#and maybe.. eventually.. make a full fledged one..

[SYSTEM INITIALIZING…] Welcome, Player.

Loading route data… Loading protagonist…

ERROR: “YUU” NOT FOUND

Reassigning narrative anchor…

NEW ROLE: SIDE CHARACTER (UNREGISTERED)

You fucked yourself. Genuinely, completely, totally fucked yourself.

"Welcome to TWISTED LIKE HEAVEN! Build relationships with your favorite students of Night Raven College and discover over 200 unique endings!" 

You had no one to blame but yourself.

What had started as a dumb joke between friends—a ridiculous yandere dating sim based on Twisted Wonderland—had somehow snowballed into a full-fledged indie visual novel. One person handled the coding, another drew the CGs, and someone else composed the soundtrack. You wrote events, dialogue, and a handful of hidden scenes that, in hindsight, probably needed professional supervision.

It was never supposed to become popular. It was supposed to be a niche little project that a few fellow fans downloaded for laughs before forgetting it existed.

Instead, TWISTED LIKE HEAVEN exploded.

Streamers screamed through the bad endings. Theory channels dissected every hidden route. Players argued for months over which character was the most terrifying love interest. Fan art flooded social media. Somehow, your joke project had become the psychological horror romance game everyone was talking about. And people loved it.

They loved uncovering the secret endings.

They loved the obsessive routes.

They loved discovering just how horribly things could go wrong.

You and your friends had celebrated every milestone together.

One hundred thousand downloads.

Half a million.

Interviews.

Merchandise.

Looking back...

Maybe creating over two hundred endings—including dozens where the protagonist was kidnapped, imprisoned, manipulated, or outright killed by increasingly obsessive versions of Night Raven College's students—hadn't been your brightest idea.

So, you can imagine the utmost horror you felt the moment you opened your eyes beneath a black loading screen, encrypting you into the code.

This was not Twisted Wonderland.

You were trapped in TWISTED LIKE HEAVEN.

The game you helped make, and the game where almost every route ended in disaster.

The game, whose first and most important piece of advice every player learned the hard way, was simple:

You'd stayed there, on the sidewalk, for way too long. Just wallowing. Frozen in hindsight. You knew you should've retied your shoelaces before leaving the cafe.

You knew you had to leave at some point. But, if you concentrated hard enough, maybe you could melt into the sidewalk. Vanish and slink away to a pocket of space where no one knew you. At least no one saw you. A rarity for Monaco, a city that never slept.

"Are you okay?" An accented voice called out. You tensed, slowly turning your head to a man in an offensive shade of orange and shorts that clashed, but still worked. "You've been lying there for a bit." Your eyes widened as you scrambled to your feet, warmth flooding your cheeks as a weak laugh escaped.

"I was debating if that was a good place to die or not," you joked. The man's eyes drifted to the growing matcha stain on your clothes and his face broke into a wide smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. They seemed to shine.

"What's the verdict?" He asked. Your mouth opened. Oh my God, he was yes and-ing you. That never happened. Not in your very spacey memory.

"Not comfortable enough," you replied. "I want to die surrounded by flowers, I think."

"Not a bad idea," he responded. "But, I think we're a bit too young to talk about dying." You shrugged.

"Considering you saw me face plant, I wouldn't rule it out." He chuckled and shrugged off the zip-up sweater he'd tied around his waist and held it out to you.

"I won't tell a soul," he promised. You stared at the sweater, brows furrowed, staring at it like it would run away. He nodded, encouraging you to take it. Slowly, you grabbed it. You threw it over your shoulders, draping it over the stain, concealing it.

"Thank you," your voice failed you as you looked down at the unfamiliar logo adorning the sleeves. Like the Nike logo but somehow ... worse?

"I figured I'd save you having to explain the stain," he reasoned. You offered a smile.

"You're too kind." He shook his head.

"Bare minimum, I'm afraid." You snorted. He tilted his head in confusion.

"Hardly," you shot back. "This is shooting for the sky."

"I'd love for you to tell me about why over a drink sometime?" Smooth. You gulped, letting out a nervous laugh as the man wrote down his number on the back of a receipt he pulled out of his pocket. You opened and closed your mouth like a goldfish when he wrapped your fingers around it, gently pushing your hand to your chest.

