I lay on my bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling, the oppressive weight of the night sitting heavy on my chest. The distant thrum of traffic seeped through the open window, mingling with the low creak of my old apartment's bones. 

My room was a careful balance of clean and disarray: a bookshelf lined with novels and artifacts on one side, a desk covered in coffee-stained papers on the other. The guitar in the corner, its strings tarnished by neglect, seemed to taunt me from the shadows.

But nothing in the room needed my attention—not tonight. Not with him in the next apartment over.

Nicolai Scott-Morikawa. My brother's best friend.

I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that might shield me from the wave of irritation washing over me. Out of all the people in this city, it had to be him. The man who had taken my brother's time, his attention—everything that used to feel like mine alone.

My fingers drummed the edge of my mattress, restless and tired. Even as a teen, I'd known that what Nicolai felt for Jace wasn't just friendship. No, it was something else. Romantic. The way Nicolai's eyes lingered, the way he talked about Jace like he was something beyond reach, something holy. It was hard to miss, subtle but undeniable.

And I hated it.

I recognized it for what it was: something deeper, something dangerous.

Nicolai was so obviously crushing on Jace. His behavior at times was downright possessive.

Unnatural.

And every time I thought about it, it unearthed memories I'd buried more than a decade ago.

Memories of my father, who had taken me and Jace aside one night at the kitchen table and calmly explained that he wasn't coming back. That he had fallen in love with someone new. With a man. I was eleven, my hands sticky with peanut butter from a sandwich I didn't finish. Jace had held my shoulder tightly and told me to stay calm, even as our mother's sobs reverberated through the house.

Our father had abandoned us, a wound so deep it had torn our family apart forever. And now, seeing a similar undertone in Nicolai's obsession with Jace... it felt like history threatening to repeat itself.

I gritted my teeth, my heart racing with a mix of rage and dread. I didn't mind what people did with their own lives—just not my family. Jace had been our beacon, our lifeline. But over the years, I could never quite shake the feeling that my brother had somehow been influenced.

That spending so much time with Nicolai had done something, warped something, and I could say that conclusively now because Jace was dating a man.

Of course, I didn't approve of it. But I loved my brother and couldn't bear to lose him.

But still, Jace loved a man.

The thought stung more than I was willing to admit. Letting out a frustrated sigh, I rolled onto my side and punched the pillow into submission, burying my face in it.

The memory of Nicolai's smirk minutes ago just twisted the knife. He hadn't changed. He was still the same self-involved person I remembered—someone who couldn't see beyond his own needs long enough to notice the wreckage left behind him.

I inhaled slowly and looked toward the wall, the one that separated us now. For a moment, I swore I could hear stirring from the other side, Nicolai getting comfortable. The sound was faint, but it struck me like a thunderclap.

That was about to pose a problem.

I exhaled sharply and reached across to snap the lamp off with more force than necessary. The room went dark, but it didn't produce the quiet I needed.

The memories had already begun seeping in, unwanted.

The house was too quiet. I had always hated that. It made the shadows longer, the air heavier, and every creak of the floorboard louder than it should be. It was the kind of silence that wasn't peaceful but hollow, like the house itself was holding its breath. I set my backpack by the door, kicking off my sneakers, their laces still tied, and called out.

"Mom?"

Nothing.

Not from the kitchen, where the faint smell of burnt toast lingered like a ghost. Not from the living room, where an old sitcom played to no one, the laugh track ringing hollow in the stillness.

I found her in her bedroom, curtains drawn tight, the dull glow of the TV painting the walls in pale, flickering blue. She was on top of the covers, curled into herself like she was trying to disappear. Her robe hung off her frame, loose and oversized, and her hair was an unruly tangle, the kind that spoke of too many nights spent tossing and turning.

"Mom?" I tried again, my voice softer this time.

She stirred, blinking up at me like I'd startled her awake from some distant place. Her face cracked into something resembling a smile, but it was shaky, like it might crumble if I looked too hard. "Hey, baby," she croaked, her voice frayed and dry. "You're home early."

"It's past five," I said, dropping my schoolbooks on the cluttered nightstand. The untouched bowl of cereal sitting there caught my eye, the milk dried into a crust. "You... didn't get up today?"

She pushed herself up halfway, wincing as though the effort cost her something. "Of course I did. I cleaned the kitchen."

