The sun filtered through the kitchen curtains, casting a warm golden haze over the family house. Jane stood at the counter, knife in hand, slicing onions with rhythmic precision. The sharp scent filled the air, mingling with the sizzle of breakfast on the stove. She glanced up as footsteps echoed from the stairs.
"Good morning, Derrick. How are you?" she asked, her voice light, almost hopeful, as if the question could coax a spark from him.
Derrick descended slowly, his posture slouched like a shadow dragging its weight. "Morning," he muttered, voice flat, eyes half-lidded with fatigue. He moved toward the table, each step deliberate but heavy, as if the world itself was a burden he carried without complaint.
Kate, stirring eggs at the stove, spun around with a frown. "Derrick, stop that hunchback posture—it's bad for you!" Her tone was sharp, reprimanding, but laced with the kind of concern that only came from years of watching over him.
Derrick paused mid-stride, turning his head just enough to meet her gaze. He held the slouch, unyielding, his expression a mask of casual indifference.
The kitchen fell silent.
The only sound was the quiet pop of oil in the pan.
"I need to eat," he said simply, resuming his path to the table without straightening. The words hung there—practical, unapologetic—like everything about him. He pulled out a chair and sat, the wood creaking under his frame, and reached for a fork as if the exchange had never happened.
Jane exchanged a glance with Kate, her knife hovering over the board. The air felt thicker now, charged with that familiar mix of affection and frustration. Derrick was their anchor, their enigma—beautiful and distant, like a storm cloud on a clear day. And in that moment, as the morning light caught the silver in his hair, they both wondered, not for the first time, how to reach the man behind the frost.