Killian points the carving knife at him, eyes flat and utterly unimpressed. “Don’t call me Mommy again unless you want to eat through a straw for the rest of the semester.”
Ryan freezes mid-step, clutching a six-pack to his chest. “I—wow. Aggressive. I was just saying Thorn looks bored.”
Killian doesn’t even look at him when he adds, “Knight.”
Thorn, who’s been lounging against the far counter with a lollipop dangling from his lips, just winks at Killian. “Yes, Daddy?”
Killian sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t have one fucking night,” he mutters, half to himself. But his mouth twitches, just enough to give him away—he’s more amused than mad, and everyone knows it. “You’re on gravy duty.”
Thorn’s grin doesn’t falter. “You just want me close so you can watch my ass, King. Admit it.”
Killian doesn’t dignify that with a response, just points harder, knife flashing in the overhead light. “Gravy, Knight. And don’t burn it, or so help me—”
Ryan snickers and mutters, “Tyrant.”
Killian doesn’t look up from plating the roast. “What was that?”
“Nothing, Supreme Leader.”
Roman chokes on a laugh from the fridge, earning himself a glare from Killian. “You’re on thin ice, too, Bishop.”
“What—I’m literally just grabbing drinks,” Roman whines.
“Exist louder somewhere else,” Killian grumbles.
I pass Luca the breadbasket, nudging him out of his thoughts, and he hands me a plate, shaking his head as if to clear it. “It never gets old in here,” he says under his breath.
“Speak for yourself,” Ryan whispers loudly, clinking glasses together in a messy stack. “My nervous system’s shot every time Killian picks up a knife. Myabuelaused to wave her kitchen knife when she was pissed—she’d shout at the uncles and smack the table. Never actually stabbed anyone, but you never wanted to push her. She’d say,‘Mijo, you want to lose a finger? Keep reaching for the croquetas before dinner’s served.’I swear, I’m traumatized. I see Killian with a blade, and I’m seven again, hiding my hands under the table.”
Adrian lines up the cutlery beside me, quiet but precise as always, every fork facing the same way. “He’s not even the scariest one in this house,” he murmurs, glancing toward Liam, who’s loading up the condiment tray with military efficiency.
“Yeah, but at least Liam doesn’t threaten to shank us for talking back,” Roman points out, which earns him a look from Liam that says he’s only half-joking.
I’m so fucking grateful for this stupid, loud, chaotic house.
For a while, it’s just noise and food and the kind of ribbing that makes the place feel more like home than anything else. We talk trash about the other teams in the last few games, debate about the best horror movie, and Roman starts an argument about whether hockey or soccer is more physically demanding. I letmyself fade back, doing nothing more than listening, and letting the normalcy of it all seep in.
But it’s not perfect. Something feels off—a weird tension, similar to a ripple under the surface. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the feeling gnaws at me, scratching at the back of my neck. It takes me a few minutes, picking at my roast, half-listening to Roman complain about a ref, before I spot it.
Eli and Julian.
For as long as I’ve known them, they’ve been attached at the hip—best friends since before puberty, always clowning around, always together. If Eli’s not at Julian’s side, he’s on the phone with him.
Now, Eli is at the far end of the table, hunched over his phone, barely picking at his food. Julian is across fromme, silently stabbing at a pile of roast potatoes with more aggression than the recipe deserves.
They’re pointedly not looking at each other, their body language so stiff it draws a dividing line down the middle of the table. To see them like this, Eli all but turned away, Julian shoving food around his plate in moody silence—it’s weird. Wrong.
I lean over to Luca and nudge him, lowering my voice. “What’s up with them? They fighting?”
Luca sighs but doesn’t look up. “If you’re talking about Eli and Jules, trust me, I’ve clocked it.”
I scan the table again, the tension crackling between them so obvious it’s practically another person at dinner. Everyone else is too busy shoveling food to notice, but my stomach knots a little.
“That’s not normal,” I say, keeping my voice low. “The two of them always sit together.”
“Yeah, well, not tonight,” Luca says, and his tone is enough to warn me off. But now that I’ve seen it, I can’t let it go.
Dinner continues, the rest of the house oblivious, but I can’t stop tracking the weird static between Eli and Julian. Every time someone asks Julian a question, he answers in short and clipped phrases. Eli picks at his food, checking his phone every five minutes.