I had cleaned the kitchen before school.

I sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, trying not to let my face betray anything. "Did you eat lunch?"

Her hand waved weakly in the air, brushing off the question. "I'm fine, Paxton. Really. Just tired, you know? It's... been a long week."

"It's Wednesday." The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I immediately regretted it when her face fell.

She tried to recover, plastering on that brittle smile again. "You're such a smart kid," she said, reaching out to ruffle my hair. But her hand lingered too long, trembling slightly as if she was holding on to me for balance. "You get that from your dad."

The mention of my father was like a punch to the gut, sharp and immediate. But I stayed still, letting her keep her hand there. She needed this more than I needed to pull away.

"Mom, are you okay?" I asked quietly. The words felt too big in my mouth, too heavy for me to carry alone.

Her smile cracked. She let her hand drop, staring at it like it wasn't hers. "I'm just tired, sweetheart. That's all. Don't you worry about me." Her voice broke on the last word, and she turned away, fingers brushing at her cheek in a futile attempt to hide the tears.

I hesitated, then reached out, my small hand wrapping around hers. It was cold, too cold, and my chest ached at the way her fingers clung to mine, desperate and frail.

"I can stay," I whispered. "It's okay."

She stared at me, tears slipping freely now. "I'm so sorry, Paxton," she said suddenly, her voice breaking in a way that made my heart feel like it was splitting in two. "For all of this. For everything."

When I opened my eyes, I was in my room, the dim glow of my alarm clock blinking 3:37 AM. My face was damp, my pillow wet with tears I didn't remember shedding.

It was a dream. Just a dream. But it felt too real—still haunting me ten years later, the weight of it pressing on my chest like it was still happening. Like it had never stopped.

I rubbed my face, willing the remnants away.

Then I heard it—the unmistakable scrape of furniture being dragged across the floor.

I froze, ears straining. It wasn't my dream. It wasn't my imagination. It was Nicolai.

"Are you serious?" I hissed, sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. It didn't stop. A heavy thunk followed, then more dragging. My hands clenched into fists. I was a light sleeper, sure, but who in their right mind thought it was okay to play interior decorator in the middle of the night?

I didn't bother with shoes or even a proper shirt—just a tank top and pajama bottoms—as I stormed to Nicolai's door.

The banging was satisfying. Maybe now he'd get the hint.

After a moment, the door flew open, revealing Nicolai—barefoot, shirtless, and looking more confused than apologetic.

"Paxton?" He blinked, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn't fully awake. "What's your deal?"

"My deal?" I snapped, my voice tight. "My deal is that it's the middle of the night, and it sounds like you're auditioning for a job at a moving company. What the hell are you doing?"

Nicolai arched an eyebrow. "Unpacking."

"Unpacking?" I echoed, incredulous. "At this hour? Do you not own a clock, or is that too much responsibility for you?"

His lips curved into an infuriating smirk. "Sorry, Dad. Didn't realize I needed a bedtime schedule. Next time, I'll check in before daring to be productive."

My eye twitched. "Productive? You call this productive? It sounds like you're trying to rearrange the entire building. And maybe smash through a wall while you're at it."

"Yeah, well," Nicolai shot back, crossing his arms, "maybe if you weren't such a light sleeper, you wouldn't notice every little thing. Or is being annoyed your default setting?"

I stepped into the room, closing the space between us. "It's not about being a light sleeper. It's about basic courtesy—which, I know, is a foreign concept to you. Literally and figuratively."

His grin widened, sharp and deliberate. "Oh, go on. Make another lame jab about me being half-Japanese. It's cute how you think that's original."

"Cute?" I scoffed.

Nicolai tilted his head, unfazed. "What's really cute is how you pretend not to care about anything, but here you are, standing in my doorway, looking like you're one bad night away from a full-on meltdown."

My hands itched to throw something. "I'm this close to losing it because you have no concept of boundaries! Do you seriously not care how inconsiderate you are?"

Nicolai stepped closer, but before he could retort, a sudden pop filled the room.

We both turned as the overhead light flickered, then sparked. Smoke curled from the outlet near Nicolai's bed.

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered.

The sparks turned into a small flame, licking at the wall.

Well, fuck.

A/N

If you enjoyed reading this chapter, please, like, comment and subscibe means a lot to me and it's the best way to show me some support! Thank you!