After zoning out at my plate, I finally address the elephant in the room.
My father.
He's at our kitchen table. At eight in the morning. With my mother. Voluntarily.
I squint at him like he's a math problem that shouldn't exist.
"So, Dad… " I say slowly. "Why are you here this early? You're aware you're in the same room as Mom, right?"
Dad laughs, big and unbothered, like I didn't just point out the emotional equivalent of two nuclear warheads sharing coffee. "It's your birthday," he says. "And Rick's. I can deal with your mother for a few hours." He takes a sip, grimaces. "Besides, your brother and I are going to that baseball game this morning—if he wakes up."
He says it like an explanation.
It isn't.
My father does not rearrange his life for sentiment. He rearranges it for emergencies.
On cue, something thumps in the hallway.
Rick shuffles in like a half-dead extra from a zombie movie—sweatpants, no shirt, hair doing interpretive dance, eyes at half-mast. He walks past everyone without acknowledging a single living soul.
He doesn't look at Will.
That's how I know he's already clocked him.
Classic.
"Speak of the devil," Dad mutters. "Rick, you ready to go?"
Rick grunts.
That's it. Just a sound. My twin doesn't speak English until his second cup of caffeine. First cup = caveman noises. Second = functional human. Third = borderline menace.
He lurches to the counter, fills his mug, then shuffles toward me. Without warning, he bows his head and presses a quick, scratchy kiss to the top of mine. It's automatic. Muscle memory. A check-in disguised as affection.
"Happy birthday, sis," he mutters.
My heart squeezes. "Happy birthday," I say back, hugging him awkwardly, trying not to baptize us both in scalding coffee.
He makes another grunt—his private dialect of affection—and that's when I feel it.
Heat behind my shoulder.
Will is watching.
And my body—traitor that it is—reacts before my brain signs off. My heartbeat jumps like it recognizes him on a frequency I'm not supposed to have.
Dad claps his hands once. "Alright. Rick, finish your coffee." He glances at Will. "Will, you're welcome to stay for breakfast if you'd like."
My eye twitches.
Of course Dad invites him. Of course the universe hates me.
Will's answer comes low and warm—polite for the table, but it lands directly in my nervous system.
"I'd like that," he says. "I'm not going anywhere yet."
My stomach tightens.
Perfect.
Rick smacks Dad's shoulder on his way past, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. "Dad, I'll be ready in five minutes. Cool?"
"Yeah, take your time. The game doesn't start for an hour," Dad says, rolling his eyes.
Rick's mouth curls into a wicked grin. "Great, then I'll be ready in twenty."
"Rick." Dad's voice drops into The Voice.
We both still.
The Voice is childhood trauma in sound form—instant room-cleaner, argument-ender, volume-killer.
Rick lifts one hand like he's surrendering. "Chillax, Dad. Five minutes." He holds up every finger dramatically, backing toward the hall.
Dad just shakes his head like he's counting down to a migraine.
Halfway to his room, Rick finally registers we're not alone. His gaze snags on Will.
They look at each other.
The air doesn't tense.
It measures.
Like two animals quietly deciding who would bleed first if this went sideways.
It isn't hostile. It isn't friendly.
It's the full twin-brother evaluation checklist: Strength. Motive. Threat level. Heartbreak potential.
Rick's gaze flicks–once–to my eyes.
Then back to Will.
Decision logged.
You good? Do I need to deal with him?
I smile, small and easy. "All good," I say lightly. "Nobody important."
Rick nods once—the kind of nod that means: If he becomes important, I'll handle it.
He gives Will one more assessing glance and shuffles off, coffee held like a holy relic.
That's my brother.
Dramatic. Disorganized. Always late.
And the first person to clock anyone who gets near me.
It's comforting.
And terrifying.
Rick actually returns in under ten minutes, which is a personal miracle. Damp hair, clean skin, and his "BASEBALL OR DIE" shirt—caffeinated and alive in a way only Rick understands.
Will is still at the table.
Rick pauses just long enough for me to notice, then slides into the chair directly across from Will.
Not beside me. Not beside Dad.
Directly across.
A silent, twin-coded protective maneuver.
He props his elbows on the table. "So. Will, right?"
Will nods, calm and unreadable. "Yeah. Will."
A beat. Measuring.
Rick takes a long drink of coffee, then asks the most Rick question on earth.
"You like baseball?"
Will blinks. "I… haven't been to a game in a long time."
Rick smacks the table once. Decision made. "Jesus. Tragic." He points at Dad. "Dad, we're bringing him. No argument."
Dad opens his mouth. Closes it.
Rick has that effect on people.
Internally, I'm screaming absolutely not, but there is no universe where I can forbid Rick from inviting someone to something without sounding unhinged.
Will flicks me the quickest glance—not smug, not triumphant.
Just… knowing.
Then he looks back at Rick. "What position do you think I'd play?"
