The kitchen hums with activity when I finally make it downstairs, but the energy feels wrong. Muted. Like someone turned the volume down on the house itself.
Jace leans against the counter, coffee mug cradled in his hands. His golden hair catches the morning light, but his usual grin is nowhere to be found. Just polite acknowledgment when our eyes meet.
Rhett stands at the sink, shoulders tense as he scrubs a pan that's probably already clean. He doesn't look up when I enter, and something in my chest tightens at the careful distance he's maintaining.
Wes sits at the table, hoodie pulled up despite the warmth, staring down at his bowl like it holds answers to questions he won't ask. His usual quiet feels different now. Heavier.
Theo thumbs through a book nearby, but I can tell he's listening to everything, cataloging the tension like he always does when he's trying to solve a problem none of us understand.
The toaster pops, sending up a thin curl of smoke. Someone burned the bread.
"Well," I say, aiming for lightness, "at least I'm not the only one having kitchen disasters anymore."
Jace's mouth quirks up—barely—but the others don't react. The joke falls flat, landing in the silence like a stone dropped in still water.
I glance at Rhett, concern overriding my own discomfort. "What happened?"
"Nothing." The word comes out too fast, too flat. A practiced lie that doesn't even try to be convincing.
My stomach drops. Since when does Rhett lie to me? Since when does any of this feel so... careful?
I move to sit across from Wes, hoping proximity might break through whatever wall has gone up between us. "Morning," I try, keeping my voice soft.
He mumbles something that might be a greeting, still not meeting my eyes. His fingers drum against the table, restless in a way that's not like him.
"Wes?" I lean forward slightly. "Are you okay?"
That gets a reaction. He looks up sharply, and for a split second, I see something that makes my breath catch.
A soft, pulsing glow at the base of his throat. Like light moving beneath his skin—not bright, but unmistakably wrong. Unnatural.
I blink, and it's gone.
Or maybe it was never there.
But the way Wes freezes tells me otherwise. He caught me staring, caught the recognition in my eyes.
"It's nothing," he mutters, standing abruptly to clear his bowl.
That's the second lie in five minutes. The mist stirs around my feet, responding to the spike of anxiety in my chest.
They're all lying. Not to be cruel—I know them well enough to recognize protection when I see it. But they're protecting me from something. Or protecting themselves from me.
"How are you doing?" Theo's quiet question cuts through my spiraling thoughts. It's the first time anyone's asked me directly since... since everything changed.
The automatic response rises to my lips like it always does. The careful deflection I've perfected over years of deflecting concern.
"I'm fine."
The words barely leave my mouth before heat pulses through my chest—low and coiling, like someone tightening a string beneath my ribs.
At first, I think I'm imagining it.
A faint light, bleeding through the fabric of my sleeves. Soft. Gold-white. Wrong.
I push the hoodie sleeve up with shaking hands, needing to see—
And there it is.
