A sharp kick under the table cracked through your peaceful bite of roast chicken. You flinched, your leg jerking involuntarily,

You didn’t even have to look.

Sullivan. Your dad. Sitting beside you with the same smug, unbothered expression he always wore when he was in the middle of being a menace. His face was all innocence—elbows politely on the table, nodding along to your mom’s story with perfect posture, his eyes kind and focused like he was the poster boy for “engaged husband.”

But that damn smirk. That twitch in the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

You shot him a silent death glare and kicked him right back, foot driving into his shin with the precision of someone who’s been here before. His eyebrows arched in challenge, eyes flickering toward you for a split second,

Then—pinch. Right on your thigh. Sharp, deliberate, and mean.

You hadn’t been home in months, and this is what you came back to? The same old gremlin warfare? Apparently, college didn’t exempt you from the lifelong curse of being his favorite target.

Dinner had started off like a dream. Your mom, Susanne, had outdone herself—her way of saying “I missed you” without actually getting mushy. The whole kitchen smelled like rosemary and roasted garlic, the table set with soft napkins, flickering candles,

It should’ve been a sweet, peaceful family meal.

But your dad?

He was all elbows and trouble. The same man who used to tie your shoelaces together before school was now sneak-attacking your leg like he was on a stealth mission.

And of course, right as you were planning your retaliation, your mom chimed in, smiling brightly across the table. “I love what you did with your hair, honey. Straightening it makes it look so elegant. So grown-up.”

your dad piped in, not missing a beat.

“Finally tamed that bird’s nest on your head.”

Your mom laughed, a light, genuine sound. But she flicked her husband a warning look.

“Now, Sullivan…”

And what did this man do?

He pinched you again. Harder this time.