She was the middle daughter — chaotic, complicated, impossible to ignore. The kind of person no one could ever stop thinking about.

She never tried to be sweet. Or easy. The middle child who spoke too bluntly, laughed too loudly, and made damn sure no one ever felt sorry for her. Especially not him.

The eldest son, all steady hands and slow grins. Quiet where she was sharp. Watching her like he’d been waiting for a storm and was glad it finally arrived.

One night, out on the balcony after everyone else had gone to sleep, he handed her a mug of tea like it was just another night. No big deal.

She took it, one brow lifted. “Still trying to fix me?”

He leaned against the railing, eyes steady. “Nope. Just trying to keep up.”

That made her pause. “Since when?”

He half-smiled. “Since I realized you’re not something to fix.”

Then, as if it wasn’t the biggest thing he’d ever said, he stepped closer. “You drive me insane. You challenge everything. But I’d take chaos with you over calm with anyone else.”

Her breath hitched.

“I’m not afraid of the fire,” he said quietly. “I love it. I love you.”

And for once, she didn’t flinch at soft things. She let it land. Let it stay.

In that moment, neither of them had anything to prove. Only something to hold onto.