Rick drags his eyes over him critically. "With that grumpy 'I've-seen-some-things' face?" He nods, satisfied. "Catcher. Definitely catcher. But you look mean enough to pitch on a bad day."
Will laughs.
Not the polite laugh.
It's the sound of someone who understands violence and chooses restraint anyway.
It hits something in my chest I'm not ready to name.
Rick leans back, pleased. "You get a baseball game," he tells Will, "and I get someone who speaks English around here. Mom's in Pinterest mode, Dad speaks in sarcasm, and Angela's in her dramatic brooding phase."
I inhale coffee at the word brooding and choke. "I am not—"
Rick waves a hand. "Please. Your resting bitch face alone is writing an entire emo album."
Will bites his lip, clearly trying not to smile. My face burns anyway.
Rick's already up, grabbing his keys. "Clock's ticking, old man! Five minutes and I'm leaving without you!"
Dad groans, grabs his wallet, and pushes up from his chair. "I raised a monster," he mutters, heading to the mudroom. He pauses long enough to point a finger at Will. "This is what happens when you give kids caffeine."
Dad snags his sneakers and nearly trips over the rug. He reaches the front door, hand on the knob—then stops.
He turns back to Will with a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Hey, son… listen." Dad scratches the back of his neck. "I only bought two tickets for the game. Just for me and Rick." He shrugs. "I'm… sorry."
He does not sound sorry.
He sounds like a man who planned this outcome and is relieved it worked.
Will nods once. No offense taken. "Of course. You two have your day."
Dad looks relieved—way too relieved for a casual sorry, no extra ticket. "Yeah. Right. Good." He fumbles the doorknob. "We'll—uh—we'll be back later."
He claps Will on the shoulder—stiff, formal—and steps outside.
"LOVE YOU, NERDS! SHOTGUN FOR LIFE!" Rick yells from the driveway.
The door shuts.
The house exhales.
Not relief.
Containment.
Mom hums while she butters toast, back to us, pretending normal so hard it almost hurts to watch. The ceiling fan clicks lazily overhead. The fridge hums. Somewhere outside, a car door slams.
She hums too evenly.
Like if she stops, something else might start.
And at the table, the air changes.
Will shifts.
Scoots his chair closer—not touching, just close enough that I can feel his heat.
My nervous system reacts before my pride does.
Heat. Awareness. The instinctive recalibration of space around a known danger.
That invisible pressure tightens. The same thick weight I felt at the window last night. In the hallway. In every place he's stood too close and called it protection.
I open my mouth to tell him to move back—
The world fails.
No warning. No soft edge. Just impact.
Darkness.
Stone.
Cold.
No warning. No veil. No gentle slide.
Just impact.
I'm not at the kitchen table anymore.
I'm on my knees on a slick stone floor. My wrists and ankles are bound—iron biting into skin, chains coiled around me like snakes. Rust flakes under my fingers when I pull.
Torches spit on the walls, their light too orange, too hungry. Shadows crawl where nothing moves.
The air smells like blood and old metal and something rotten that never finished dying.
A figure steps into view.
Cloaked in black. Hooded. Voice like gravel dragged over bone.
"Forget who you were," it rasps.
The command isn't metaphorical.
It's procedural.
"Forget what you are."
Gloved fingers clamp my jaw, forcing my head up. I try to jerk away, but the chains bite deeper.
A blade hovers over my chest, its edge etched with tiny, glowing symbols—wrong letters, not human, not mortal.
"Sleep, little one," the voice croons. "Sleep until we call for you again."
Like I'm property placed back on a shelf.
The sigil flares.
White-hot.
My body arches. I scream—and I'm back in the kitchen.
Sunlight on the table. Pancakes. Syrup. Butter.
My lungs burn like I've been underwater.
My hands are clenched around nothing, nails digging into my palms. My wrists are bare, unmarked.
Mom doesn't notice anything. She's still humming, still spreading butter, trapped in the loop of a normal morning.
But Will—
Will is staring at me like the world just split open behind my eyes.
He doesn't ask if I'm okay.
He doesn't look confused.
He looks angry–the quiet, controlled kind that comes from recognition, not surprise.
His face has gone pale. Every trace of humor is gone. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle ticking.
He saw it. Or worse–he remembers it.
Not like a guess. Not like he read my expression.
Like the vision passed through him, too.
I grip the edge of the table until my fingers ache, forcing my hands not to shake.
He's the one who speaks first.
"Good morning, Angela," he says softly.
Too gentle. Too knowing.
So much for ignoring him.
I drag on the fakest smile I own—survival instinct snapping into place—and because my mother is five feet away, I lace my voice with sugar and venom.
"Morning, William," I say. "I see they let you out again today."
I use his full name so he knows I'm furious.
He gives the smallest smirk—barely there, like he knows exactly why.
Because the world just showed me chains and a blade and a command to forget—and he's sitting at my kitchen table like this moment has been inevitable all along.