoned for or go unnoticed- to the untrained eye, they would- but you’re a little too paranoid, on alert as this asshole saunters into your house like it’s his, to miss the outlying factors.

The most damning of them all:

The wine-red smear of lipstick on his neck, only half concealed by his collar.

Your heart shudders in your chest.

And this is scary, this is nerve-wracking, yes, suddenly being force-fed the reason behind all the late nights your mother spent out, the whiffs of man on her clothes and the inexplicably giddy mood she’s been in lately- oh, it’s a million negative adjectives all packed in one- but when he strides forward, confident like you wouldn’t believe, and extends a hand for you to shake-?

You wonder if it’s fury, rising above anything else, that broils in your gut and makes accepting it an all but impossible task.

“Sylus,” he purrs as introduction.

And to be honest, that’s what this feels like in the most grandiose, pervasive of ways: the bad guy being introduced.

It’s true that you caught fragments of him: the vestigial notes of bergamot and vanilla that follow after your mother like some ghostly haunting; the odd lifts in her mood as of late; the phonecalls she gets at night that she always dismisses, but not without a thick swallow and a darting look your way before letting it ring— hell, you’ve even heard whispers within her friend circle of some dishy man dropping by her work building, nonchalant with a bouquet of flowers in tow—

Actually being face-to-face with him, literal inches apart, is freshly alarming.

Meeting him is something cinematic and new. Like a chord in the soundtrack dips; a note lowering to introduce the villain as one of the keys shake.

And perhaps comparing the scene, this man, to a movie isn’t so bad a coping mechanism, because yes, as the surround-sound kicks in and he’s all you can hear- that rich voice of velvet and bass to boot- the room going dark as you tunnel in on him before you— it feels like none of it is even real.

The kitchen blurs. The tiles on the wall smearing into one another, fuzzing together in a way that doesn’t resemble the home you know.

Bergamot, subtle but carrying a little bit of a punch, floods your system and inundates you. Vanilla lays the base for it, as sweet-smelling as nectar.

It settles in your lungs like congestion.

Truffle wrap. Marble and stone. The banister: meant to be sturdy.

It is.

He must be within the same age pool as your mom, yet when his penetrating stare briefly shifts over to her (if you didn’t know any better, amused at your reluctance to accept him)- and he grins that damned grin— he looks young again.

You’re actually almost fooled into believing he’s a gentleman.

There’s nothing… inherently wrong with him, you suppose. But none of that, him seeming apparently decent, matters- not when you’d already decided you’d stay loyal to your dad no matter what. N-Not when-

Not when something is wailing in your subconscious, parting cars in its path. Like a siren in the night shaking you awake to tell you something is terribly, terribly wrong. A wildfire. A disaster.

You quietly wonder if being in places he doesn’t belong gives him a confidence boost, or if he’s just impossibly tone deaf to the environment as it whispers in his ear, ‘you shouldn’t be here.’

All the while, something- mystical in nature, almost, like an angel or devil on your shoulder (it could be either)- is whispering to you, too.

Faintly, that voice in your head, deathly-quiet, says stop. Stop this. Nip it in the bud before it—

This is overwhelming. All of it.

You’re mortified and unsure of yourself; a mite betrayed, even, as you toss a cursory glance to your mom who watches on with a look of both expectance and worry, chewing away at her bottom lip.

It’s a little humorous, the faint concern made ten times more obvious in her half drunken state, as she puts herself on standby.

You can’t help but wonder what face you’re making now. If it’s one of shock, anger, or fear. Or an ugly amalgamation of the three— that’s possible, too.

Truthfully, you’re just as hard pressed to distinguish what you’re feeling: unsure of your next reaction. If anything, you might appreciate if she chooses to step forward and help you figure out just what the hell is happening, whether that means by extraction or a gentle hand on your shoulder to help steady you as he tells you his name.

Two minutes ago, you were waiting for your frozen dinner to thaw (really just a block of something half edible, but with the milk gone, you can’t make your routine cereal), thinking you were in the clear to lounge around with panties and a baggy shirt with your mother out God knows where. Now, you’re looking dead-on at what is perhaps your worst nightmare as the kitchen, not so comfortable anymore, fizzles to nothingness around you.

From this close, he’s… Leonine, that’s a pretty good word for him. As elegant and cocksure, relaxed, as a king of nature.

He doesn’t worry about what he will eat tomorrow: his sheer presence is dominating enough to have it served on a silver platter for him. Something about him just tells you so.

But he’s… beautiful in a way, too, you’ll concede that much (and only that much). Said with the best of intents, he reminds you of some prized thing from an antique shop, lacquered and pretty but weathered all the same.

You can’t imagine all the zeroes on his price tag, but he’s definitely an expensive thing. Part of you wonders what the hell he’s doing with your mother: you don’t come from wealth, so if he has any desire to romance her, it’s not for material gain.

…An admittedly endearing revelation. But it doesn’t quite placate you.

You can see the slight scruff of his chin, the faint wrinkles settling into his angular features. The harsh fluorescence of your kitchen isn’t the most flattering of lights, but he fairs surprisingly well under it regardless.

It’s obvious he takes good care of himself. And it’s also clear to you that he knows his worth- but considering the air of snugness around him, and your flowering dislike for him, you can’t help but wonder if he overestimates it.

The guy is a complete fucking stranger. You know him about as far as you can throw him.

A few beats of silence pass on. Each more unbearable than the last as you wordlessly drink the stranger in, his brow lifting with what you can only assume to be the stirrings of a challenge as he waits for you to take his much larger hand in yours.

Your uncertain gaze- made wide at the unwanted suddenness of it all- flits down to that hand. Despite the many jewels and glittering things that adorn his long, svelte fingers, though, there’s a lack of a wedding ring.

You allow yourself to deflate just a tiny bit at the observation.

It’s good to know he doesn’t have a wife and kids waiting at home for him, you sarcastically guess, while your mom guns for him as they sit unawares.

Still. You don’t know this man. You don’t- you don’t know what he’s doing with your mother (but don’t you?).

And he’s…

Perhaps draconian, actually, is the best descriptor.

Parting your lips in a silent breath, trying and failing to provide a simple hello to the guest or your nervous mother to the side, spectating it all, you’re at a bit of a loss for words when your subconscious realizes it’s presented with the quiet comparison of an animal or a devil for the guy— and no in between.

Sweetie, hey- Are… Are you able to talk? It’s… Important.

I… have some news. Not the good kind. Find somewhere to sit down and breathe.

…Breathe, you remind yourself. Yes. Just…

Just breathe.

Yet, his cologne- that citrusy spritz he wears like a coat, a smell you’re so unexplainably sensitive to for some reason, with its treacly vanilla undertones- is all you can breathe.

“Honey,” a thin, yet encouraging voice, your mom’s, calls out, and then her hand does settle on your shoulder as she sidles up to your chair hesitantly. “Say hi to him?”

You blink, lashes fluttering.

…And his stupid hand is still there, outstretched and waiting.

✦

You’ll give him credit for this:

Sylus, at the first opportunity to ditch his bratty, seething stepdaughter after his wife- his only real obligation to her- passes— doesn’t take it.

He had every chance to kick you to the curb now that your mother’s out of the picture. And to be honest, he has every reason, every right, to give you the boot. You’ve only been a complete bitch to him for the last seven years you’ve known him. Not to the point of ball-breaking, not quite, you were only a teenager after all, but it wasn’t extremely far off from that either.

Sylus, by his own volition, stays.

Moreover, he invites you into his home. And yes, you know it’s technically yours, too, but the circumstances of your filling out the rest of your youth under his roof weren’t the prettiest, and you weren’t the most… pleasant of persons to be around. Let alone live with.

Yet every stolen, curious glance he takes of you and the gentle, half smirks in passing- brushing your shoulder like it’s the most casual thing ever, like you never left- is a reminder in its own that this is your place, too. Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant.

If your stepfather’s aim is to reassure you, it’s working.

Slowly but surely.

Four days into the visit, you let go of much of your resistance and let yourself simply… breathe.

The past is the past, and, capable of rational thought, you’d do well to leave it behind. Let bygones be bygones and forgive both yourself and the people around you for former hurts of former times.

It’s called maturing, you quietly decide at the door one early morning, having been all but hauled out of bed, bidding the twins adieu as they hover at the porch.

This little resolve you let bud in your heart and grow is what compels you to wrap your arms around them when they hug you, embracing them back as Kieran mopes in your ear and Luke reminds it’s only for a few days.

It’s not as much to comfort you as it is to comfort himself and his brother.

You’re well aware of this, but keep quiet on the matter; you’re too sleepy to be in the mood to tease him for it, but mentally pocket it for a later time anyway.

Occupying any sort of space with the twins guarantees that you’ll need a decent deck of comebacks on standby. You’ve been adding to yours.

This short business trip of theirs isn’t some long, drawn-out pilgrimage taken to distant lands, despite their theatrics- it’s not even obligatory- but you know very well how eager the boys are to please their father, and if working a few days at one of the subsidiary companies to better the career he gave them will make him preen, then they’ll do it. Gladly.

You wouldn’t call either of them homebodies, per se… but wherever their father is, so is their heart. It’s only natural they’d want to make him proud. You know that.

You understand why they’re going, you do…

It’s just…

Over Luke’s shoulder, your eyes meet Sylus’s only briefly, but a second is all you need to read his emotions.

Propped against the threshold with folded arms and a spark of amusement that’s only slightly obvious, he watches them sandwich you in a big hug.

If it hasn’t been made clear yet— yes, they’ll miss you.

“Oh, so dramatic,” their father comments, not with any shortage of entertainment. You think if he could, he would’ve prepared a bowl of popcorn for this- but while he’s certainly tickled by the sight, there’s something else in his stare as he divvies it between you three, gathered in a tangle of arms and suitcases, that he won’t admit aloud.

Pride, maybe…?

Satisfaction?

Or… Content. That’s the closest word.

You hope Sylus doesn’t see the slight fluster left on you by his flippant remark. Untucking your chin from one of the boys’ shoulders as you stand upright and pat their backs respectively.

“A-Alright, boys, that’s enough.”

“Say it back,” Luke chirps, “say you’ll miss us!”

Sighing, you roll your eyes. “I just said I did-“

“But do it louder! We’ll be gone for three whole days!”

“Yeah! Don’t you love us, sis?! Will you really just stand there unaffected as we turn our backs and go?”

If unaffected means arms crossed, shivering in freezing temperatures with the faintest of frowns on your face, some inner piece of you experiencing a quiet, unanticipated ache at their departure, then yes- by all means, you’re unaffected.

You purse your lips, snipping back with only half the bite, “If you keep pushing it, I’ll email the firm specifically and tell them to keep you dummies there for longer.”

A deep, languid chuckle answers back; like a slowed song with reverb, it hits differently.

Considering your newfound efforts to squash the beef between you both- even if it was only one-sided- you don’t ignore him out of bitterness, but the slight unease is still something you can’t quite shake, so you momentarily survey the porch below (anything but him, stood somewhere behind you), and sniff.

I mean, it’s reasonable to be a little awkward, isn’t it…? You’ve spent all your adult years clinging onto the straws of a grudge your teenage self kept for him- and back then, you were only fiercer, more vocal, in your stance taken against your new stepfamily.

So yeah, while it’s safe to say the worst of that metaphorical storm has blown over, the debris is still absolutely there: the ruined bits you have to cautiously step across and just- try to overlook.

Too low for anyone to hear, you softly sigh.

Just as you determined to make peace with him, though, you tranquilly think to yourself, you’ll too learn how to navigate the aftermath of that silently-signed treaty.

Of course, that awkward feeling in the air, not powerful enough to take precedence in your mind, but niggling all the same, is only temporary.

Two weeks.

“Geez, sis,” Kieran snickers, Luke grinning ear to ear at your other side, the duo forming a flank, “someone woke up on the wrong side of bed, huh?”

“You’ll be late, you two,” a lilting voice from behind chimes in, effectively putting an end to the antics.

You don’t bother looking behind, but the twins’ focus shifts over your head before they slump their backs and sigh, conceding.

Hmph. Theatrical as always.

“Yeah, yeah, we got it, dad! We’re going!”

Rewrapping your robe, you offer a longanimous exhale when Kieran’s lanky arm unfurls from you, the boys finally stepping away for the car. The thin cotton does little to ward off the December cold, its roots digging bone-deep within seconds of lingering on the porch, and underneath it, your tanktop and panties offer not an iota of warmth, either- but you weren’t about to wave them goodbye half-naked, so the robe does its part to cover you.

Within a few minutes, you’ll be curled up in your bed anyway, allowed to revisit the sleep you’d been so rudely pulled from.

Piling into the car, they holler to you, and with a smile you can’t quite fight off, you shake your head at them all the while.

The engine grumbles to life. The idiots they are, they give it a few gratuitous revs (to impress you? God only knows their end goal) and then the gate is opening for them as they peel off.

Dummies.

And then it’s just you and him.

You and Sylus.

You and… your stepfather.

A hand, broad and big but warm- oh so reluctant- places itself on your shoulder, circling the blade reassuringly with its thumb. To your immense surprise, you manage to keep from flinching beneath it, but just barely.

Still. If that’s not progress, you don’t know what is.

