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The house hadn't changed.
That was the first thing that made my stomach tighten.
The gate still screeched when I pushed it open, metal scraping metal in a way that felt too loud for the quiet street. The porch light flickered once before settling into a dull glow. Even the cracked tile near the entrance the one I'd tripped over when I was seventeen was still there, waiting.
It felt like the house had been holding its breath since I left.
I stood there with my suitcase by my side, fingers wrapped too tightly around the handle. For a moment, I considered turning back. Not because I didn't need a place to stay I did but because stepping inside felt like agreeing to something I hadn't been told the rules for.
No one came to the door.
I let myself in.
The lock clicked softly behind me, final in a way I wasn't ready for. Inside, the lights were on in the living room, low and warm, casting shadows that hadn't shifted in years. A clock ticked somewhere slow, deliberate, reminding me that time still moved forward even if I'd been gone.
The smell hit me next. Wood polish. Old books. Coffee that had gone bitter sitting too long.
Ziven.
I rolled my suitcase across the floor, careful not to let the wheels catch. The living room was neat to the point of being controlled. The couch cushions were aligned perfectly. A book lay open on the table, pages folded at the corner, a mug beside it with a faint ring at the bottom.
He'd stood up and left without finishing it. Or he'd finished and put it back exactly like that.
That was the thing about Ziven. Nothing he did was careless.
I swallowed and moved further in, my footsteps quiet out of habit. I'd learned early not to announce myself in this house. It was easier to exist unnoticed than to explain why I was there.
I was halfway to the hallway when I felt it.
Not a sound. Not a movement.
Just that sensation you get when someone is already looking at you.
I turned.
Ziven stood near the doorway to the study, one hand resting lightly against the frame. He wasn't holding anything. He wasn't rushing. He wasn't surprised.
He was just… there.
He'd changed since the last time I saw him. Not drastically. Ziven never changed in obvious ways.
He was taller than I remembered no, that was probably just me noticing it differently now. His shoulders were broader, his posture more settled, like his body had grown into decisions it didn't need to question anymore.
His hair was lighter than mine, neatly combed back, not a strand out of place. His face was as controlled as ever. Sharp jaw. Calm mouth. Eyes the color of steel, unreadable and steady.
They flicked to my suitcase. Then back to my face.
"Asher," he said.
Just my name.
No warmth. No hesitation. No familiarity beyond acknowledgment.
It shouldn't have mattered. But it did.
He never used anything else. Never brother. Never family. Not even jokingly. Just my name, spoken like a line he refused to cross.
I told myself it made sense.
I wasn't his real brother. I had never been.
"Ziven," I replied, because that was the rule. We addressed each other like equals who weren't related at all.
Silence settled between us.
He took a step forward, then stopped. The space he left was deliberate. Measured. Like he was aware of exactly how close he could get without it becoming something else.
"You're early," he said.
"I got an earlier bus."
Another nod. Not approval. Just processing.
"You can take the old room," he added. "It's been cleaned."
Of course it had.
"Thanks."
He turned slightly, angling his body away from me in a way that suggested the conversation was over. I should have moved then. Taken the excuse. Gone down the hall and closed a door between us.
Instead, I stood there.
"Did you… know I was coming today?" I asked.
His pause was almost invisible.
"Yes."
That was all.
No I'm glad you're here. No welcome back. No it's been a while. Ziven didn't do unnecessary words. He also didn't do lies.
I nodded, even though something in my chest felt tight. "Okay."
I dragged my suitcase toward the hallway. As I passed him, I became aware of everything at once the difference in our height, the way his presence seemed to narrow the space, the faint scent of soap and something sharper underneath.
He didn't touch me.
He never did.
But I felt him there anyway, close enough that my shoulder brushed the air beside him. I felt the tension in my own body spike, a reflex I hated and couldn't seem to unlearn.
When I reached the door to my old room, I hesitated again.
"Ziven?"
"Yes."
I turned back. He was watching me now, fully. No distraction. No distance in his gaze.
"Thank you," I said, and this time I meant more than the room. "For letting me stay."
Something flickered across his face. Not softness. Not irritation. Something tighter. Controlled.
"This is your home too," he said.
It was the closest thing to a lie I'd ever heard him tell.
I nodded anyway and went inside.
The room smelled clean. Too clean. The bed was made neatly, sheets pulled tight. My desk sat by the window, exactly where it always had. Even the small crack in the corner of the wall was still there, faint but familiar.
I closed the door behind me and leaned my forehead against it.
My hands were shaking.
I waited for the sound of his footsteps moving away.
They didn't come.
Minutes passed. Or seconds. I wasn't sure. Eventually, the pressure eased not because he'd left, but because I realized he was standing on the other side, still. As if he were making sure I didn't disappear again the moment he looked away.
I exhaled slowly.
Growing up, I'd thought Ziven kept his distance because he didn't like me. Because I was a complication. A reminder that our parents' marriage hadn't begun with love.
But standing there now, with my heart racing for reasons I refused to name, a different thought settled in.
Ziven didn't avoid me because I didn't matter.
He avoided me because I did.
And whatever line he'd drawn between us all those years ago…
he was still standing right on the edge of it.