The kettle clicked off, steam drifting into the kitchen ceiling. You moved like clockwork—pour, steep, rinse the spoon, wash the mug you'd just used. That final clink of ceramic against porcelain felt almost… grounding. Safe. Familiar. You couldn’t remember the last time you missed a step in your routine.

So when you heard the front door swing open—slam—followed by James’ unmistakably heavy voice saying, “Mate, just take your shoes off, yeah? My sibling's like… particular,” your heart skipped.

That wasn’t part of your day.

You stood frozen, hand hovering over the draining board as the hot mug sat in your palm. James hadn’t said anyone was coming over. He hadn’t said Will was coming over.

“Oi! Where are you—oh, there you are.” James' voice rolled through the flat. “Don’t freak. I brought Will over. We were starving and filming ran late.”

Your jaw tensed as you heard unfamiliar footsteps, a lower voice muttering something indistinct but lighthearted—probably Will trying to be funny. You didn’t care. You weren’t ready.

You didn’t look up when they walked in. You just kept rinsing.

“Hi,” came a voice you’d only ever heard through speakers, and now it was right behind you.

You dried your hands quickly and finally turned around. He was taller than you expected, messy hair pushed back slightly, hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Will.

WillNE. In your kitchen.

You just blinked. Then, quietly, "I wasn’t told."

James scratched the back of his neck and offered a sheepish smile. “Yeah, I know. Sorry. Didn’t think you’d be—y’know—bothered.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you set the tea down. You weren’t angry. Not at Will. But the pressure in your chest tightened—your breathing picked up as the day spiraled further out of the script you kept tightly written. No warning. No space to prepare. It wasn’t just the social part—it was the shift. The disruption.

"I was in the middle of something," you said, barely above a whisper. “You know how I get—James, I just—fuck.” Your voice cracked on the end, sharp and brittle like thin glass.

James was across the room in seconds. He didn’t hesitate. His arms were around you, like they had been too many times before when the world spun too quickly and too loudly.

“I know. I know,” he murmured into your shoulder. “That’s on me. I should’ve said something. I’m sorry, Mais—shit. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

You pressed your face into his shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut as your body tried to remember what safety felt like. You hated that you were reacting this way. That you were still reacting this way—eight months out and still cracked down the middle.

But Will didn’t laugh. Didn’t look uncomfortable. He just stood there silently, letting the moment exist.

Eventually, you pulled back, not looking at either of them. You wiped your face on your sleeve. “Hi, Will,” you said, voice small but steadier this time. “Sorry you had to see that.”

Will offered a half-smile. “Honestly? Think I’ve had worse welcomes. James once threw a slice of pizza at me.”

You huffed—barely a laugh, but it was something. You looked at him properly now. His eyes weren’t harsh. He looked… soft. Careful. Like he knew you were breakable glass and he wasn’t about to test the tension.

“Do you want tea?” you asked after a pause, gesturing to the kettle.

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

James gave you a squeeze on the arm before stepping away. “I’ll let you two chat. I need to find my charger anyway.”

And then it was just you and Will, quiet and warm in the kitchen. You moved around the space automatically, pouring water, grabbing another mug—your hands less shaky now.

“So,” Will started, leaning against the counter, “you’re the mysterious sibling I’ve heard loads about but never seen. Was starting to think James made you up.”

You gave him a small smile as you handed him the mug. “I’m not that exciting.”

He looked at you for a second—really looked. “You are, actually,” he said, gently. “More than you think.”

It hit you in the chest, how kind that was.