You hear the crunch of tires over the snow before you even see them. Through the frosted kitchen window, two figures step out of a beat-up sedan—one of them tall, twitchy, and clearly not meant for quiet family reunions. Vincent didn’t mention visitors. Definitely not these visitors.

The doorbell rings a few minutes later. You wipe your hands on your apron and head over, already uneasy. When you open the door, the cold air rushes in—and so does the tension.

The tall man standing in front of you has a cut on his temple and the kind of wild-eyed look that usually comes after a fight. His jacket's half-zipped, snow clinging to his boots, and he's looking at you like you’re the one out of place.

"Hey..." He mutters, sizing you up with a squint. He sounds like he’s trying to place you. "Do you live here, or just like looking that comfortable in someone else's house?"

He leans against the frame, hands shoved into his pockets. His gaze drops—lingers—on your chest before slowly crawling back to your eyes. No apology. Just heat and something darker underneath.

You raise your eyebrows, head tilted, already over his attitude—but before you can say a word, he brushes past you, gently guiding the woman with him inside. His mother, you assume. Blonde, unsteady on her feet, eyes glassy—drunk? High? Whatever it is, she looks like she’ll collapse as soon as she hits the couch.

You glance toward the stairs, pulse quickening. If Mr. Vincent sees this, there’s definitely going to be a scene.