With an only somewhat visible shiver, you turn around and face him as he shifts sideways to the door, his chin trained your way as he offers a slight, deliberate smirk. Something like encouragement is used as its subtext.

His hand leaves as quickly as it came, slipping away. Its imprint of warmth slowly fades, too.

He opens the door wide, gesturing with a nonchalant little nod, “Ready to go in?” In flannel pajamas, bare foot, he doesn’t even shiver.

Vacillating, you spare one last look behind you, out to the courtyard with its sprawling, greyed lawn and erected fences, and watch the stillness. It’s a sight worthy of your admiration.

A flurry— the first of the season— begins to fall.

You breathe out. A cloud of white whisks from your lips and blends into nothingness. It’s pretty in the way that it doesn’t last for long.

And it’s freezing but it’s… strange. How this one cold winter develops this way of thawing you out.

Returning to the man in front of you, waiting patiently, you nod, dipping your head on the way past him. Bundling yourself tighter. “Yeah.”

✦

Not long after midday, you’re a fraction through one of your new books- but you decide to put it down.

It’s for a couple different reasons. One of them being that it’s not gotten good yet- the plot moving at a snail’s speed, the protagonist not interesting enough to even remember the name of- and you figure the chapter you’re closing out on now is a good breaking point. The main one, though, is that you’re awfully bored and this house, despite holding not the best of memories, has lots to offer.

When it comes to fun— exploring its labyrinthine rooms, utilizing its many services and amenities (like a personal chef, for instance, or a home theater and gym)— there’s no shortage of things to do.

It’s just with an ounce of unease that you realize those fun opportunities, however, are only half the appeal without the twins.

Annoying, troublesome, experts at exaggeration and being thorns in your side— yes, they’re all of that and then some. But if we’re listing all their shining traits right now, then for the record, ‘fun’ must be one of them.

And yeah, okay, their absence is starting to kick in just a little bit. But it’s not a big deal. I mean, what’s it matter if they’re gone for a few days? You’ll blink and it’ll be over.

They’ll be back. You’ll greet them at the door after they veer into the driveway, waiting there just as you did when waving them goodbye, and Sylus will be chuckling behind you in that rich, unruffled way he does as they herd you inside and divulge their journey.

Heaving a sigh, you toss your book aside on the dormer window and relocate to your bed.

You belly flop on it before rolling on your back to stare at the ceiling.

For only a moment, you close your eyes and let yourself be barraged by the thoughts you’d been blocking out; the unique responsibilities and aches.

You intake an unsteady, deep breath and attempt to manage them all one at a time— but they don’t stand in single-file, eager to attack you from every angle all at once.

The dress for the funeral…

Looking through your mother’s old things…

And then everything that comes afterward of that, too. Whatever that might entail.

As ambivalent as the future may seem, an abstract thing veiled behind fog and uncertainty, you ruefully suppose not wanting it to come won’t stop it from doing just that.

And then of course, there’s the whole booking your flight thing… leaving this place for, if you’re being realistic, probably the last fucking time and then—

Have you even asked Sylus who’s giving the eulogy?

“No,” you mumble before rolling on your stomach again, legs and arms splayed on the bed like a starfish.

God help you. Half of you is expecting for the twins, just as irksome as they are entertaining, to come bursting through your door at any moment and save you from the woes of having nothing to do. To be fair, sitting around and doing absolutely nothing is better than some things- like work, namely (you don’t want to imagine the stack of papers that’s building on your desk during your leave)- but as you quietly ponder the week and a half ahead, you start to worry it’ll be uneventful from start to finish.

Well, as uneventful that a trip begotten by a funeral can be, anyway.

Maybe it’s being wishful- sickeningly optimistic in a situation with no one silver lining- but you’d like to hope you can at least squeeze out some enjoyment during your stay.

As sheepish as you are to admit it, the twins were a staple in that halfbaked idea.

But now they’re gone. For three days. And God only knows why it was so simple a decision for them to make, leaving you behind when right now, realistically speaking, your little screwed up family should be huddling together now more than ever, but—

(‘Why was it simple?’ Well, why do you think…? Because you’ve been so coldly pushing them away and they finally took the hint and-)

You get up and leave your room, traipsing down the hallway. You can’t find it in you to care, right now, about who you might bump into while the house is left to two people and a whole lot of ice.

Sylus is probably in his study, anyway. Assuming he even is in the home right now, but with the long laundry list of errands and contractual deals that require his flowery, hasty signature to be secured, you doubt he spends too much of his time here on weekdays.

As you walk through the stretching halls, you trace the walls with a finger, bored.

You’re stopped in your tracks by a picture- just one of the many lavish decorations- and tilt your head up to stare at it in its entirety.

It’s a big thing; a large, elaborate wooden frame without dust.

Five portraits stare back at you. But you- squished between the cheerful twins, stood before your mother and stepfather who join in a kiss behind your head, smiling lips smushed together as he holds back her veil- don’t don the same delighted expression.

Maybe it’s immature of you, but as the lingering, subtle whisps of something citrusy waft by, you do offer a slight huff of amusement at the image. It’s just so comically awful, nailed to the wall in a frame so stupidly opulent it’s like some boast against poor people— a should-be perfect wedding photo marred by the bitterness oozing off the stepdaughter.

Alright, to be fair, you’re not outright scowling or anything, but the smile you plaster on is so clearly fake it’s hard not to laugh at it—

“She looked like you, you know.”

You must jump five feet into the air.

He adds, raising one wryly amused brow, “Somewhat.”

Startled, you turn to find him staring not at the picture he presumably references- but you.

Your brow furrows slightly, and then he does glance over to the frame as you hover your hand over your heart, clutching your invisible pearls in a moment of deja vu.

A soft sigh. Is this how you’ll be seeing him now…? Every time you happen to bump into your stepfather- evidently not the best at evading him- does it mean you’ll be caught off guard as he stands there, unbothered, before apologizing?

Except, this time he doesn’t. He’s content pretending not to notice your shudder- your fear of him. Ruby-red hues drifting off as his jaw imperceptibly tightens.

Murmuring under his breath as he surveys the illustration almost quizzically, “But wasn’t… quite you.”

Ah, right- the wedding photo. Your mother. You resemble her— That’s what he’s getting at here.

“Y-Yeah…” You mumble back. You don’t have much to offer him, but it’s better than ignoring him: the thing you recently decided you wouldn’t be doing on this trip.

Slowly, you close your mouth. You do a quick once-over of him, and then look back towards the hanging memory.

There’s a certain silence that occurs between you both, then. Simultaneous to it- is a weight dropping in your heart, slowly descending the longer you reminisce on the familiar woman’s profile.

Not only has the stepdaughter’s scornful face been immortalized, but so has your dead mother’s.

It’s in a moment of weakness, perhaps, that you reach out to trail her jaw, pondering the past as it sweeps you up in its nostalgic current.

Your mind is less focused on acting cool and indifferent in front of your stepfather and more on the parent that has been ripped away from you- now stood before you in an intricate frame along a dark wall. So maybe later you might regret showing your belly to him, but right now, you really can’t find it in you to care.

You told yourself the past is the past.

Now, all there’s left to do is commit.

“She looked… so happy,” you’re surprised to realize the voice filling your ears is your own, gravelly from disuse, barely audible. Part of you debates feeling embarrassed, but quickly erases the idea because you don’t think your stepfather would have any real intent to ridicule you, least of all right now.

Your younger self has always been fairly good at believing everyone around you is a sworn enemy, out to get you behind your back, but your stepfather is…

Family, a little voice in the back of your head supplies. And you’re puzzled at the lack of backlash it receives this time around.

You start to wonder if he’s heard, the quiet sprawling for just a touch too long, self-consciousness a breath away as something, his attention, you think, bores into the back of your head, but then he hums and you’re at ease again.

“She was so happy,” he agrees. “We both were.”

Sylus, from the corner of his eye, watches.

Some gear turns in the very back of your skull and begs to ask the question of just what he’s doing here right now; the master bedroom- now his alone, you realize with an unbidden squeeze of your heart- is on the other wing of the house. During the daytime, he’s typically downstairs, anyway.

But you suppose that’s besides the point.

Your eyes flutter down, and then your hand follows. Ghosting along the photo in one sweeping motion before you turn just halfway to face him.

You’re making headway on squashing your beef with him, oh definitely, but there’s a sort of intimacy that comes with standing front-to-front, and right now, you think that’d be overwhelming and weird for the both of you.

He’s not… used to you being exactly nice to him, anyway, or open. Or agreeable. Or- or anything, really. For your teen years, you erected a wall in between you both and actively refused to let anyone scale it— and after you moved out, you weren’t so hellbent on keeping him away, sure, not half as immature and bratty as you had been, but the distance was absolutely still there. Just quieter.

No longer screamed, but rather implied.

For a while, you’d even wondered if he’d agreed upon it. If he threw in the metaphorical towel on building a relationship with you; defeated and exasperated. But you guess he’s a multimillionaire for a reason— it requires dogged ambition- drive- to reach those heights, after all— and you’ve sometimes wondered if meeting Sylus was like an immovable object going head to head with an unstoppable force.

For your part, you’re not so used to this, either. Kind of giving into this… paternal subtext to your nonexistent connection.

It’s odd. New, as it creeps in on you, slowly dialing up the temperature. Though the way it plants its seed is too gradual to make you want to dig it out from the dirt right away.

It’s a foreign thing, yes— when your eyes meet his, an inscrutable, glittering red, and a ribbon of warmth unfurls in your aching chest as you quietly realize he’s there for you, that in this tragedy, you’re not alone— but it’s not… bad, per se.

Not like you’d always imagined it’d be, anyway.

I mean, back then you didn’t even want to imagine it, but now—

Two weeks, your nagging subconscious reminds, and then you’ll be gone. Your… family (the pest-like, ever plotting twins; Sylus, even, the persistent but gentle stepfather you’d kept on hold indefinitely) will become just a speck in the distance as it grows behind you. And then….

And then you’ll be alone. And that was what you wanted, wasn’t it?

But maybe if you had just- not been so fucking stubborn and bent on making a point to your mother, if you had just visited a little more, then maybe by some stretch of inagination you could’ve done something to-

Your soul sinks in your chest. The feeling of regret, terrible and distinct, rips you a new one as you try not to wilt in the silence. But Sylus’s eyes are warm, softening into a pass of concern as he drops his folded arms.

Business-oriented, arrogant, competitive, bound and determined. You and the world have seen each of those facets of him, but the gentler side is one that the latter doesn’t own access to.

When Sylus’s fingers twitch, his arm nearly reaching out to you as he visibly vacillates, you feel a strange flash of endearment towards him.

Your mother saw this side of him all the time, you inwardly consider. Because that’s who he reserved it most for.

Sylus assigned things to one of two categories: his family, and then everything else.

And you- you infuriating, lovely little dragon of a daughter- fell to the former.

There’s all kinds of uncertainty swirling in his eyes, but he settles for a soft clear of his throat, looking you over. The gloss in your stare, the one that hangs over your lashes and refuses to fall as if permanently suspended there, makes him open his mouth, but before he can say anything, you undercut his words.

“What are you doing here?”

You ask. Not in a demanding way: you’re just eager to distract you both from your impending waterworks.

You wonder if he knows; what’s running through his head as you stand there and fidget with the hem of your shirt, rapidly blinking to keep the tears at bay. You don’t remember giving them permission to come, but here they are, knocking.

His brow raises by the faintest tick, and then he smiles an easy, slight smile. Dipping his hands in his pockets to rest.

“The twins forgot something on their journey, it seems. They texted me to grab it for them. So,” he says, giving a loose shrug with one shoulder, looking down the hallway past you, tone as mocking yet sincere as ever, “Here I am, letting myself be treated like some poor… errand boy.”

“Oh.”

Poor is… certainly not the word you’d select for him, but…

He finishes, eyes catching yours in a second of boldness, “I’ll mail it out to the firm. They’ll receive it no later than this evening.”

You give a small nod, looking down to his chest because it offers a convenient escape to his penetrating, sharp stare, and frankly, if you’re getting emotional at some old picture on the wall- then you need the respite.

You rub your forearm, “Well, I’ll just be going now.”

“Where to?” A tiny twitch of his lip tells you he spoke too soon. His chest swells out. Your eyes jump to his.

“If you need a car, you can use any of the ones in the garage,” he remedies. You blanche. “Just point, and I’ll give you the keys-“

“Oh, no, no, no,” you chuckle suddenly, shaking your head. Sylus pauses, quirking one brow as he tilts his chin by a fraction, interest and maybe even a little bit of mirth reshaping his face at your change in demeanor.

“I didn’t mean I was going out,” you quickly add, “Realistically, I probably would’ve just went downstairs and ate something... Or brought a snack out to the sunroom.”

He frowns. “The sunroom might be a bit cold, though.”

“I know. I- I just wanna see how it looks after all this time.”

To your surprise, Sylus lets out a smooth, somewhat short chuckle. At your confusion, he elaborates, “This place is still the same, Kitten,” he chides in a harmless, rather loving tone, “All that’s different is that you’re here.”

…And that this time around, your mother isn’t.

Yet Sylus, as if clueless to the glaring elephant in the room, smirks and doesn’t mention it. And truthfully, you’re grateful for that. Just- you have your questions, those little segments of his short account over the phone that you want to pick apart and scrutinize- but all of that is for later. An indefinite later... Right now is too soon.

