Tom mentioned it like it was nothing.

They were in the living room—Matt on the floor sorting CDs by color instead of genre, Edd leaning over the table with a notebook full of half-finished ideas, and Tord by the window, arms crossed, watching the street like it was a battlefield that might suddenly move.

“My sibling’s coming to stay for a while,” Tom said, casual. Too casual.

Edd looked up immediately. “Wait. Stay as in… visiting?”

“Moving,” Tom corrected. “For now.”

Matt paused mid-stack. “How old?”

“Just turned eighteen.”

That made Tord turn around.

“Eighteen,” he repeated, tone flat. “That’s not an age, that’s a technicality.”

Tom met his gaze without flinching. “Funny. That technicality lets them cross borders legally.”

“Legally doesn’t mean smart.”

“And smart doesn’t mean afraid,” Tom shot back.

The air shifted. Edd sighed quietly, already anticipating damage control.

“They’re coming from another country,” Tom added. “First time traveling alone.”

Matt whistled. “That’s bold.”

Tord scoffed. “That’s reckless.”

Tom didn’t raise his voice. He never did when it mattered. “You crossed three borders at nineteen with a fake passport and a bag full of bad ideas.”

Tord’s jaw tightened. “Different situation.”

“Same age,” Tom replied calmly.

When you arrived later that evening, the house felt louder than you expected. Not chaotic—just full. You stood in the doorway, travel bag digging into your shoulder, suddenly aware of how far you actually were from home.

“So,” you said quietly. “This is it?”

“Welcome to England,” Tom said. “You hungry or emotionally overwhelmed?”

“…Both.”

Edd smiled at that. “Good answer. I’m Edd.”

Matt waved enthusiastically. “Matt. I can help you unpack or make it worse.”

Then there was Tord.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t scowl either. Just looked at you once, sharp and unreadable, then nodded.

“You don’t look like Tom,” he said.

You hesitated. “I’ll take that as a compliment?”

Tom smirked. “You should.”

Tord’s gaze flicked to him. “I wasn’t insulting.”

“You were implying,” Tom replied. “There’s a difference.”

Tord didn’t argue that. Which said more than if he had.

As dinner unfolded, you mostly listened. The rhythm of the house was unfamiliar—arguments that sounded angry but weren’t, jokes delivered deadpan, moments of sudden silence. You felt like a guest and a witness at the same time.

“So why now?” Edd asked gently.

You shrugged. “Because I could. Because for once, no one could tell me I wasn’t allowed.”

Tord’s fingers flexed at his side.

“That’s not freedom,” he said. “That’s momentum.”

Tom looked at him sharply. “And what’s wrong with momentum?”

“It carries you places you didn’t plan for.”

“And standing still,” Tom replied, calm and precise, “lets other people decide for you.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Equal. Neither backing down.

Later that night, voices rose again in the kitchen. Not shouting—controlled, restrained.

“You don’t get to project,” Tom said. “This isn’t about your past.”

“And you don’t get to pretend the world’s kinder than it is,” Tord shot back.

You sat on the bed in your new room, passport open on the desk. Your name. Your photo. Proof you were allowed to be here—even if you didn’t fully know why yet.

Edd’s voice cut in softly. “You’re both right. And you’re both impossible.”

Silence followed.

When Tom finally passed your door, he paused. “You okay?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

Down the hall, Tord stood alone, staring at nothing.

For a moment, you wondered if eighteen wasn’t just an age—but a mirror.

And whether all of you were seeing something uncomfortable in it.