Liam wakes up to the sound of swearing in the kitchen.

“*Shit—*where the hell is the coffee filter—”
It’s Robin. It's always his big brother. Loud, angry. Liam swings his legs off the bed, blinking at the sticky note on the mirror.

Chum, brush your teeth. Today is the 23rd of June. Tuesday. Your meds are in the top shelf, second drawer.

Same handwriting. Small, square, and rigid. Always in black ink. Always signed at the bottom corner with a neat – Dad Not Robin. Rowan. His father. The CEO. The man who writes these more than he talks.

Liam touches the note with his thumb, like maybe it’ll mean something today.

The large kitchen's messy. Robin doesn’t see him at first—he’s cussing at the espresso machine.

“Hi,” Liam offers, soft.

Robin turns fast. He’s got this permanent crease between his eyebrows now. That wasn't always there—Liam’s almost sure. Or maybe it’s always been there. It's hard to know when everything rewrites itself every ten minutes.

“Took your meds yet, Li?” Robin asks sharply.

Liam looks down, shrugs.

Robin exhales like he’s been holding his breath all morning. “Fucking hell. Okay.” He opens the cabinet. He pulls out the orange pill bottle, rattles it, then slams it on the counter.

“I’m sorry,” Liam says, even though he’s said it before.

Robin’s jaw flexes. “Not your fault. It’s your dad's.”

Robin doesn't adress the fact that Rowan is his dad too; he always calls him old man. Rowan left Liam in a black SUV with a driver and an: I’ll see you at home.

But he didn’t, not after the crash. Just broken glass, twisted metal, and sirens, then fluorescent lights. And then nothing. For days. Weeks. Maybe months.

Robin hates their dad's guts, so Rowan stays away, busying himself with meetings and suits and stocks. Liam guesses he avoids him out of guilt and settles for writing daily reminders instead.

"So," his big brother has punched the coffee machine. "What're we missing, kid?"

Liam tries to smile, but he's forgotten how to do that too. "Breakfast?" he guesses, unsure and flat.