You’re hardly keeping your feelings in check as is: you don’t need to pile further revelations of your mother’s death onto the plate. In any case, as much as a gritty, inward part of you would like to know every scrap of information possible- at the end of the day, it’d be unnecessary.

Your mother died the way she did. And all attempts or methods of probing for more context, you fear, would only do more harm than good.

“I guess it still feels the same,” you mumble out an agreement, peering down the corridor towards the stairs, his figure standing tall and unruffled to your side. “All the decorations are the same.”

“Exactly,” he hums, “and the sunroom is no different. You wouldn’t want to… catch a cold on your vacation, would you?”

Vacation is a funny word for it, but you won’t shoot him for being optimistic. You’d honestly benefit from following his example.

You snort softly, sheepishly looking down, “I won’t catch a cold. It can’t be that bad. Besides,” you lift your chin, meeting his gaze- wholly transfixed on you, a glimmering, fascinated red- “Back at my apartment, the AC and heating is usually broken, so… I’m used to arctic temperatures.”

You try to joke, but he doesn’t laugh at it. In fact, his lighthearted smirk ebbs into a thin line as he parts his mouth and furrows his brow at you. Your breath hitches slightly.

The tears that had been beading at your eyes are gone, but now a sense of uncertainty replaces them in your chest.

He unstuffs his hands from either of his pockets. “That’s nothing to brag about,” he croaks.

Your lashes flutter, ears perking under his uneven timber. You… don’t often hear that voice come from him.

He swiftly recorrects himself, saying in a lighter but just as firm tone, “You should take care of yourself. Have you… been well, by the way? How is it back at your old place?” Sylus lowly ventures, before one half of his mouth quirks up playfully.

He leans his back against the wall, localizing his attention fully to you. Not paying the smallest of glances to the large, idyllic photo you stand in front of.

“I wonder,” he starts, “What a day in the life looks like in your shoes.”

A beat of silence passes. In that time, you realize it’s not just a spoken fragment of his thoughts, but a question. You answer accordingly.

Not without a look down the hall, though, silently wishing to exit the conversation as it begins to drag on.

The sunroom, for as cold as it’s advertised, sounds better and better.

You don’t quite laugh, but by some standard it might be considered one. “Well, it’s not really anything interesting. Obviously, it’s not as glamorous as like, you guys here,” you say, “but I’m fine where I am.”

Physically, fine. Although, the level of content you hold inwardly is a bit of a different story.

You’ll keep that on its shelf. Right now, it’s better where it is: in the dark; in the quiet.

Safe with you.

Sylus simply says, “You… shouldn’t settle for less,” impossibly careful with his choice of words, albeit you don’t fully know why.

“I-I’m not,” you jump to justify. You have a growing inkling that this conversation is going nowhere, and you don’t exactly like small talk, so you aim to wrap this up.

“I work hard at my job, but-“

But what? you still don’t wanna die in a cubicle during your mundane 9-5 job? Hmph. Yeah, get in line behind literally everyone else.

Not everybody has the same luxury that Sylus does, though: he’ll die without regrets, knowing he secured riches for his next thousand generations, but you can’t really say the same. That is… assuming you branch off from the Qins and separate yourself from that golden heritage. Which-

You are. You will. These two weeks will either fly by or slug by, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’ll be bidding the boys farewell one last time.

You’ll do the right, reasonable thing, excuse yourself from the metaphorical table that is your stepfamily (who, if you’re being honest, are probably done with you deep down but are too nice- sympathetic in this dark time- to say something), and go back home. To that shitty, cramped apartment with its broken utilities and cracks in the ceiling. To that cubicle; to all the paperwork on your desk amounting to a miniature Tower of Babel.

You’ll go back to the loneliness and uncertainty.

Yet it will just be even colder, then. Knowing that palatial house on the hills, once a backup plan of sorts- a final failsafe if your humble little life you’d been trying to make for yourself collapsed- is no longer an option.

Because the one precious thread tying you to it—

Snapped.

“I work hard at my job,” you try anew, inexplicably having trouble meeting his eyes. “I always strive for better, just- I know how to be content with what I have, you know?”

It’s not meant as a jab towards him, you swear it’s not, albeit your way of going about it could use a little bit of work. Considering you’ve been making all sorts of revolutionary improvements on this trip, though, you don’t think adjusting your tone should be too big of an issue.

At any rate- you’re not about to start this big discussion with your stepfather on career paths and how satisfied you are with yours, though, and that’s where this seems to be headed.

You gesture down the hall with a shoulder and smile if only to be polite.

“But anyway, I think I’ll-“

“You know,” Sylus starts, glancing up to you expectantly, and it’s only right then that you realize he’d been looking at the floor- or, more accurately, your legs- while mulling over something, silent. His words are measured, slow; his hues more obsidian than ruby in the dimly-lit corridor. The vibrant twinkle of scarlet is still there, but a shadow pours over his brow. His slight crow’s feet can be spotted.

He’s pushing forty two now, but it’s strange- how you look at him and don’t notice the age. He’s as virile and manly as ever. In his prime, you’d say.

Silently, you wonder in a breath if all men are like wine in the way that they age, or if your stepfather was a result of a fluke.

I mean, you’re aware that he takes good care of himself. Those boxing sessions he does on the side in the home gym certainly do their part to keep him physically afloat, and his chef only uses ingredients of the highest quality— but still…

It’s not wrong to make the comment that he’s a bit of a genetic jewel.

You remind yourself to tune back into his words, straightening your spine slightly.

Yes, you can acknowledge- in absolutely no weird way, mind you- that your stepfather is an attractive guy. There’s no science to it: he just… is. Your mother certainty knew it; all her gossiping friends, too. You’re not so taken by an old grudge to pretend Sylus’s charm isn’t universal.

“Don’t… take this the wrong way, I don’t mean to be pushy,” he drawls, the image of casual. There’s a wisp of hesitance in his eyes, though. You don’t miss it. “But if you ever want to try your hand at my company,” he leaves the suggestion open-ended, although there’s nothing you need further clarity on.

You laugh nervously, ignoring the inward part of you that perks a little at the offer.

“Ah, no, I… already have a job back at my place. And I think the commute would be a nightmare,” A commute is a bit of an understatement— if you were to hop aboard your stepfather’s panel, you’d actually have to move back out to Linkon or, perhaps more conveniently, just live out of your old bedroom already here.

But for so many reasons, working for Sylus just… isn’t a great idea.

Besides- he’s just being nice to you, anyway. The four of you are in a hard time right now.

You’ve never gotten along well with Sylus, sure, and he’s well-acquainted with your abrasive exterior, but he’s never been half as immature as your younger self in regards to sympathy, so of course he’s trying to make you feel better— you’re his veritable stepdaughter, after all. There’s not many better ways to do that than to offer you an extremely lucrative job that he knows you’ll ultimately decline— meaning he’ll take no loss.

He’s just being polite… Which makes you a smidgen more uncomfortable to acknowledge your bumpy past with him. Here he is with the twins, flying you out and making efforts to comfort you in his own roundabout way after his wife’s died- no doubt dealing with that loss as well- and you’re still trying to fully commit to ‘new beginnings’ and all.

He’s just a man at the end of the day, you realize right then, a pang of guilt fattening your heart. He fell in love with your mother; so much so that he was willing to put up with her insufferable, brat of a child for years on end.

And you were- well, for lack of a better word you were a bitch.

And yeah there’s a million justifications you can make for it, but the point of the matter right now is that you feel bad. You feel like such an intruder, a nuisance, a burden now weighing on his, Luke’s, and Kieran’s shoulders, and-

Sylus shrugs like there’s nothing on them. Glances down to rub his forefinger and thumb together. Dripping nonchalance right from the pores.

“Suit yourself.” He says smoothly, taking your rejection no different than a duck would with water off its wings. “But Sweetie,” he states, eyes clashing with yours as if to add emphasis to whatever he’ll say, “The opportunity will always be up in the air for you. Do you understand?”

Oh, the emphasis is there, alright.

You swallow. “O-Okay.”

“See you, then.”

And then he’s breezing past before you can even clumsily dismiss yourself. Tall and broad and gone.

His heady cologne remains in a subtle draft and then that, too, disappears.

R-Right, you blink, sighing out a big breath you didn’t realize you were holding all along.

The sunroom.

✦

His large hand, extended like an offering, slightly falters when he understands you don’t have a lick of desire to shake it.

Maybe you’re a bit hangry, yes, and you’ll admit that probably does no favors for your current mood as this ridiculous scene unfolds before you- but all these emotions that bud inside you now, flowering no different than weeds, entangling themselves as they expand- are very much valid and real.

You’re still positively pissed and confused and above all, hurt that she’s been going behind your back and flirting around without so much as telling you.

See, of course you had your ideas and creeping little doubts— it was hard not to what with the way her schedule was warping in front of your eyes, how she seemed just a pinch happier than usual, giddy, almost— but being faced with the truth of it all in its real, physical form is a different matter entirely.

And-

And how she could do this to you? after- after what happened with your father?

Well, you just don’t fucking know.

But she’s doing it to you right now, anxiously peering at you from your side, and she’s smiling.

A beat of silence occurs, loud and tedious.

His hand stays out, dangling like a modifier, and it’s like the sumptuous asshole knows you’ll change your mind and backtrack or something: as if that’s all he’s used to, people parting like the Red Sea and bowing for him without question.

…Audacious: you’ll admit that much. But you’ll give him no more credit than that, as kind of backhanded as it is.

Time slows. In reality, no more than two seconds must’ve passed, but as the eyes of your mother drill into your profile both in a mash of expectance and worry, and your heart lodges in your throat, it feels like you’re stuck in a time capsule.

You’ve been standing here too long. This enigmatic, admittedly dashing stranger (Sylus, your mind- seemingly having shut off in the moment to lend your senses full control- helpfully contributes) has been in your home too long and—

Mentally, you scold yourself for visibly balking. You steel yourself against him and school your expression.

This is your house.

He won’t make you feel like an outsider in it.

The silver-haired man, with the scruff on his chin and the punch of whiskey underlining his fancy-shmancy cologne, with his sharp red eyes, drops his hand back to his side and actually laughs at your blatant rejection of him.

“Very hospitable, I see. I like that,” he tosses behind his broad shoulder to your somewhat mortified mother as he, egregiously enough, goes to take his shoes off at the door, a hand in his pocket. “Your kid is as bold as you are, honey.”

Honey?

…Honey?

You grow a mite afraid in that moment, internally struggling to pinpoint just what degree of involvement this awful yet handsome guy has with your mother.

How deep into this little… fling of theirs are they, anyway?

She opens her mouth, looks at you, then closes it. Blustering out a laughing apology, she leaves your side and flutters over to him. You don’t know if you’re thankful for the reprieve, the momentary alone time to your own thoughts, or unbelievably hurt as you watch her take his jacket and hang it in the coat closet, happy to do it despite the turmoil hidden beneath all her inebriated twirling.

On the inside, your world is fracturing down the middle, drifting apart steadily like the planes of Pangaea— but this stupid awful guy just shrugs out a kink in his neck, turning back to your mother (who’s only slightly embraced on your account) to swoop down and thank her with a peck to the lips.

The rest of your weak appetite for microwaved dinner flies out the window.

And in your undies and that old beloved tee of your late father’s, you take the chance while they’re distracted to hop off the chair and fly up the steps.

For everyone’s sake, you hope the guy— Sylus, your mind so helpfully provides as you sob into your pillows— is only temporary.

Chapter 4: haunted

Days go by.

Months.

Try five.

Sylus has never considered himself an exactly patient man, no, he enjoys pouncing on the things he wants; not quite one to waste time- but even this is…

Tedious.

He can admit that.

And let’s be clear- nowadays, there’s a plethora of things he simply can’t. But this is the outlier to that growing list.

The little finger on his thick, shiny wristwatch ticks. It does it endlessly. It dips and rolls— and maybe it’s just the not-so nice rest he got last night (more like a short nap than anything else, if he’s being honest, certainly not sufficient), but the time seems to be going at a rate that’s almost…

Surreal.

“And…. so the budget for this quarter….”

Voices ring within the room, each more stoic and phlegmatic than the last, but Sylus isn’t particularly interested in the happenings of the round-table discussion.

Same old, same old.

Mundane living. Bouncing from day to day and waiting.

Waiting some more.

They’re looking at him even when he doesn’t speak. All the eyes in the room. Maybe that’s the definition of power. But maybe that’s an old flame he’ll let the younger him pursue in the past tense; in the memories.

As the silver-haired man crosses his leg over the other and leans back into his chair, he allows himself the moment- reluctant as he is- to simply think.

Perhaps reminisce is the better word. There used to be a time, not too distant, where he looked back at it all like a good memory— a long, unbroken chain of events occuring within his home, within his city, within his heart.

But as five months come and go and leave him in the dust, he just doesn’t know if he can see things from the same rose-tinted lens anymore.

She makes him rethink it all.

Oh, not his wife- as much as the term grudges him to say- but his stepdaughter.

And maybe that’s a problem, maybe that’s cause enough to raise an eyebrow, maybe that’s everything that’s been wrong with him for- for the past God-awful year or so.

