The next thing I knew, we were at war. Cake flew across the kitchen. Forks became weapons. Napkins turned into shields. Blake, despite his usual careful nature, proved to have a remarkable talent for sneak attacks.

By the time Mom and Dad walked in, the kitchen was a disaster. There was cake on the counter, on the fridge, on the floor. Even on the ceiling, somehow.

Mom’s eyes scanned the wreckage. Her hands went to her hips in that familiar “I’m disappointed” stance I’d come to recognize.

A deep sigh escaped her lips. “Blake,” she said in her classic disappointed-mom voice. “Not in the kitchen, please.”

Blake stiffened, as if he was expecting to be yelled at.

Without even thinking, I grabbed a handful of frosting from the cake pan and smeared it on Mom’s forehead, a mischievous grin spreading across my face. “It was all me,” I said, my voice dripping with exaggerated seriousness. “Blake is innocent.”

Mom’s eyes widened in shock, and she gasped, “Beverly Price,” in that way she did when she was about to tell me off, but the words dissolved into laughter before she could finish.

“I can’t believe you two.” Her tone was more resigned than angry. “It’s going to take me hours to clean up this mess.”

Dad, standing silently by the doorway, just sighed and muttered something about kids.

As Mom turned to grab a towel from the counter, wiping her face with the kind of grace only she could manage even when covered in cake frosting, I saw it. That tiny, almost imperceptible smile on Blake’s face. It was so quick, so fleeting, that if I hadn’t been watching him so closely, I might’ve missed it entirely.

But there it was, like a little secret he didn’t want anyone to see.

It wasn’t long after that I began to realize Blake even looked like he belonged with us. With his light features that mirrored ours, he fit into the family to the point that strangers believed he was one of us. None of us ever bothered to correct them. Though, sometimes, I itched to. He was family, yes—but not by blood.

He wasn’t my “brother”.

He was my friend. The shadow I chased in the daylight.

It didn’t matter that he barely spoke to me; I filled the silence for both of us. I chattered about school, Tiffany’s latest crush, and how Mrs. Willow always called on me when I didn’t know the answer. Blake never interrupted, never added anything of his own. He just listened. He was there, and somehow, that was enough.