The house had the kind of quiet that came after a storm—everything still upright, everything technically fine, and yet every surface felt like it was humming with what almost happened. The kitchen smelled faintly of scorched garlic and triumph. A pan sat in the sink like a crime scene, its bottom blackened in a perfect circle.
Kai stood over it with his arms crossed, as if sheer disapproval could reverse chemistry. Callum held the offending spatula two fingers away from his body like it might bite him. Samantha sat at the counter with her hair shoved into a messy knot, looking unbearably soft in an oversized sweater that Marcus knew was his.
Marcus watched them from the couch, his arm draped along the back where Samantha leaned into him, and tried to convince his heartbeat to stop acting like it had personal beef with his ribcage.
"I still say it was your fault," Kai said, nodding at Callum. "You distracted me."