But no matter how bad it seems on the outside, taken at face value, the nasty looks he’s been giving himself in the mirror lately are ungrounded. They are.

Sylus has always been a very critical, sharp man, letting very little slip under his nose, but the treatment he’s given to himself as of late has been nothing short of cruel what with how he grabs every thought, no matter how meager, and overanalyzes it.

The one that possesses him across the course of many restless nights is this:

He wants her back.

If nothing else, he just needs to ascertain that she’s okay. That all these years she’s been cultivating something for herself have been paying off- that she’s thriving in every sense of the word.

At the very least, if nothing else, he needs to hear her say that she’s ‘doing fine’.

Sylus wants her to be happy, wherever she may be. In Linkon or a distant city or a different plane of the universe entirely. God, that’s all he wants. He’d lay down his life for that.

…But maybe not content. Sylus doesn’t want her to be content. He doesn’t think she can be, anyway. Not like this.

Though that’s not at all to say he’s hoping on her demise, or anything, that all along, he’s been inwardly praying on some metaphorical hammer to drop over her humble little life and crumble it like a cookie. He’s not secretly wishing for some minor or major inconvenience on her end to act as the catalyst for her coming back; no, Sylus wants the best for his offspring, and only that.

But he’s not stupid. Or ignorant to any of the problems he’s damn near certain she’s experiencing- cut off from his finances and the big, warm bed his estate offers.

Yet she’s stubborn beyond proportion to her body. Big-willed and bent on proving some point— that she can stick it out all alone, maybe. That she doesn’t need their love.

And Sylus knows that hell would sooner freeze over before his stepdaughter embodied the role of the prodigal child. Though, a man can dream.

He’s… been doing a lot of that too, hasn’t he?

Dreaming, awake, while he waits.

The time blurs by, too speedy to catch even the tail end of, yet it feels like he’s biding it for something.

Sylus is a thinking, calculative man. He’s mulled over a number of routes he could pursue to either get her back or let her go once and for all. It really depends on his mood in that moment.

The better option, debatably the more moral one, would be to accept she’s chosen her own path and bite his tongue. Watch as she paves it.

Honestly, a decent chunk of him is surprisingly satisfied at the idea, as terribly bittersweet as it is. His boys, Luke and Kieran, for as mischievous as they are, have always liked to linger at his side, but she’s always been a different case. Maybe he should indulge her whims, officially let her go; if either of the boys wanted the space, he’d grant it- so Sylus doesn’t have much right to stamp his foot down at her and suddenly demand she comes back.

But then another part of him, deeper in, rearing one of its many ugly, envious, control-hungry heads like a modern-day medusa, begs the question of why the hell would he do that?

Isn’t she his? Isn’t it his fucking birthright to protect and provide for her, and- and how is he meant to do that from afar?

How is he meant to-

Finally fucking touch—

A sharp gust of breath blows from his nose.

W-What ?

The image that flashes through his mind then, despicable yet vivid- to put it in the lightest of terms: absolutely inappropriate- of his hand running up her bare waist is just as jarring as the unspoken thought it arrives with.

….Finally fucking touch? No-

No.

He said he wouldn’t go there.

How many times has it been now that he’s grilled his animal hindbrain for offering its two cents on her departure where it’s wholly not necessary? For how much longer will he keep having to war with his instincts that scream at him to hold and cherish and shield and-

Sink his cock into—

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose, betrayed.

The circular clock in the room, hung just above the door, ticks. His wristwatch tocks.

He imagines it’s her tongue instead. Emerging from between her smiling, glossy lips to cluck at him with disapproval and say bad, bad daddy.

Holy fuck.

“Boss-? Are you alright?”

His mouth wets. Sylus looks up, absently waving the concerned ask away, and plucks his tie off his chest to smooth it out.

He nods stoicly, “Go on.”

That’s right. He’s in a meeting right now. He’s… He shouldn’t be thinking about this. About her.

A layer of stone blankets his face, smooth and hard, betraying nothing even in the little creases by his mouth and eyes. Yet when a responding voice in his brain sneers back at him for his wayward musings— ‘you dirty old pervert’— his lashes flutter just slightly.

No. No. He didn’t- He didn’t-

Clasping his eyes shut, his nostrils flare as he unsteadily breathes out, quiet despite the unease that’s having a field day inside him, making his psyche its stomping grounds.

He didn’t mean to think of her like that. In an… unbefitting way, he means. He never jumps into the mental rabbithole that is his stepdaughter with the intention to think about her in any sexual regard or fantasize about laying his hands on her, or better yet, the other way around.

He doesn’t hop into his fucking bed each night, for that matter, with his back slotted against his wife’s because they’re not on good terms anymore, with the intention to fall asleep and dream of her stripping down to her panties and then making him get on his knees to rip the cloth off, eat her out like he’s been wanting to since- since—

Oh, God— since never.

Regardless of the comparison that can be drawn between her and a fire-breathing dragon- that’s his veritable stepdaughter.

His precious, darling girl.

And that’s not what he wants.

Actually, that’s the farthest possible thing from what he wants.

The men in suits and ties lining the perimeter of the long, oval-shaped table sit with their hands folded in steeples along the top of it, their expressions equally professional as they rattle off company statistics and earnings like letters of the alphabet.

Sylus, for once, finds himself thinking he’s not fit to be in the same room as them.

In the moment, as he stares unseeing at the blocked reflection of his wrist candy, he thinks he’s far more suited for a cold dingy cell or padded white walls.

Because has he gone fucking insane?

It’s— It’s ridiculous.

All of it.

It’s the stress getting to him, that’s his best excuse and honestly it’s a damn good one. One hell of a multitasker he is: taking care of his family, being mindful not to neglect his kids all the while parrying off the endless carps of his wife- not to mention the multimillionaire projects he oversees on the side.

It’s physically and emotionally taxing at the best of times.

But just one more visit would ease him.

Oh, he fucking knows it would. It’d ease her worrywart of a mother, too.

Sylus knows very well by now that his wayward little stepdaughter loves to come and go as she pleases; he’s well-acquainted with the fact that she’s capricious as a cat and wary of getting too close- but fuck if she’s not comfortable with stepping in and out of people’s lives…

Doesn’t she know they care for her?

Her rowdy, ever bothersome twin brothers, constantly pestering him to just book a flight for them already so they can close the distance since she doesn’t want to. Her mother, too- oh, don’t even get him started on all her whining and moaning about how she misses her baby… how she made a mistake and should’ve been better to her, more considerate of her feelings, because now she hardly comes back.

Sylus has had it up to his knees in complaints for months on end. It’s tiresome, to say the least.

He’s a strong man. A good man. He is. His actions speak for themselves— Now, he’s no philanthropist, but what he does is generally altruistic, and he’s nothing but loving and benevolent with his family.

Yet this is requiring the patience of a saint from him, and at the end of the day he’s no Atlas: he can’t carry the whole weight of the world on his shoulders-

Several different projects worth multi millions combined? yes. The management of his companies and all the ant-like workers within that umbrella? definitely. His endlessly pesky sons and his unhappy wife? yes yes yes to all of that and then some.

But he can’t handle her.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know how to.

“…put this project on hold to fund the new one….”

Although honestly, despite it all- the woman’s infinite nags that leave him feeling miserable on the best of days- he gets it, he does.

Because he misses her, too.

He wants her back, too.

Oh, he pines for her return like the man in the parable did, awaiting his prodigal child to rediscover her roots— most importantly, remember the love it always had for her— and come running.

Sylus swallows thickly. The lump in his throat bobs to the surface again, though, and something (his subconscious, maybe, shrewd and critical, never allowing anything to slip from his scrutiny) tells him he’s not being entirely honest about everything transpiring inside him.

It unfurls like yarn from a ball and tangles, endlessly weaving together and forming knots with anything it touches.

His will, his perception, every scruple he’s ever held in his life, some microscopic and others so big he’s built his core principles on them- hell, sometimes even his better judgement, perhaps the singular thing he always assumed he could rely on— None of that can be trusted anymore.

It’s one knotted mesh.

It locks together and amalgamates into one idea. One thought.

One perfect snapshot in time of her tossing her hair over her shoulder and leaving him again. Again. Again.

His… love for her is wholesome, for the record. No doubt about that. He’s always given her the most paternal of treatments, patient to a fault- even when it physically challenged him to keep from lashing back at times, remaining calm in the face of her defiance; always considerate of her situation and feelings.

A good parent. Biology be damned, he treated her like one of his own. He always will.

Since the beginning, he’s only ever had the best, most fatherly of intents for her, a-and—

His chair wheels closer to the desktop, squeaking.

He props his elbows up on the mahogany, lacquered wood.

And Sylus, perhaps for the millionth time in less than two years, reminds himself to not go off the deep-end.

It’s better, like he has been, to ignore this thing.

This awful, rotten, wriggling little worm of an emotion that’s been making an apple of his heart.

If he focuses on it, this is what happens:

It worsens.

So… No good can come from dwelling on it.

Sylus just needs to know if she’s okay, that’s all... And one more visit, just one more (it doesn’t even have to be anything long or meticulously dotted out on a calendar: she could show up at his doorstep out of the blue and stay for a day and they’d rejoice), would effectively put to bed all his- and her unstable mother’s- worrying.

Whether or not it would put to bed this other… thing, this worm, Sylus isn’t sure. He can’t pretend and say he is.

But one thing is for sure, as she slips farther and farther out from shore, from him:

Sylus is running out of —

“…….suggest we assign this half to the other party… so the project will be more managable…..”

The clock, ticking, never stops.

✦

Maybe it’s not wise to keep putting off getting a dress for the funeral, but you keep doing it anyway.

You tell yourself you will once the twins get back (you’ll take them up to their earlier offer, and if they refuse (which they won’t), you’ll just take their car and drive yourself)- but otherwise, you choose not to think about it too much.

…About anything funeral or mom-related.

A recipe for disaster, maybe, if you know anything about the negative side effects of keeping your emotions balled up inside like a toy ship kept in a too-small bottle- but that’ll be for future you to sort out.

In the meantime, while the boys are gone, you spend the rest of the first day leisuring in your old bedroom, getting reacquainted with the house and the like.

On the second day, you take a fluffy blanket out to the sunroom, cuddle up to a throw pillow on the sofa there, and lose yourself to whatever book you bring out for the evening.

When the plot gets good, Sylus drops by.

“Hey, Sweetie.”

You’re too startled to properly return any actual greeting to him, but if you overlook the whole unexpected factor of it, the interaction is actually pretty… decent.

Without any prompting, he strides forward- only after assuring you’ve seen him (you can tell he doesn’t want to scare you)- and sets down a hot mug on the little table before you.

The steam rises in an undulating mist. It both smells and looks tasty, and you’re too tempted and polite to actually turn him down on it.

The view the sunroom offers to the rest of the estate is beautiful: land extending about as far as the eye can see (you’re pretty sure it’s all his, too) with frost-covered grass and a small, iced-over pond real far out. Some trees dot your periphery as decoration, trimmed and shapely. The pool and hot tub are covered with what looks like tarps, each flap sealed tightly over the lips. It’s ethereal and peaceful. You’re taken back to older times when you were a teenager and young adult, cuddled up in this very same spot as you lost yourself to distant, fairytale worlds.

But it is a bit chilly here. That’s true.

“Um, thanks.”

So you inevitably accept his… gift (peace offering?) and nurse from the mug as you flip between pages, and you’ll admit it makes the experience ten times better.

Sooner or later you have to break off, though.

As you head in, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Luke sends a message. He misses bothering you, he says.

Kieran, right after— ‘You better not be hanging the lights without us.’

Your brain shortcircuits for a moment before it clicks into place. Oh, right, Christmas is in a few weeks, isn’t it? You’d only been half paying attention when you absently agreed to help them decorate the interior for the holiday season; your mother and their father were a bit late this year around, but the boys wouldn’t skip the festivities if it saved their life.

Perhaps you’re getting a little old for all the dressing up and stringing colorful lights along ceilings, but you won’t lie and say you don’t care for the holidays.

And you also won’t pretend it’s not an excellent opportunity to distract yourself.

So with a very tiny smile and a sigh, you’d stuck your hand in the group pile and threw it up, saying ‘okay, okay, I’m in.’

You stuff your phone back in your sweatpants with a snort and head towards the living room for the staircase, your book tucked under your armpit- before swiftly realizing your hands are occupied with a now-empty mug and redirecting for the kitchen.

Things are quiet. Part of you finds yourself wishing for something to fill it. Hell, even calling up Sylus’s private chef, with his sizzling pan and constant skimming through the cabinets, doesn’t sound too bad.

Which… speaking of food, you’re not sure what you’ll do for dinner considering the boys aren’t around to ring him up for the three of you...

Of course, you know how to fend for yourself, though, so you’ll just do what you do back at your cramped little apartment and make a sandwich or something. An easy, quick meal.

You don’t think Sylus would mind if you plucked a few ingredients from the fridge— I mean, you don’t feel exactly comfortable taking advantage of the amenities here, especially after your regrettable treatment of him in the past, but he keeps telling you it’s fine, so…

He won’t get mad- remind you of all your teenage angst- if you take the liberty upon yourself, right?

The silence is loud in the home, you think for a second time.

