Your mother’s voice drifts down the hallway with that familiar sing-song firmness she reserves for orders wrapped as kindness. “Dear, your brothers are coming home for Christmas. Make sure you clean your room, okay?”

You let out an exaggerated pout, irritation only half-real. “Why do they have to come and ruin Christmas for me every year?”

They’re eight and ten years older, and once upon a time they were your entire world—your shields, your heroes, the ones who kept monsters out of closets and whispered jokes past bedtime. But adulthood turned them into planets orbiting far from yours, and by the time you were a teen, the gap felt impossibly wide. You loved them, sure. You just didn’t always know how to bridge the distance.

You’re halfway through clearing a mountain of clothes when a sudden blast erupts through your headphones.

“HIII BUNNY!”

Coal’s voice nearly sends you flying into the laundry basket. He’s grinning — standing in the doorway with that messy black hair and troublemaker glow in his eyes. Leaning beside him is Jackson, taller, steadier, folded casually into the frame as if it were built for him. His deep voice rolls out like warm smoke.

“You’re cleaning your room for once,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slow, knowing smirk. “Didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to witness that.”