Ezekiel's POV
Thursday mornings at the Garcia house were pure mayhem.
Coffee permeated the air, mixing with the acrid smell of blackened bread from the temperamental toaster. The kitchen television droned with morning news that nobody bothered watching. Anton raced around half-clothed, hunting for his missing soccer cleat while their mother's voice carried from somewhere down the hallway, rattling off reminders about forgotten assignments and dirty uniforms.
This was normal.
This was home.
I had practically grown up in this kitchen since seventh grade.
But something had shifted recently.
Something that made every visit feel strained.
I pressed my back against the cool granite counter, nursing an energy drink while observing Ximena navigate the familiar space.
Shower-damp hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders. An enormous hoodie engulfed her petite frame, paired with form-fitting leggings.
She avoided my gaze entirely.