Although, letting out a little sigh as you place the cup in the sink, a little piece of you can also appreciate it for what it is. A moment of respite for you to collect and recharge yourself while the twins are gone.

They had their reasons for going, yes; maybe within them, there’s a reason that benefits you, too.

You’re on your way to your bedroom to put down your book when you’re stopped at the staircase.

At the top of it: Your stepfather.

For one simple moment, he seems like his mind is elsewhere as he overlooks the landing. His eyes snap to yours and widen imperceptibly. Before you can fully acknowledge him, your mouth hanging open like a fish, his shoulders lower.

A second later, so do his feet. Tip-tapping down the steps.

Suddenly timid, you draw back and decide to let him go first— the last thing you wanted was to interupt or bother him during your stay here, after all. You’d made the internal vow to be good, be docile, and for your poor mother’s sake you didn’t want to break it. Honestly speaking, it was getting easier to hold it for your own reasons— the main one being that your stepfather wasn’t a half-bad guy and once you finally let yourself accept that fact, the more obvious it became.

For all your demonizing of him, he’s really just one man.

You get that. Maybe you always did.

There’s no point in holding onto all those stupid grudges of your youth, though. Your mother’s gone and you’re here under very serious conditions and you’ll behave accordingly.

You’re not a bratty defiant kid anymore. You’re both adults who are coming together to navigate this- this tragedy.

There’s no other word for it. For this natural disaster.

In that time he descends the stairs, you remind yourself of this- somewhat sorrowfully- and make yourself seem busy. Fidgeting with your book, analyzing the floor… Even pulling out your phone and looking at the weather app doesn’t seem too bad an idea right now.

But before you can do that, from halfway up the stairs, he speaks.

“Are you done reading?” He slowly ventures, one hand hovering on the banister, his ruby-red gaze not straying from yours.

Your stepfather is a proper man, and his voice reflects as much— calm, precise, even-pitched— yet the streak of uncertainty is there.

You wonder if he always feels this way with you. Like he’s walking on eggshells.

A number of years ago, you would’ve felt proud over the fact.

You clear your throat softly, “Yeah.”

Now, it’s hard to feel much of anything but guilt.

Is this what you wanted to be? A person who makes others feel worthless and small? So enwrapped in their own misery that they let it loose to suck and leech off of others— scaring all away in the process—?

No. It never was.

Your mother’s death should mean he’s finally free of you, his wicked little stepdaughter and her sneering scowling face. Perhaps the one silver lining of losing his wife was losing her child, the unwanted addition to the package— but instead, he’s invited you into his home.

And he’s been nothing but good to you.

Hospitable. Patient.

When he reaches the bottom, choosing to stop in front of you instead of moving on, horrifically enough, you’re again reminded that you are the dead weight of this family.

But- that’s okay, isn’t it? Because in less than two weeks, you’ll board your flight, and Sylus will cut you loose. He’ll cut you loose because for all these years, you’ve all but screamed how much you wanted to be, right?

Giving your throat another awkward clear, you think this is it for the interaction. He’s asked you some stupid, unimportant question for the sake of not completely ignoring one another’s presence- and now he’ll let you walk past him.

“Well, I- I’m gonna go to my room-“

He catches you by the wrist in an instant.

You turn around, his eyes just as wide as yours.

“Kitten, I-“ He swallows. You know because you watch the thick apple of his throat bob.

As if remembering himself, he tenses his jaw. When he opens his mouth next, loosening his grasp on your wrist but not releasing completely, he’s more steady. More sure.

“I was going to… ask you something,” his scarlet eyes scan you over, and then he really does let you go. Your arm sways and drops to your side- but your eyes don’t return to their normal size, no. Rather stunned, you gawk at him.

Even as his touch dissipates, the feeling left in its wake, some sudden, tingling warmth that spreads to your chest without prompting, isn’t so easily turned away.

You wet your bottom lip, his eyes tracking the minor movement like it could produce gold, and then shut your jaw.

“Yes?” You breathe.

Sylus inhales. The air is controlled, long, on its way in.

“Have dinner with me.”

When he exhales, though, it’s short and it quavers.

✦

A fog hangs over the moon. Drapes across the wintry, navy-blue sky.

Sylus watches it from his balcony, nursing from a glass of wine.

Decadent, a little. Chilly, yes, but it’s nothing his blazer can’t handle.

It’s eleven o’clock and maybe he should be asleep.

He pushed too hard. Too much in too little time.

It’s why she clammed up and her eyes went uncertain and wide. And it’s why she ultimately declined his invitation to dinner- a rather intimate one, a meal just for two- and perhaps Sylus should be thankful that she let him down easy. She was polite about it. Stammering out the meager excuse of, ah, sorry, I’m not hungry, before clumsily explaining she was tired and scampering off.

The corner of his lips lifts into a small curve. He smirks over the rim, just a wry, tenuous thing before another emotion- a runner up to his amusement- has its turn in him.

Oh, he’s feeling all sorts of things tonight.

He knows he shouldn’t.

He should be careful. Controlled.

Perhaps more importantly: patient.

He should be masking half, at the very minimum, of the enthusiasm he’s feeling over her return- not letting it, and his stunned, giddy delight, bleed all over the place.

Sylus shouldn’t be scaring her with how much he cares.

Oh, fuck if he doesn’t know all that already- that when it comes to this girl, he better tread as if he’s on a frozen lake. One wrong foot forward from cracking down the middle into a thousand micro fissures.

He got ahead of himself, all but demanding that she share an evening’s meal with him on the couch; throwing in the sweetener of watching an old favorite movie of hers only made it worse, he thinks.

Too eager.

Too emotional. Hopeful of the small, seemingly invisible developments he’s made with her to the point of being… Insensitive.

It was in bad taste.

Yes, he was too—

He closes his eyes with fatigue.

It’s a beautiful sight overhead, don’t get him wrong, a nice, starry field with a thin belt of smoke to cover it. Her stepfather is no brute incapable of appreciating the beauty in the small things.

It’s just…

Well, it’s nice to take the breather for a moment. It’s much needed after the past few days he’s had since she’s touched down in Linkon. Since that failed experiment of an interaction that took place earlier.

Not hungry, she said. Ready for bed, she stammered, too uncomfortable to even look at him in the eyes. Eye contact is an intimate thing, he supposes.

And she is not ready.

A gentle breeze swoops by, impossibly cold despite its short-lived visit, and there it is again, that smile, playing at his lips. Stronger this time as he takes another sip.

He’s not particularly fond of lying, honestly; he’s overwhelmingly aware of the fact she came up with an excuse on the spot to decline him. But it was a little white thing and it’s harmless in the long run, anyway.

In any case- he finds he can overlook a whole lot for her.

It’s his fault. Pushed too hard, too fast- yada yada ya, he knows. He fucking knows, it’s just—

It’s tempting him to hold her.

She’s so close, and he knows he’s making headway with her (no matter how seemingly small; any progress is good progress, as the adage goes)— something a good piece of him can’t even quite believe after all these hard, bitter years of charged tension between them.

Her love used to be this unfathomable idea in his head. But as of late, it’s like he sees some softness twinkling in her sad eyes before she either remembers herself or thinks better and recorrects it.

Progress.

…So why the hell does he feel anxious still?

Because he knows she’ll leave again?

But what way is that to live, even? Sylus quietly reasons with himself, brow furrowed into a tiny knot. If all the components of his mind are props in a play, his rationale is an object of the background. Shrinking the more the minutes pass and he tosses down another mouthful, the liquid embittering his tongue on its way in.

It placates the endless fluttering in his chest. Slows it. Tells him it’s okay. And he knows that, he does. He has a whole day before his endearingly pestersome boys are back, after all, and better yet- more than a week left of her stay.

He has time in abundance to work on her. Besides, as tricky as she is, Sylus has never been one to pale at a challenge, has he?

His lashes flutter. He intakes a hiccuping breath and stoops forward to lean his upper body on the railing, his elbow folded over top.

His drink dangles. Sylus experiences a strange, fleeting string of thought that tells him to let it go. Let it drop to the ground below and shatter.

Just let it go.

Just let her go.

Because she’ll be leaving soon, regardless.

He sets his jaw. Clenches it tight. Lets his eyes blink open again as he redirects his darkening, bleared gaze to the pretty clouds above, optimistically reminding himself again, but what way is that to live? Counting down the days of a good thing? You ought to savor this thing while it lasts, Sylus. Don’t let it go to waste.

She has no real longevity. And whatever he… wants from her, that despicable, perverted, monstrous, downright impossible fantasy that lingers somewhere in the deepest bowels of his soul, has no real chance at being.

Good.

Y-Yes, that’s right. And good, Sylus belatedly decides, his ability to critically think- and even see, to an extent- lagging behind his motions due to the inebriation.

Soon, the plane will take her home.

It’s all he can think about. His mind just continuously draws back to that one sticking point, doesn’t it?

Sylus breathes in. Deeply. Then out. An ivory ribbon of warmth puffs from his lips and— Up, up, up and away it goes.

Gone.

Like a mist, she is here for a time and then gone. Appearing for a little while before vanishing.

The plane will take her home. He’ll do the good thing: book it for her- ever the considerate stepfather- and then drive her back to the airport to bid her farewell. Sylus doesn’t think he’ll ever get the opportunity to do it again, because he doubts she’ll ever stop by on her own accord due to her go-to essentially trivial reasons.

Once it’s almost empty, the white-haired man sets his glass down on the banister. Then he cards his hands through his locks with a sigh. Some of them are becoming more grey than white. Iron amidst silver. He hopes she doesn’t mind.

He…

After this week and a half is up, he’ll do the right thing. He’ll do what the better part of him- including his sound conscience- is telling him to do:

Book her flight and watch her go.

He’ll do the good thing. He’ll do the good thing.

Oh, on his life, he must.

But then again… why?

Why is it good? Because she won’t completely and utterly hate his guts that way? Sylus scoffs under his breath, smirking without any real trace of humor as he gazes off into the frosty hills of his property.

Funny, that… See- all along, Sylus was under the illusion that being a parent meant making the hard decisions. Doing what might hurt. Whether or not the child kicks and screams or thanks their father profusely is of no relevance to the choice being made— because that choice is ultimately made in the child’s better interest.

Whether she knows it or not.

Sylus lets out a huff, rubbing his temple as it throbs, irritated with himself. No. No. He’s being brash. He should… think about this later when he’s sober, when he’s well-rested, and when he’s not managing the unreasonable sting of his stepdaughter’s polite albeit firm rejection.

No- I mean, what is there to think about anyway? Sylus doesnt get a say in her future like that, he has no right to butt in. She’s a grown woman. An adult. Fully capable of taking care of herself. She can pave her own path, she can; even if that said path is just a stamp in the dust compared to the industrial road Sylus could snap into existence for her if she so much as mentioned it.

This is… Selfish of him, per usual. Incredibly selfish. Bad.

Bad

Shakily, he inhales, the cold air nipping him. He should go in before his nose starts to run. Before his mind wanders more than it already has. And God- he’s trying his damnedest to keep it from doing that.

But this is perhaps the single most difficult thing Sylus has ever done- or not done, rather- in his life, which is not something he admits lightly.

It’s eating him from the inside out. The guilt, the longing, the- the fucking confusion of it all. Feeling like his heart is one great labyrinth where he must find himself— and her.

It’s uprooting him from the base. Gnawing away at his innards, like a raving beast swelling up in his chest- doing all it can to claw out while simultaneously remain locked up and hidden.

Because it’s better for the both of them that way.

Especially for her.

Nurturing her is really all he cares about nowadays besides maintaining his enterprise and avoiding the toothpaste-filled oreos his impish sons plant on the counter for him on occasion.

Still. The girl, for as precious as she is, is double-edged.

There is a natural process called erosion where rocks, even the hardest of them, are gradually worn down over time by elements sometimes as seemingly harmless as trickling water— and lately, Sylus has been feeling a lot like the grit left behind.

Weak. Small.

Bad

With a shuddering, almost horrified exhale, Sylus pours back the last, ruddy dregs of his glass and then slides open the door to his room with glossy eyes. Burning cheeks.

It’s the liquor. He’s had too much.

Bad, bad daddy

At least if he has another… unpleasant dream tonight, he’ll have the spare room to kick his legs and feet.

Chapter 5: if you were here tonight

A watermelon.

Father rarely ever set rules for him and his brother or placed high expectations. That is the very reason why his tender, unusually sedate words— I want you to live freely— echo in his head still.

He’s only spent all his life, the parts he can remember anyway, watching his dad and admiring his prowess, hungering for his every piece of advice like a baby bird with its mouth open, so of course he took that to heart.

The one he looks up to, his father- the man who taught him his first lesson that left him in tears but also needed help applying shaving cream in the morning when his toddlers were four and clumsy- said to live freely.

Luke didn’t need to be told a second time. Nor did Kieran.

So what if their definition of “free” just happened to mean having fun? For a long time, that was fine with their old man. They messed around at home, at school- with classmates and even those poor, underpaid teachers.

With her, even, because she’s just so goddamn fun to tease—

Ah. There lies the catch.

Off limits.

There lies the catch and suddenly, Father is strict. Out of nowhere, that ‘no rules’ sort of rule is altered on the account of an exception:

Family.

