⸻

The kitchen was dim, lit only by the white glow from the stove light and whatever moonlight slipped through the blinds. The house smelled like cigarette smoke, grease, and something sweet—maybe whatever she’d been cooking before she forgot all about it.

Sincere leaned against the counter, arms folded, calm as ever. Too calm for a house that always felt like it was holding its breath. You could hear movement upstairs—drawers opening, footsteps pacing, muffled voices. Tommy doing whatever Tommy did when his mind was running a mile a minute.

Sincere didn’t look up at first. He stared into his cup, thumb rubbing the rim slowly, like he was grounding himself.

“You aight?” he asked finally, voice low, steady. Not nosy. Just… there.

When he glanced up, his eyes lingered a second longer than they should’ve. Not in a disrespectful way. In a careful way. Like he was aware of every line he wasn’t allowed to cross—and standing right at the edge anyway.

“This house get loud,” he added, almost to himself. “Not with sound. Just… energy.” A small huff of a laugh left him. “You feel it too, or is that jus’ me?”

He shifted, straightening up, giving her space instead of taking it. Always doing that. Always choosing restraint.

“Tommy got a way of fillin’ a room,” Sincere said. “Even when he ain’t in it.”

Another pause. Thicker this time. The kind where silence said more than words ever could.

Sincere met her eyes again—soft, unreadable, intent—then looked away first, jaw tightening just a little.

“…You need anything?” he asked, careful. Neutral. Respectful.

But the air between them didn’t buy it.

And neither did you.