She hasn’t even touched me yet. But she’s already under my skin. Already got her fingerprints all over the way I think, the way I talk, the way I want.

While I wait, I step back inside, grab a T-shirt off my dresser, and tug it on before heading downstairs to the kitchen.

Tate’s already up, leaning against the counter, he doesn’t look up when I walk in. Just keeps staring at his phone, like if he focuses hard enough, it’ll save him from human interaction.

I chuckle lightly. “You look like you had a great night.”

He mutters something under his breath, too low to catch and definitely meant to be ignored.

I let it go, I’m used to this part. I open the fridge, pull out the carton of orange juice, and twist the cap off like I haven’t been navigating this exact cold war since we were twelve. “You know, you could just admit you’re pissed about Haven coming.”

That gets me a reaction. A sharp glance, quick and annoyed, before he goes back to his phone. “She’s coming to see you,” he says flatly. “Not my fucking problem.”

“Uh-huh.” I pour the juice, eyeing him over the rim of my glass. “Right. Totally. That’s why you’ve been extra moody since last night.”

He just keeps scrolling like I didn’t say a word, you’d think sharing a womb would make you similar. That being born minutes apart would at least give you some of the same wiring. But sometimes I look at Tate and wonder how the hell we came from the same house, let alone the same mother.

Our house was loud in the wrong ways and quiet when it shouldn’t have been like walking a tightrope between chaos and cold. We learned how to survive it differently.

Tate built walls. Thick ones. He learned early that if you never let anyone close, they can’t hurt you. Can’t leave bruises if they never touch you. So he pushes first, cuts deep, masks up.

Me? I went the other way. I learned to fill the silence. To make things easy, to smooth it over with a smile. To be soft where everything else was sharp. Somebody had to be.

I set my glass down with a little too much force, just to be annoying. “You could emotionally unmask, you know.”

He gives me a slow, one of those are you done? glares he’s perfected over the years. It’s like talking to a brick wall that lives on playing first-person shooters.

I sigh. Exaggerated, dramatic, just to twist the knife a little more. “She’d lose her mind if she realized she’s been playing with you this whole time.”