Family is different. Family is… serious. It should be handled with its utmost importance in mind.

So Luke knows. Luke knows it’s not right of him to draw the comparison between the two things when it’s inappropriate and they’re so vastly different- but (and blame it on habit, maybe, because isn’t there a saying about them dying hard?), he does it anyway.

A smashed open. oozing. watermelon.

✦

You used to think hell would roll out its red carpet for Sylus when it was his time to go. Used to think he’d deserve it.

But- and this is so hard to concede- if it had to be somebody, if you were sat down and told by God himself as he held your hand that your dad had to die and your mother would go on to remarry— if those circumstances were absolutely unavoidable— you grudgingly suppose that if it had to be somebody…

You’re glad it was Sylus.

Your eyes scan over the contents of your book, and the little voice in your head spews the words back to you, but you must go back over that same paragraph a bajillion times because none of it is clicking, your thoughts far too loud.

They go quiet, though, at that epiphany.

Yes. Undeniably, you’re glad it was Sylus instead of someone else. And the twins he brought along with him- you’re glad for them, too, as embarrassing as that is to admit to yourself.

Almost a decade of resistance has left you extremely tired- if not a mite disoriented. The barrier, that wall you’d set up between you both and approached only to fortify over the past seven years, is coming down- there’s no mistake about that. You’re navigating what that means, you are.

It’s just…

Really? The old you taunts. You’re gonna wave the white flag?

Surrender the pain when it’s only ever been loyal to you?

Conflicted, you flip the next page of your book, tugging the fluffy corner of the shag blanket over your shoulder before it can slip into your lap again. Hot cocoa steams on the table. Its mist wets your nose when you gingerly sip from the mug (WORLD’S BEST DAD, it shines in black).

A sigh. You feel torn.

You don’t want him to be so nice, but your stepfather is anyway, and perhaps there’s some wisdom in the saying kill ‘em with kindness because you find yourself buckling at the knee.

For all this time, you’ve held onto a grudge that you once thought would protect whatever remained of your fragile heart, and a piece of you, maybe just your pride, is infuriated and confused at recent developments, because it’s like you’re suddenly undoing all your own efforts through acceptance.

You’re letting your stepfamily, Sylus, in.

Invasion. Sixteen-year-old you hisses. And danger.

No: Moving on, you clarify like a mature adult, because make no mistake you are one.

Moving on is hard, but it’s for a good cause. This is your final chance at honoring your late mother, and for that reason, you suppose letting go of everything- what feels like control but has been nothing but poisonous to you- isn’t a bad idea.

Though, it almost seems like an impossible one, because up until this point, all that bitterness and pride you’d so blindly clung onto during your teenage years- what still tries grabbing at you now- was your cornerstone.

It used to be your lifering, that hurt, but not anymore.

That way of survival, defective at best- you finally realize as the world dissolves into bits around you, progressively more fragmented as the funeral date approaches- is no longer viable.

It never was.

The last day alone with Sylus passes quietly.

Besides dropping by to set that delicious, hot beverage on the table unsolicited, he keeps his distance for the most part, and you do the same.

For the first time in forever, though, it’s not because you’re angry, or indignant.

It’s because you’re a little afraid that you’re not.

✦

They pounce up the front porch.

Luke throws the keys in the air behind him. “Keep it running.”

You’ve no time to question that, though, or even hide your smile- because he’s pulling you into a one-sided hug the moment he’s within reach, tugging you forward.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Kieran scoops up the discarded rung of keys and pockets them before joining you shortly. He pats you on the shoulder while his brother practically squeezes every drop of air from your lungs. A tiny part of you actually debates asking him for help to pry his sibling off of you, but you know that’d be useless.

When it comes to the shenanigans, they’re one and the same.

As much as you might want to be saved from Luke’s death grip, you don’t really expect anyone to come to your rescue, so when a stern but decidedly amused voice lilts, “Luke. Easy.”

You’re happy to be proven wrong… you think.

I mean- it’s not that you’re upset Sylus is stepping his foot into the interaction, it’s to your benefit that he does it, but it’s just slightly awkward.

“That’s no way to treat your sister after she rolled out of bed to greet you, is it?”

Sister this, sister that— they’re just so insistent on treating you like family, huh?

My God, it might be working.

When Luke finally releases you, mustering up just enough decency to appear sheepish, Kieran’s timing is impeccable. Looping an arm around your midriff and hooking you flush to his chest. With his chin tucked to your shoulder, clinging onto you with his full weight, this bear hug feels more suitable for a decade-long reunion between lovers rather than your pesky stepbrother’s version of a lighthearted greeting.

“Missed you, sis.”

Winter is to blame, blustering its way to your heart and making your nervous system freeze at the softest of words.

Family.

Damn it— maybe not your late mom, or your late dad- but fine, this is the definition of family all the same.

And you love them.

Your voice crackles at the unspoken realization. So simple in nature, but whatever it does to you is profound. You deflate in his grasp, tenderness ripping out the thing in you that makes you rigid, otherwise untouchable. It’s a scary and beautiful thing, to acknowledge yourself as part of the pack.

You pat his arm, his puffy jacket crinkling.

“Good to see you too, buddy.”

✦

The house all dressed up for the holidays feels like something out of a Hallmark movie. Beautiful, warm, as cozy as a sweater.

Luke and Kieran are wearing ugly ones. Evidently, flannel pajama pants and wooly, festive long-sleeves are far more comfortable than the slacks and coats they changed out of hours ago. More suitable for the occasion, too.

After unpacking and untangling the lights from their respective boxes, and then spending a stupid long time looping them around the boughs of the tree evenly, you’re content to sit back on the couch and watch the boys take out the ornaments.

There’s an argument being raised in the back of your head that says, aren’t you too old for this? But it must not be a shared concern with any of the others, and you’re not especially hung up on it.

You take a slow sip from your mug, knees curled up sideways on the soft cushions. To be fair, this is pretty fun, and the ambience will be to die for by the time the four of you are finished. Not to mention, it’s a good distraction from your inner world- messier than the compilation of stockings and hooks and tinsel strewn along the carpet- so where’s the real harm in taking it easy?

Sylus, for his part, takes on a similar, laidback attitude. You’d typically consider your stepfather to be a hands-on sort of guy, but that’s not to say he doesn’t ever like to watch the scene from a distance.

This is how you see it: now that he’s older with bigger fish to fry, he’s content to lend his playful flame to his kin and let them stoke it.

They’ll inherit his legacy, and they’ll inherit his trouble.

Ruby eyes trail over to you when Kieran begins to muse.

“Christmas lights, check. Christmas tree, check. Ornaments, check…” By now, you should know very well that naivety in this house will get you exactly nowhere, but at first, you truly believe he’s only thinking aloud. You fail to see the error in your assumption, obliviously nursing from your hot cocoa (you really should watch your intake, but Sylus seems to have a penchant for catering, and who are you to deny him?), until two identical sets of eyes cut over to you and the boys put a pause on their whole operation.

“You know, I think we’re just missing a nice candle now, don’tcha think, bro?”

Luke helpfully contributes, “One that smells like snickerdoodles or peppermint- something to truly capture the essence of the holiday season. That’s what you mean, right?” If eloquence was a person.

The little devil grins happily, “Exactly my thoughts,” and then their attention is angling over to the couch again, shooting you a look that is now expectant.

You bristle. “What? Why are you looking at me?” It’s not your intention to sound so defensive, but the glint of mischief in their eye can only ever mean one thing- Trouble- and your plans for the evening paint a tranquil, cozy picture, not whatever the hell they’re plotting.

“I don’t have any candles,” you append.

To which Kieran is quick to remedy, “But I know a store that does.”

There’s exactly three seconds before he opens his insufferable mouth up again, and they offer just enough time for you to notch your brow and declare an adamant no, I’m not going, but you’re late.

He says, “You know that place called Serenity? It’s in town, by the place that sells bad noodles.”

…Yes, you recall that little hole in the wall ramen shop, but only vaguely. What you remember of it is a lackluster meal and a rather unpleasant outing between you and the twins while your parents gallavanted between drink trays at a business party.

“So… what, you’re suggesting that we drop everything right now just to get a candle?”

“Preferably snickerdoodle, yes.” At this point, you’re too fed up with them both to care which one graces you with a reply.

For all this talk of candles, you’re already quite incensed, but you sigh and push your mug forward on the table anyway. You steel your spine, leaning off from the sinkhole you were beginning to make of the cushions.

“Fine, I get it. I’ll come. Let me get changed.”

Their eyes widen in succession. As you stand to your feet and unfurl yourself from the throw blanket, you wonder if their surprise stems from your unexpected agreeability or the fact that you actually set aside your hot cocoa.

You can’t go out looking frumpy though, you decide while bounding up the stairs, small snickers quieting behind you. The twins will more than likely head up right after you to change, too- unless they’re fine with looking like they just escaped Santa’s workshop for naughty elves.

A flicker of warmth swells in your heart, and you realize you’re… proud? of yourself for being so nice to the boys.

Dumdums.

You shimmy on jeans and then throw on a jacket, not bothering to swap out the baggy shirt underneath (it won’t be seen, anyway) and then enter into the hallway. Before you even make it to the lofty part, where it opens up and overlooks the living room, you hear hushed, yet no less boisterous chatter- and that does instill some confusion in you.

Did they already change?

That uneasy spark worsens into outright concern when you pad down the stairs and spot them by the fireplace, still enwrapped in the festive activities, just as you’d left them. If they have any intentions whatsoever of piling into the car with you and driving you to town for that stupid Christmas candle (you know, like they just said), they certainly don’t look like it.

You open your mouth, ready to fire off a question.

Whatever you were going to say dries up on your tongue when your eyes happen to cut over towards the kitchen and spot Sylus- Sylus of all people- plucking his leather jacket up from one of the barstools. Tucking his keys into his pocket.

Realization settles, tingling across your skin. A bead of sweat forms at your nape. Slowly, you purse your lips and, while your stepfather is still occupied in the other room, march forward with eerily calculated steps to snatch Kieran’s collar.

“What the heck?” You hiss, cheeks aflame as indignation takes root in you, “You tricked me!”

The little bastard snickers, lifting his hands in mock surrender, but it’s his brother who adds insult to injury with the most harmless look, “Look, sis, we’re sorry, okay? But we’re busy decorating and you and dad weren’t really doing anything, y’know…?”

The amount of anger- or panic, perhaps, that’s perfectly plausible too- that crawls up your chest and teems over is unprecedented. Soft commotion sounds somewhere off to your side, boots on tile drawing closer.

“What?! I just spent like an hour fixing the lights, and-“

“Sweetie?” The velvety petname ringing from the arch of the room spooks all three of you, effectively putting your tirade to an end. In lieu of frustration, what occurs inside of you next is softer, more pitiable as your fingers loosen from the jerk’s fuzzy collar.

“How could you do this to me?” You murmur just loud enough for the twins to hear, quickly lest your stepfather, ever patient- probably narrowing his eyes at the whole scene- grow tired of waiting.

Dark eyes flare with amusement. “It’s not a big deal, sis. Our old man will treat you right, don’t you worry.”

“What does that even mean?”

Of course he’ll treat you right. But why the hell does he have to say it like that?

“I thought we had a truce-!”

Kieran’s shit-eating grin is nothing short of maddening, but maybe even that can’t justify the hot glare you divvy between him and his sibling, nor the silent promise of revenge that burns behind it.

With a final huff-

“Sweetie, are you-“

“I’m coming,” you interrupt. “I’m coming.

You spin around, staunchly avoiding direct eye contact with the looming figure you approach, and toe your shoes on by the door.

Wrath flows inside you, and you wish you could stop it. You made the choice to be civil with your stepfamily, one you committed to, but while you still plan to live out that decision, you can’t solve the anxiety that turns in your stomach at the prospect of being alone with your stepdad.

Of course he’ll treat you right. Of course you’re safe with him. Of course he’ll be generous, annoyingly patient, and as much as it grudges you to say- sweet to you and nothing else.

All of that is a given.

All of that is the problem. Isn’t it?

That level of generosity isn’t something you deserve, not after everything. I mean, to begin with, you don’t even know the first thing about accepting it. You wordlessly agreed on peace, yes, but damn it, you never meant to go the extra mile and actually start bonding with them.

You reach a hand to the doorframe to balance yourself while you wriggle your heel into your other shoe- but it’s intercepted by Sylus.

Wide-eyed, you must look like an owl when you swing your chin up to gawk at him.

If he’s at all scandalized or even half of that which you reveal to be, he doesn’t appear it. No, he stands tall and proud, if not a touch bored, as he turns his hand into a steadying block for you.

“T-Thanks,” you look away, to which he hums.

“Sure.”

It’s a rather theatrical scene, you’ll admit that: the daughter who’s always relied on herself conceding an inch by accepting the proffered hand of her parent. Your suddenly modest expression (and Sylus’s unfazed one as he looks off to the side) is soundtracked by an uptick in your pulse and a guffaw from the living room.

Sylus opens the door for you.

“After you.”

Between feeling slightly indignant but now mostly abashed by the silver fox’s gentle handling of you, you duck your head on the way out.

Dumb and dumber will get their comeuppance later.

✦

The shop is a quaint little thing.

