The action movie rattled the walls, all fireballs and collapsing skyscrapers, while Emma curled against my side like we were kids again. For a moment it was almost normal—no supernatural agendas, no empire-building, no late-night conquests. Just brother and sister watching CGI reduce cities to rubble, which, honestly, felt cheaper than rent in LA.
"You know," Emma said over the surround sound carnage, "this is nice. Having you here. Not vanishing into… whatever mysterious after-hours cult you've joined."
"I'm not that bad."
She tilted her head, unimpressed. "Peter, you've slept here once since we moved in. Once. Mom still sets out a plate for you at breakfast every morning like she's waiting for the prodigal son to show up with an appetite and a press release."
That landed harder than the digital missile strike currently leveling Paris on screen.
"I've been busy—"
