The front door creaked open just past seven.
Elias slipped inside quietly, as he always did. No grand entrances. No noise. Just movement. His boots barely touched the rug in the entryway before he was met by—
"—Don't scream. Don't panic. It's not smoke. It's just very excited flour."
Elias blinked.
His dad, Tyler, was in the kitchen wearing a "Flour Power" apron and holding a fire extinguisher… upside down.
"What happened?" Elias asked flatly.
"Cinnamon happened," Tyler replied, gesturing to a pan of something vaguely rectangular that looked like it had given up halfway through trying to be dessert.
From the living room, Marc didn't look up from his laptop.
"He tried to make lemon bars without lemons."
"We were out," Tyler protested.
"So you used… cinnamon?"
"It's a warm substitution."
Elias raised an eyebrow. "That's not a thing."
"It could be."
Marc looked over his screen now, eyes narrowing slightly.
"You're late."
Elias dropped his bag by the couch. "Group project."
"With?"
"Alex Dunphy."
Tyler's eyebrows shot up. "Smart girl."
"She's fine."
Marc tilted his head. "And yet you look like someone who just walked out of a confessional."
"I'm fine."
Marc closed his laptop. "That's not what I said."
Elias walked past both of them into the kitchen, opening the fridge like it might contain better questions. Or fewer.
Tyler followed him in, brushing flour off his shirt. "Did she say something? Do something?"
"She heard something."
Marc's chair creaked as he stood. "Your voice?"
Elias didn't respond.
Tyler opened his mouth to make a joke — saw Elias's expression — and stopped.
Marc stepped into the doorway. "You sang around her?"
"I didn't mean to. She walked in."
"And?"
"She listened."
"And?"
"I asked her not to."
Marc crossed his arms. "Did you mean the lyrics?"
Elias's eyes flicked toward him.
Marc waited.
Elias looked away. "Doesn't matter."
Tyler cleared his throat gently. "Hey. Look, kiddo. Just because someone heard something doesn't mean they understand it. And it doesn't mean they get to own it."
Elias didn't respond.
Tyler hesitated. "Want to try the bars?"
Elias gave him a look. "No."
Marc watched his son for another long moment. Then turned away.
"Next time," he muttered, "lock the door when you sing about your emotional trauma."
Tyler nodded solemnly. "Or put in earbuds. That's what I do when he starts talking about Coldplay."
"I mentioned Coldplay," Marc growled. "Once."
Elias sat down at the kitchen island, staring at the counter, the words still looping behind his eyes:
> I never wanted to be heard — I just wanted to be known.