Upon entrance, you notice a few different things at once- the old lady greeting you from behind the counter whom you timidly smile at one of them.

For starters, the layout. The walkways are narrow and lined with shelves chalk-full of candles and gift boxes. It’s a bit cramped- but cozy all the same- and for that reason, Sylus stays close to your side. His broad shoulder brushing yours as you squeeze on in.

A tinkling bell rings behind you, and with that, the cold breeze is sealed off.

Oh, and then the scents, of course— it’s heavenly, but just a little chaotic.

You’re sure their usual, year-round collection smells different than what you’re experiencing now, candy and warmth and winter spice, but you’re even more certain that the visuals aren’t the same, either.

The decor is gorgeous, completely revamped for the holidays. A Christmas tree stands to the right, a glittering thing with a ribbon topper instead of a star, and it makes you feel just a little inadequate about yours at home- you mean, Sylus’s home. Fairy lights are strewn along the wooden beams overhead. You pause for a moment at the front to take it all in and then slowly step under them, chin tipped back.

The mahogany tables you weave in between are decked with festive candle holders, a mishmash of sage-green and red and white. It’s beautiful, perhaps a bit over the top- quite literally a barrage against every one of your senses- but beautiful nonetheless. If the goal was to make customers feel warm and captivated, that was achieved.

The retail fixtures are draped with evergreen garlands. Snow-like cotton. When you pass through them, you can’t resist the urge to reach out and touch.

Soft.

A small smile graces your face, tentative in its approach, and for a few sweet seconds you don’t regret being tricked into this impromptu outing.

Hmph. Joke’s on Luke and Kieran. Because this is actually nice.

The drive over, fifteen minutes spent coasting through quiet roads, and then less than ten ogling a clinquant townsquare through fogged windows, wasn’t bad. It was nice too, actually.

Maybe this is a good thing.

Sylus, still glued to your side and equally taken by his surroundings, makes a sound. He untucks his hands from his pockets.

“Tacky.”

After making sure the adorable owner lady didn’t overhear his rude comment, you nudge his side and frown. “Sylus!”

He seems surprised at the light jab, and after a few lagging seconds, you have the same epiphany. There’s been this awkward, at times even unbearable ice between you and him for so, so long. And you just elbowed his arm like shopping around Linkon with him is the most casual thing ever- and my word does your heart do a somersault in your chest.

His slack lips curling into a genuine smile doesn’t make matters any better.

He chuckles, because when being scolded by your stepdaughter who’s trying to be as discreet as possible out in public, that’s the most apt response, isn’t it?

Your stepfather’s cheeks are a smidgen rosy from the cold outside. He goes, “Alright, alright, Kitten,” and takes his gloves off to stuff them in the pockets of his jeans, his ruby eyes glossed over from the wind and shining.

The way he looks at you, then, is…

How could you ever begin to describe it?

Nevertheless. You blink, and it disappears accordingly.

His tone is condescending, so whatever lies in the words he drawls out that makes them sound so honeyed and sincere is beyond you.

“I won’t make any more comments. The place is cute,” he says anyway, but you don’t take umbrage to that. You sigh and continue on.

From that point forward, you kind of split ways. Well, as much as you can, anyhow, in a relatively small shop that appears to be otherwise empty, its unmarked paths all converging into each other.

You flit along the wooden shelves, squinting at jars with pretty designs and then picking them up to further scrutinize their labels.

A set of eyes bores into you, seeming to track your whereabouts no matter where you are. Never far.

It’s… fine. Mentally, you assure yourself, brushing off the slight irritation with moderate ease. I mean, he’s your family, by blood relations or not, and it makes sense that he’d be a little worried about you- especially when you haven’t been in these parts for a while now. Not to mention that you’re a bit…

Ahem. Fragile, at the moment.

In a way, it’s even kind of… endearing? When you were a teen, you absolutely hated all the indirect monitoring he did over your life; no matter where you landed, it always seemed like he had a trick up his sleeve to be aware of it. Luke and Kieran almost always ended up in the same parties and spaces, which generally wasn’t enough to raise an eyebrow at.

What was, however, was the fact that- instead of fooling around elsewhere with jungle juice or shoving their tongues down some chick’s throat and taking turns with her- they were trailing you.

Like thralls, sent to confirm the state of their wayward stepsister.

You’d always sought ways to thwart their spying eyes back then, but at twenty-three, you don’t take the same offense to it anymore.

Maybe Sylus has always had reason to monitor you, and his boys. Because he cared about your wellness. And now, you can’t imagine what those paternal instincts must feel like with your mother, his beloved wife, ripped out of the picture without warning. A patrolman on steroids.

Hemming and hawing over what to buy, you’re reminded of that fact that your stepsiblings are handling the loss of your mother as well, and it squeezes your heart tenderly. It throbs in your chest, and you set down the scent that had initially caught your eye, or more accurately, your nose, in favor of scouring the aisles for another.

What did Luke say again-? Snickerdoodle?

In the process, you turn the corner and, not anticipating any obstacles on the other side of the Christmas tree, bump into a firm chest.

Arms reach out to steady you, and an embarrassed apology is a breath from escaping.

“Oh, I’m-“

“Hey, Sweetie,” a familiar voice purrs, and when you look up, an equally familiar face greets you.

Silver hair falls over his sharp brow, almost obscuring his crimson eyes, but you think right then that there is nothing in the world that could mask the affection in his gaze, so obvious it’s cloying, as he stares down at you, your tiny wrist looped in his hand.

“…Hey,” You flush, tucking your chin and already attempting to move on past.

Only to find that you cannot- because those fingers curled around you don’t budge, not even when you turn to give him a confused look under your lashes.

His explanation for stopping you comes in a single word. “Look,” he lifts an item. Your eyes lock onto it: A creme-colored jar, its notes daintily scrawled under the brand’s signage.

Still recovering from the bump-in, you’re about to remind him of the twins’ request and even ask him to help you look for it- if only to apply some distance again. Of course, you have no problem with Sylus anymore- you don’t, that’s what you’ve decided- and it’s fine and dandy if he wants to stick close, the tight space brooks no other choice, after all. But it’s just-

You quickly shut your mouth.

“Snickerdoodle.”

A smile, real and bright although tentative, etches itself into your cheeks as you go to grab the candle from him. How thoughtful, you muse quietly. He remembered what the boys wanted, too.

In the process of taking it, a heartfelt thanks on the way, your fingers brush with his, a dainty touch against long, slender digits. A harmless, nonetheless cold chill dances along your knuckles, up the tendons of your arm before ending just high of your bicep.

“That’s exactly what Luke wanted.” You mumble, and then, because it subtracts from your pride, conclude in an even quieter tone, “Thanks.”

A low, resounding hum. God, you feel the bass in your chest sometimes, you think. Crawling its way inside your heart and making a home there.

You don’t have a way to stop it, to stop him, from making a nest in the compartment where you store things you care about. He pries his way in, like a crowbar wedged under a wooden board, and pulls up until you give.

And giving, you are. A mile where it was once an inch.

If Sylus is at all pleased by your cute little murmur, it shows.

This time when you go to leave, he doesn’t stop you. He follows happily.

The lady behind the counter makes an attempt to welcome you both, teeming with hospitality, but it only works on one of you. Being polite, you return her smile, her apple cheeks practically glowing as you slide forth the item- but Sylus parries off her warm greeting with a dip of his chin, jaded, almost.

Slight annoyance peaks inside you, and for a moment you wonder if accompanying your grumpy stepfather on the behest of the twins was worth it after all, but then the woman is saying something that you don’t hear— to which Sylus answers before you can panic.

A crease appears between your brow, and you look between them both to understand what was just exchanged. Then he fishes his wallet from his pocket and it makes sense. Ah- the twins didn’t even give you cash for this little excursion, did they?

Where irritation just sparked, the need to be courteous overrides it.

You smack your lips open and reach for your own jeans, ready to mend it, but you’re met with an empty space, and even if you didn’t forget to bring money of your own, Sylus has already beat you to the punch.

She bags the item and hands it to Sylus, but he simply nods your way. A touch flustered, she redirects and hands it to you. You grab it and finally remember how to speak. “Thank you, Miss!”

Swiveling on your heel, a jolly voice stops your departure.

“You two make such a funny couple.”

You pause. At your side, Sylus does too, belatedly pulling out his gloves to put back on.

Honestly, no elaboration is needed. If she were to kick you both out right now and help boost the process of forgetting what was just said, you’d have no problem whatsoever. But she goes out of her way to continue regardless, much to your dismay.

“But it’s sweet in a way, you know, how opposites attract n’ all! You two have a great rest of your day!”

The weak remnant of the smile you wore lasts just long enough for you to nod and spin around. Between a rapidly thumping heart and the strange sensation of butterflies flapping their wings in your stomach, the best goodbye you can bid her comes as a meager, tight grin.

It’s Sylus who suddenly finds his manners to lightly say, “We will. You, too, miss.”

Faintly, the bell chimes overhead, but you don’t hear it.

The bag has handles, but you ignore them in favor of tucking it to your chest. Hugging it with both hands as you head to the car- a sleek Porsche waiting in the icy lot.

A harmless mistake, you reason. She couldn’t have known your relation to him... The almost two decades he has over your head can’t even be a counterpoint to that, because you’re aware that lots of older men prefer younger women, and what with the wealth Sylus has, the latter flock to him like birds. The good looks and charming, although sometimes cocky persona are just the cherry on top.

Plus, in her defense… stepfamily doesn’t share blood. You have no resemblance to him.

She couldn’t have known.

In a pleasant mood, Sylus attempts to open the passenger door for you, but you shake him off. “It’s- fine.” You flash him a tight smile to mollify you both. Because it is. It is fine.

A shallow breath when Sylus ducks into the vehicle, your hands fidgeting with your jacket instead of the bag because there’s no way in hell you’ll put the new candle at stake.

Scarlet eyes dart over to you, their weight heavy even from the far side of your periphery. The engine starts after he ascertains you’re okay- just a little tired, you assure- and then you let yourself sink into the seat.

You’ve just been mistaken for what your mother was to him. And you suppose… You suppose he didn’t take the same offense to it, did he?

Good for him, taking it like water off a duck’s back, deflecting it like the invincible man he is; for not thinking anything of it.

For you, she’s all you can think about.

✦

On the way back, you twine your hand with his.

“I can never win with her,” a smooth voice rings to your left- your husband’s.

A gripe, maybe, but you know his complaints come less from petulance and more from a place of lament. He’s right to be frustrated, anyway- and if anything, that’s a good thing. You’re glad he shows some concern for your child, that instead of completely brushing her off, he takes the high road and tries.

Trying is easier said than done with her.

She requires patience. Painstaking, endless patience. Might as well pretend you’re walking across a wire. One wrong move and the damage is irreparable.

But Sylus is clever, as shrewd as he has to be what with his line of work, and he learned the game. Oh, he learned it fast.

He’s good at playing it.

He calls her kitten. Funny, that... If anyone was introduced to her in the past year, they would never know why, because she’s lost most if not all of her softness. As it stands, she’s bristly and hard and bitter. More like a tiger in the woods than the harmless little thing he paints her as.

Somehow, he sees through that, though, and if that doesn’t endear you to him all the more, what could?

When Sylus married you, he knew the package he was signing off on; the… recalcitrant appendage it came with. It was never explicitly stated, but you made it pretty clear that the relationship- your future- would hinge on his response to your child. He didn’t have to go out of his way to invite her to daddy-daughter brunches, no— hilarious as that sounds— but you wouldn’t tolerate anything untoward.

You chose to tie the knot with him, and for that, you think she’ll always hold that one thing against you, your baby girl. That’s clear to all but the blind. But if Sylus proved to be a complete jackass to her, inconsiderate of her or the fact that she’s yours, her fierce temperament irrelevant— that would’ve been the dealbreaker.

You would’ve called it all off right there at the wedding if he so much as looked at her wrong.

She comes first.

Even if she doesn’t always believe you when you tell her that.

As for her present behavior… You’ll admit, she’s taking a bit of time to warm up to her stepfather, but that’s nothing that can’t be solved.

Some things rely on eventually. Eventually, she’ll see the light, and someday, somewhere down the line, she’ll thank you for the decisions you made for your shared betterment.

But as for his admission of defeat… Well, there’s been more than a few times where she’s led you to the end of your tether, too, ready to pull hair from your scalp and scream as she stands there, infuriatingly smug- like it’s a small victory for her to see you give up on her. So you just dip your head and smile.

“She’ll come around to you, baby,” you set down your drink in the cupholder to rub at his jaw, caressing the stubbled skin. “She will. It just takes time and patience. I talked to her though, she’s… slowly warming up. Slowly.”

His eyes glint with palpable hope.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You just have to keep at it and put yourself in her shoes. She knows you’re a good man, she does- she just,” a sigh, “She misses her father. And she’s stubborn.”

He nods, reaching for his drink in the console.

Stubborn doesn’t even come close. It’s been a number of months since the first meet, and he’ll admit he didnt bestow the best of impressions- a relative first for him- but by now, you’d think things wouldnt be so…

Violent.

That’s all they are, though. He heard teenage girls were hard to deal with at times- but God, does raising a daughter really have to be that much more difficult than raising his boys? She bares her teeth at him any chance she gets.

