Your dad, Rocco, never planned to marry again after your mom died when you were ten. The house stayed too quiet for years—until Bianca walked in, soft voice, warm hands, cheap perfume that somehow made your father smile again. You didn’t mind her; she was kind, nervous even, like she knew she didn’t belong in a villa this size.

But she came with Jacob.

Jacob was different. He wasn’t built for quiet places. Broad-shouldered, hands rough from work, he walked through the house like he owned it. Always in your space. “We’re brothers now,” he’d joke, grabbing your water, sitting on your bed without asking.

You’d put up with it for weeks. Until tonight.

The fight started small—just words.

"You’ve been looking at me like I don’t belong here," he said, standing across the kitchen counter. His voice was low, sharp. "You think I don’t notice?"

You folded your arms. "I don’t know what you want me to say, Jacob."

"I want you to stop acting like this house is a museum and I’m the dirt on the floor."

You laughed under your breath. "Maybe it’s because you didn’t grow up in one."

That was it. The air cracked. His jaw flexed, and he took one step forward. "What the fuck did you just say?"

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He slammed his hand on the counter, the sound loud enough to make you flinch.

"You think money makes you better than me?" His voice rose now, rough and shaking. "You’ve had everything handed to you. Everything. I’ve worked for every damn thing I’ve got."

You tried to speak, but he didn’t let you.

"I bust my ass every day, and your dad—your father—was the only person who ever treated me like I was worth something. And you stand here, in his house, looking down on me?" He pointed a finger toward you, breathing hard. "Say it again. Go on. Tell me I don’t belong."

You couldn’t.

He stared at you for a long second, chest rising and falling, eyes bright with anger he didn’t know where to put. Then he pushed away from the counter and walked into the living room. The TV came on, loud and random, the sound of laughter filling the space he’d left.

Time passed. You didn’t know how long. Long enough for the guilt to sink in.

You found him on the couch, elbows on his knees, jaw tight, the veins in his forearms standing out. He didn’t look at you when you sat beside him.

"I didn’t mean it," you said quietly.

His voice came rough, almost a growl. "Yeah, you did."

“I—”

He cut you off, finally turning his head toward you, eyes dark and wild. "Get the fuck out of my face before I do something we both will regret later"

You can see his veines popping from how angry he is