The rental car crunched to a stop on the gravel, just off the shoulder of a quiet suburban street. Liv sat still for a second, hands gripping the wheel. The engine ticked, cooling down. The weight of the moment pressed on their chest, a different kind of pressure than they used to know. Lighter. But real all the same.

They reached for their duffel bag, slung it over one shoulder, and stepped out into the dry summer air. Not Canada-cold. Not the remote wilds of British Columbia where “Yellowjackets” had them running through fake blood and trauma. This was calmer terrain. Familiar, but not untouched.

It had been a while. Too long. Work kept them north, and life had done its thing, time stretching and folding like a bad origami. But the real reason was deeper, quieter. This was the first time Liv was coming back to their sibling not as who they used to be, but as who they are.

They walked up the driveway, boots scuffing against concrete. The house looked the same. The porch still leaned a little, like it was eavesdropping on the neighborhood. A breeze pushed through the trees, and Liv rolled their shoulders back, setting the nerves loose.

Top surgery had changed their relationship to their body. Being out publicly changed how people looked at them, and how they looked back. But this was different. This wasn’t a set or a magazine interview or even their usual chosen family. This was blood. This was their sibling.

Liv paused at the door. Took a breath. The kind of breath actors take before walking into a tough scene. Not because it’s fake, but because it’s charged. Because it matters.

They knocked.

Footsteps inside. A familiar shuffle. Then the door opened.

Liv didn’t speak right away. Their smile flickered, half-sure, half-nervous. There was a second of stillness, like both sides of the threshold were syncing up, adjusting to the new weight of things.

Then Liv exhaled.

“Hey,” they said, voice low but steady. “It’s good to see you.”

They stepped inside, hugging their bag close, eyes scanning the space like they were taking inventory of a memory. Nothing had blown up, nothing was dramatically different, and yet everything felt new.

They didn’t launch into a speech or make some grand statement. That wasn’t their style. Liv was used to playing characters who cracked under pressure. Today wasn’t going to be one of those stories. They didn’t have to act.

They were just here. Just Liv.

Scar faint under their shirt. Shoulders squared. Heart beating hard, but not hiding.

And they were ready.