Sometimes it feels like both his sons are attached to his damn hip- he can’t make them want to go away. But the case with her is different. She’s… Abaxial. She grows away from him.

He snips out a chuckle, arching a brow.

“I’m learning.”

✦

The star is beautiful.

Luke presents it to you, Kieran at his side with an arm slung over his shoulder, grinning ear to ear as you take it hesitantly.

“You really want me to do it?”

It’s the latter who blithely answers, “Yeah. I mean, don’t you want to? We unanimously decided that you should be the one to do it this year.”

Unanimous is a big word for him, but you don’t congratulate his vocabulary; not the right time, you think.

You survey them both. Strange, that you don’t sense any guile on their ends, and even stranger, that you actually want to believe them despite the trap you fell into just over an hour ago.

You suppose there’s only one way to test their intentions.

With some uncertainty, you wield the star and slowly, slowly, approach the tree.

You envision yourself stepping up a ladder and gingerly placing the star on the top, but the boys have other ideas. Like deferent slaves, they drop to the ground and extend their hands for you to step on.

“This isn’t gonna work. It’s too tall.” You mumble, doing well to hide your smirk.

“Well, I can just lift you on my shoulder then,” Luke stands up and proposes, “That’ll definitely reach.”

You sigh. “There has to be other options.” Because he’s your stepbrother, not step stool, and there’s just no way in hell you’re gonna climb on top of him and pray he’s able to keep his balance while juggling you on top.

He smirks. “There isn’t.”

…

“Shit, don’t drop her, bro,” The other twin mumbles under his breath, watching you both with rapt interest- if not a healthy amount of worry- as Luke raises you high. You guide his head with one hand, but the other secures the star tightly. You won’t let it fall- or yourself, for that matter.

This is ridiculous, and a little embarrassing as a velvety chuckle rings from the couch, and you realize right then that Sylus has gone very quiet, and he’s still here despite his reticence, but you’re glad for that. You really don’t want to hear any snarky or amused words being said.

This is already flustering enough, your stepfamily perfectly happy witnesses to your more agreeable side.

Right now, you’re unguarded, but this is…

I mean, this is what mom would’ve wanted.

And that lends you some strength to continue laying your proverbial weapons down at their feet.

“Almost,” you murmur, and Luke draws closer until the tip of your nose is brushing the lights of the tree. You begin to giggle but quickly think better of it as a pair of legs shakes beneath you.

“Oh no, Luke,” and then your stepfather is talking, in that endeared, yet no less condescending tone he so loves for conveying a message, “You’re trembling. Are you sure you don’t need your brother’s help? Or mine?”

Please, no, you bite your tongue.

“I got her, don’t worry.” He says like it’s the most obvious thing ever, perhaps even a mite offended at the ask to begin with.

He steps closer, and you precariously stretch to reach the top- but the moment your fingertips almost touch, he withdraws like the tease he is and wins the exact response he wanted.

You don’t know why, maybe some strange, unexplainable compulsion, or even just a plan to sabotage yourself- honestly, either guess is as good as the other- but you turn your head over your shoulder while Luke tries to steady himself, and your eyes catch on Sylus’s.

The stare is only held for a second, maybe even half of one, but the way he’s looking at you right then…

If it’s possible to put it into words, you’d venture to call it vehemently tender; amazed, like he might as well be witnessing divine creation in action rather than his children stack like rats in a trench coat.

Regardless of what it is, you are incapable of understanding it.

But something has been at work inside you, something lovely and needful, and you hear it whisper the most dastardly things to your soul as you purse your lips and quickly look away, clutching onto the star like a shipwrecked sailor would dry land.

Awe, quiet encouragement, maybe even shock— whatever exists in those eyes you turn from, their sharp red hue reduced to a gentle amber in the brilliance of the tree, will stay with you for a long time.

Kieran sniggers something amongst other trivial things, a joke that’s not even particularly funny, but it almost does his brother in. So between his wry commentary and Luke’s antics, it’s a small miracle that you actually manage to place the star on the tree.

With a gentleness that shocks you, you’re set back down on the floor, and then the twins are running to flick the switch off without any explanation.

“What are you-?”

None is needed, though, because when the lights power off and the living room is painted with shadows, what you’re left with is something on par with the otherworldly.

The tree, it’s…

Perfect.

To hell with the one you saw at the candle shop— in the pitch black, it’s like a beacon, a lighthouse erected in a sea of darkness.

Like moth to flame, you reach for it. “It’s beautiful,” you muse softly.

A figure joins at your side. Then another. Two different arms draping over you. “Yep. Hard work pays off.”

It’s the unvarnished truth that you were the one who put the most effort into decoration, yet the overly self-satisfied comments don’t matter to you, nor the way the ones who made them rock you in between them. No, your attention is elsewhere.

Christmas, your mind supplies against your will, and as your fingertips absently tweak with the miniature bulbs on the string, all you can think of is the lack of company you’ll have for the holidays. Your mother is gone. Your mother is gone, that’s the hard pill you’re still trying to swallow, but that pain is only amplified by the realization that you’ll be utterly bereft of family during the time of the year where it’s supposed to matter most.

You’ll fly home. You’ll be alone.

How it was meant to be, a voice in your head stolidly reminds, but a piece of you resists.

It’s five o’clock, and it’s already gotten dark out. Winter is always to blame.

The revelry doesn’t end after the sun sets, though, not by a long shot, however it does tone down some.

Sylus only removes himself from the sofa behind you to disappear into a hallway before returning with an air of slight pride, an old record in hand. Carefully plucked from his collection, you’re sure, to fit the occasion, and you’re not wrong- he deliberates over everything. He puts it on, something jazzy and laidback and, to your silent relief, not obnoxious (like certain someones), and shortly after, the fireplace crackles to life with one lazy press of a button.

The vocalist, a woman with a voice saturated in misery, drawls out every lovelorn lyric. But the melody is snazzy enough to leave you comforted rather than sad.

Luke and Kieran are there still- for a while, anyway, lingering like bugs in the corner. You hear them toing and froing between point A and B before finally leaving the living room and heading to the kitchen to overwhelm the chef with their evening orders. Though, truth be told, you don’t have much of an appetite yourself. Hard to when your mind is already fat on its own thoughts.

You sit there on the floor, by this tall, gorgeous tree you put together, and pretend to occupy yourself with last-minute touch-ups. Turning the ornaments (some, expensive glass things that will shatter on impact; others, old and ugly relics from the boys’ arts and craft class), fluffing up the boughs… but truly, it’s just an excuse to brood over your thoughts without looking the part.

Just another attempt at coming to terms with everything, with what you don’t want to.

…The funeral, of course. The reasons behind the flight here. And soon enough, the flight back.

Something so bittersweet it’s near unbearable courses through you, then, and pierces whatever it touches- but you quietly understand that this is the way things will be.

Your mother is gone, but while sharing a roof with her indulgent husband and your rambunctious stepsiblings, you’re unexpectedly reminded that not everything is.

Cherishing what’s left isn’t a bad idea.

The ghost of a smile appears between your lips. When you leave, it will be at peace with yourself and more importantly, your stepfamily— the ones who stayed and endured the worst bits of you, even when they had no real reason to. Admittedly, you’re not so deluded by this peace treaty of sorts to forget the desolation that is the apartment you’ll shortly return to- but you’d rather adapt to the hand you were dealt than uselessly kick and scream over what’s out of your control.

No point in crying over spilled milk, the untold emotions lodged in your throat be damned.

It’s approaching night when you make the choice to slip away to your bedroom, fatigue slowly but surely laying itself on thick. The plan is to fall into bed and roost until midday tomorrow- hopefully be comforted by the end of it- but that’s all but forgotten after Sylus stops you by the stairs and pulls you aside.

My God, you wish he didn’t.

“Stay for the holidays,” he says, a flash of something… else briefly eclipsing the tenderness of his face.

His thumb softly rubbing over the back of your hand is what makes you realize he’s even taken hold of it to begin with, and it’s all you can do to give him a stunned look.

“I mean it: Stay. The twins will be… beside themselves if you do choose to go before the festivities begin,” his words are careful, wobbling on the tightrope, though his proposal is undeniably bold. “Besides. You got the tree and the house all decorated, didn’t you? It’s pretty. Admire your handiwork. What sense would it make if you left so early?”

None, you guess. None.

Maybe it’s recklessness or just because you’re tired, but you actually almost accept his invitation and extend your PTO. But there’s things, responsibilities, you have to deal with; a life back at home, no matter how small, that you can’t just disavow all on account of Christmas time.

“Um, I can’t,” you feebly explain, parrying his hospitality off with a strained smile. You find it hurts to say no to him, though you never imagined it could.

You don’t miss the way his expression, already precariously observing you, falls at the answer, yet the flicker of fear— you don’t know whether to chalk that up to his own exhaustion or a trick of the light.

You vaguely mumble on, “I have work. And… You know. I can’t just-“

“You don’t have to answer now,” he interupts cooly, and isn’t that funny? after you’ve just given him an answer? Anyway, “There’s plenty of time left for you to make up your mind. But, the holidays…” his voice is hardly a whisper, and though it’s quiet, it overpowers the loud background chatter of Luke and Kieran from the other room, something that, truth be told, you don’t know if you’re glad for.

“They’re meant for family, are they not?”

A scoff on your end- but not because you’re bitter, or because you disagree even; but because you don’t think you could ever bring yourself to believe he really gives a shit about you after all the hell you’ve rained on this house. Not to mention, is family still family after the spine of it has been ripped out?

How could this house stand without its foundation?

It could be a mistake, but you throw back, “Family?” Your words tremble. You look away, pulling your hand back from his. Not for lack of committing to your decision, but because this is too much too fast and, yes, while you’ve effectively taken down the wall between yourself and your stepfamily, that doesn’t mean you’re comfortable with them immediately bridging the distance revealed in its absence.

As if you’re that snarky teenager challenging him for one last time, you turn your chin up to properly look at him and say, “You really still think that? After- after everything?”

After your past behavior. The obstacle you’ve been in their marriage- and then as of recently, traumatically enough, your mother’s death.

That hand that Sylus used to hold yours shifts up, and then it brushes away the unruly hair that’s fallen over your face. He regards you right then no different than a father would his daughter- a father would his daughter- and you…

You can’t label any of the million feelings that clash inside you at that moment.

“Its not a matter of thinking. You’re…” he intakes deeply. There it is again, that spark of sheer uncertainty marring his handsome face, before you remember to blink and it’s gone in an instant.

He exhales that greedy lungful of air, and then decides, “My daughter.”

He says out loud what you’ve been running from, and he does it without much difficulty, “Whether or not your mother is still in the picture doesn’t undo that. I’ve always believed you to be one of us. I don’t feel any differently now.”

“Why?” You dare to ask with a confused shake of your head, choosing not to protest against any one of his statements but rather counter them with indecision. “Why stay?” It’s hard to see much of a point in anything anymore— stay or go, you’ll be leaving again eventually, and then…

Your jaw clenches tight. You let those three letters marinate in the space between you, narrow as it is, with your bottom lip clamped between your teeth, red from being worried away at for lack of anything better to absorb your anxiety.

At which he takes another long, shaking breath. Sylus replies in a tone as gentle as it is firm, “Does there need to be an elaborate reason? It’s simply because I want you to.”

The smell of snickerdoodle wafts through, cakey and warm, and it helps to ease your inner troubles by the smallest margin.

For a number of seconds, you merely stare back at your stepfather, at a complete loss for words, before finally opening your mouth just to hear a terrified laugh come out.

You should tell him no, you should stick to the plans you made for yourself, lay in the bed you crawled in. But right now, your heart is thrumming so loud in your chest that it feels like it’s in your throat, and the faintest mention of your late mom has you scrambling for emotional foothold— you can’t trust yourself, right now, to be civil, or even act like a grown woman.

So with as much stoicism as you can manage, and despite not knowing what to say, you cooly settle on, “I’ll think about it,” and you turn around and go.

A proverbial whirlwind is threatening your heart, but the honeyed voice calling over your shoulder makes it his personal goal to see that it ravages you before you make it to anywhere private.

“By the way,” he practically croons, and you do pause, though as more of a knee jerk reaction than anything else. Caution in your movements, you’re nearly unwilling to hear what he has to say because it’s already been established that you’re intrinsically scared of it.

He’s bold. You know that-

“I enjoyed our time together, today.”

-But not enough, apparently, because you register the blood that rises to the apples of your cheeks instantly, then; the breath that gets caught in your throat.

Slowly, your tongue darts out to wet your poor, bitten lip. “With the twins,” you shyly clarify.

“Sure, that too,” he humors. “But I meant our outing, Kitten.”

Spinning around with your mouth open like a fish, you want to make a reply, you do- and to your defense, despite not having anything prepared, you actually try. But whatever dangles off the tip of your tongue retreats immediately when your eyes lower at the hand only half-tucked into your stepfather’s pocket, an invisible fist knocking the air from your lungs and your response along with it.

His wedding ring- it’s gone.

Notes:

hey girlies been a minute! no I have not abandoned this series, I am still very much invested in it- just dealing with stuff irl!! Admittedly I also stall quite a bit on editing just because it stresses me out so much, but anyways. please do enjoy 🥹💕 thank yall for the patience & love! it means a lot to me!