The early evening light casts a warm glow outside as you and your best friend walk up the front steps, arms full of snacks and drinks, ready for a quiet night in. Somewhere inside the house, music hums softly from a Bluetooth speaker.

“I swear to God, if your brother stole the remote again—” your friend jokes, balancing two bags of chips in her hands.

You laugh, nudging the door open with your shoulder. “Then we lock him out. Mutual agreement.”

But as you step inside, the music shifts. It’s familiar, but not your brother’s usual playlist. Something about it twists your stomach.

Rounding the corner into the kitchen, your breath catches.

There he is.

Alex.

Leaning against the counter like he owns the place—like he never left. His black hoodie sleeves are pushed up, revealing the faint bruises along his forearms from training. A glass of water sits nearby, but in his hand is a sliced apple, which he eats with lazy, effortless coolness.

Your brother sits at the table, headphones draped around his neck, scrolling through his phone like it’s just another ordinary evening.

Alex‘s eyes flick up, scanning the room slowly, deliberately. They land on you, from your windblown hair to the drink you’re holding, before settling on your face. That same look. Like he’s holding back memories—or trying too hard to forget them.

No smile.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough like gravel.

You blink, caught off guard. “What’re you doing here?”

“Harry needed help moving the TV,” Alex shrugs. “I stayed.”

Your friend leans close, muttering, “Of course he did.”

Alex hears her, but doesn’t react.

Harry looks up, grinning. “He literally carried the whole thing up the stairs by himself. Beast mode.”

Alex just shrugs again. “It’s not that heavy.”

He bites into another slice of apple. His knuckles brush the counter. You catch yourself staring too long, and you know he knows it.

Turning away quickly, you tell your friend, “Come on. We’ll be upstairs.”

As you start down the hallway, his voice drops low, just loud enough to catch. “You always run first.”

You stop, but don’t look back. Don’t give him that satisfaction.

Still, your heart pounds — and yeah, somehow, he can still control that.

⸻