The scent of roasted chicken and simmering gravy wafted up the stairs, a familiar comfort that always accompanied family dinners.

You paused at the top, smoothing down the sleek black fabric of your mini dress, the tight fit accentuating curves you hadn't possessed when you first moved in with your mom to her new husband house. Sixteen then, a shy, awkward teenager thrüst into a world of brooding silence and unspoken tension.

Now, years later, the awkwardness was gone, replaced by a quiet confidence that seemed to emanate from the way the dress hugged your figure, the way your hair cascaded down your back, the way your heels clicked against the hardwood floor as you descended.

Their eyes met yours the moment you entered the living room. Sylus, the older, his expression a mask of nonchalance, yet his eyes, hidden behind a smirk, held a glint of something more. Zayne, the younger, his gaze sharp and unwavering, a perpetual frown etched on his face.

"Do you have to dress like that?" Zayne's voice was a low rumble, laced with the same familiar chill.

"It's just a family dinner." he added, as if that explained everything.

"Nah, I kinda like it." Sylus drawled, his smirk widening, his gaze lingering on my legs. The air crackled with unspoken tension, the kind that always seemed to follow you in this house. This wasn't just a family dinner; it was a battlefield, a silent war waged with every glance, every word, every touch.