“Livie!” A woman’s voice cuts through my thoughts, warm and bright, and Olivia’s face changes in a way I haven’t seen before. Softer. Lighter. Something unguarded slips through. Her mom, I assume. She moves forward, arms opening, pulling Olivia into a hug that lasts longer than anything I’ve ever seen between people who aren’t trying to hold each other together after something breaks.
I stand where I am. Watch. Assess.
“Hi, Mom,” Olivia murmurs into her shoulder, and there’s something in her voice that tightens something in my chest in a way I don’t examine too closely.
Her mom pulls back, hands lingering on her arms like she needs to make sure she’s real, whole, standing in front of her. “You look tired,” she says, concern threading through her tone.
“I’m okay,” Olivia answers easily. Too easily. She’s good at that. Smoothing things over. Keeping things light.
Her mom’s eyes shift to me. That’s when the room changes. Not dramatically. Just enough. Curiosity. Caution. Assessment. Different kind than mine. “Hi,” she says, stepping forward slightly. “You must be—”
“Cobra,” I answer. No hesitation. No softening.
Her brows lift just a fraction, surprise flickering before she smooths it away. “Cobra,” she repeats, like she’s testing how it fits. “I’m her mother.”
I nod once. “I figured.”It’s not a joke.
She lets out a small breath that might be a laugh anyway. “Come in, both of you,” she says. “Dinner’s just about ready.”
Olivia glances back at me again, something in her expression asking without asking.
I move following her.
Her dad stands near the head of the table, steady and watchful, while Mia hovers closer to their mom with curious eyes and a nervous smile. Another man stands near the far side, tall, shoulders squared, eyes already on me before we even fully step into the room.
Her brother.
Mark.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t greet me. He just watches.Good. At least someone here understands that not everything walking through the door should be trusted.
“Hey,” Olivia says, her tone shifting again, softer but steadier now. “You remember I told you about my brother. This is Mark.”
Mark doesn’t take his eyes off me. I don’t look away. We measure each other without saying a word. He steps forward after a beat, extending a hand. I look at it. Then take it. His grip is firm. Testing. Mine is firmer. Not crushing. Not aggressive. Just enough to make the point. He feels it. His jaw tightens slightly. He lets go first.
“Sit,” her mom says, cutting through the tension like she’s used to doing it. “Before everything gets cold.”
We take our places.
I sit where I can see the door. The windows. The hallway.
Always.
Olivia slides into the chair next to me, close enough that her knee brushes mine under the table. That grounds something. Just a little.
Conversation starts again, lighter now, her mom filling space, asking about work, about the salon, about things that don’t matter outside of this house.
I don’t speak. Not much. I listen. Track. Watch. Every movement. Every shift.
Mark keeps glancing at me. Not subtle. Not trying to be. Eventually, he stops pretending. “So,” he says, setting his fork down, leaning back slightly in his chair. “What exactly are your intentions with my sister?”
There it is.
Direct.
I look at him. Hold his gaze. “She’s with me,” I say. No explanation. No elaboration. Just truth. It lands. Hard.
Olivia goes still beside me for half a second, then relaxes again.
