Cleaner than upstairs.
Lights on.
TV low.
And—
Two young kids on the floor.
One sat cross-legged, focused on something in his hands.
One looked up.
The other didn’t notice yet.
Rook stopped.
Everything in him went still.
The air caught in his chest, sharp enough to sting.
His chest locked, breath catching hard enough that it almost made a sound.
The landlord turned back, already mid-sentence. “—just need it handled, you know—”
Rook didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t reach.
His fingers curled slightly at his sides, then stilled.
His gaze shifted once—slow, deliberate—taking in the room, the kids, the man.
Then settled.
Morning didn’t ease in gracefully in the Steel household—it hit like a door thrown wide open.
By the time Law stepped into the kitchen, the place was already loud enough to rattle the cabinets. Pans clanged on the stove, someone arguing over syrup choices, chairs scraping across old wood floors worn smooth by years of boots and bare feet.
The smell hit first.
Coffee—strong, dark, already gone half a pot too far—cut through everything. Bacon grease popped sharp in a cast-iron skillet, rich and salty, with something sweet underneath it—biscuits, maybe, or honey warming on the counter. Eggs, butter, sausage—heat and comfort layered together until it settled deep in his chest.
The air pressed in warm and thick, carrying it all at once—food, noise, bodies—familiar in a way that didn’t ask permission.
Home.
Tennessee heat was already settling in through the open windows, thick and slow, like it had nowhere else to be.
Voices overlapped without rhythm. Laughter broke through in bursts—loud, uncontained, the kind that didn’t check itself before it hit the air. One of his brothers was talking over someone else, someone else talking louder just to win, andhis mother stood at the stove like a general holding the line, swatting hands away without ever turning around.
Another brother reached for a piece of bacon.
“Touch that and I’ll break your fingers,” his mother warned.
“Love you too, Ma.”
