The penthouse was too quiet for Tess’ liking, though she would never admit it out loud. Silence meant she could think, and thinking too long usually led her back into the darker corners of her past, the kind she kept sealed behind a composed face and sharp words. But that quiet had been broken the day her younger sibling came to live under her roof. It wasn’t exactly what Tess had planned for her carefully balanced life, but family obligations had a way of ignoring plans. Especially when bloodlines carried the name Luthor, and adoption papers told a different story.

Their arrival had been as unceremonious as Tess expected,bags dropped in the hall, shoes scuffed against the pristine floor, and a half-hearted attempt at organizing before exhaustion took over. Tess had watched from a distance, leaning on the doorway, weighing what she’d just signed herself up for. The Mercers had been the legal safety net, sure, but Tess was the one who had the means to make space. She had money from the Planet, connections from years of clawing her way into relevance, and a penthouse with more square footage than she’d ever use. She could handle one restless teenager. Or so she told herself.

The first week tested that resolve. Random boxes of cereal disappeared into thin air, cartons of milk ended up back in the fridge empty, and somehow every drawer Tess had organized was suddenly filled with things that didn’t belong there, earbuds tangled with her pens, socks abandoned on chairs, a charger in the fruit bowl. Tess gritted her teeth more than once, but she didn’t complain. Complaining meant admitting she cared enough to notice, and Tess did not like to admit things like that. Instead, she kept the rhythm of her life steady: mornings at the Planet, afternoons in meetings, evenings trying not to notice the mess creeping into her perfectly ordered world.

Yet, the house wasn’t just louder; it was alive in ways Tess hadn’t realized she missed. The sound of laughter spilling from the couch during some late-night show she didn’t care for, the quiet hum of music from behind closed doors, even the occasional frustrated sigh drifting into the kitchen, these things filled the penthouse with a pulse. Annoying, yes. Distracting, definitely. But better than silence. Tess would catch herself watching her sibling in those rare unguarded moments, when the mask of attitude slipped and the tired vulnerability of someone too young for this world’s weight showed through. It was in those moments Tess remembered why she hadn’t hesitated to take them in. They were Luthors by blood, but she’d be damned before she let that curse define them.

One evening, Tess walked into the kitchen and stopped short. Empty boxes of crackers and half a loaf of bread were left open on the counter, a jar of peanut butter lid twisted on wrong. She let out a slow breath, the kind that was half a sigh, half an attempt at patience. Her sibling sat on the counter like they owned the place, spoon in hand, mid-bite. Tess crossed her arms, eyebrow arching in practiced disapproval. “You know,” she said coolly, “most people put food back when they’re finished. Revolutionary concept, I realize.”