Now, it's three months later. Close enough to be exclusive, but not enough to say you're truly dating. But, deep down, you both knew. Knew so deeply that it went unsaid, but you both knew that you were both dedicated. As dedicated as you both could be, considering he drove for F1 and you worked at a cafe, working yourself through classes to make something of yourself. It wasn't perfect, but what was? It was as close to perfect as you could both want, and you had to take it. Which you both did. You both clung to the way the world felt lighter when you called, regardless of when it was, to the way he made you laugh like no other, to the way he always dedicated a win to you, even if he was too scared to tell you.

Many things with Oscar were like that. You just knew.

Your phone vibrated as you slid across your floor, the chorus of Manchild ringing in your ears as the song repeated for the fourth time. A text, telling you he was 5 minutes away with a simple smiley face. You replied with a gif of an excited chihuahua, which he hearted. Five minutes to clean, to make things presentable.

Good thing your brain conditioned you to perform highly with a deadline rapidly approaching. Chaos fueled you.

You turned the song up and kept cleaning.

Oscar arrived four minutes and thirty seconds later. You leaned your broom against the wall as he knocked. You checked yourself in your entryway mirror. Goblin clothes, as was customary for days filled with cleaning and podcasts filled with judging random strangers on the internet. He expected it. He had to, right?

You pulled te door open. Oscar smiled as he wrapped his arms around you in a gentle hug. You giggled as he picked you up and waddled into your apartment, letting the door close.

"Hi," he whispered. You pressed little kisses to his cheek.

"Hi Osc," you replied.

"You cleaning?" He asked. You nodded. Oscar slid his shoes off, changing into the pair of slippers he left at your place two weeks before. Ones you avoided moving or interacting with. He'd left a piece of himself in your apartment, something sacred. "How can I help?" You shook your head.

"I did everything," you boasted, puffing out your chest. Oscar narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"So if I check your room, I won't find piles of laundry?" He asked. You froze, the guilt dripping into your face. He chuckled and turned to walk towards your room. You followed after him.

"Osc, don't worry about it! I'll do it later."

"If you wait much longer, your clothes will be wrinkled. You hate wrinkles."

"You just got home from a race yesterday!" You protested.

"I don't mind," he went into your room, bee-lining for the pile of clothes, still warm, lying on your bed. He went in with precision.

"Osc-"

"I seriously don't mind, honey."

"Your room's probably worse than mine," you crossed your arms as you spoke.

"But I can exist when it's messy, you can't. There's a difference." He had a point. "If you want to help, organize what I fold into piles the way you like." You nodded and migrated to the spot he'd left for you on your bed. He got to work, smiling as you skillfully arranged things the way you liked.

"You know, you're the first guy who didn't get grossed out doing laundry." Oscar's brows furrowed.

"What?"

"I mean, you don't mind doing my chores when I'm stressed. That's ... a first, I guess." Oscar blinked.

"Is this what your friends told me about? The manchild brigade?"

"They told you about that?" You groaned into your hands.

"Hey, don't worry, everyone's got interesting dating history. And, based on what I've heard, I'm already winning the best boyfriend title."

"Like it was hard?" He chuckled as he folded.

"I'm gonna make them all look foolish," he promised. You felt warmth again. Everywhere, this time.

"You already have."

iqbal was dead.

your iqbal-

no. that wouldn't be the right thing to say. he had only ever belonged to his kaum.

you should've known better. you always knew better. ever since you were mere kids.

while he had been impulsive and quick to anger, you were often the calm to his storm, the kinaara to his samandar.

a tear rolls down your cheek, but your throat lets out no sound.

always too silent, weren't you?

as you lift a hand to wipe it off, the bangles on your wrist chime, and you're once again brought back to what you thought you had left behind as soon as you had stepped into this house.

'ab kya laaye hain aap?'

you were, safe to say, annoyed at him. he hadn't shown up in days, which was horrendous since you only lived one floor below his, and now he's cornered you in the empty corridor at the back of the house, both of you now standing in front of the window, a spectrum of colors falling on your face through the tinted glass panes as you look up at him.

why is he so tall.

'khud dekh lijiye, dekhiyega saari naraazi yu dur ho jaayegi aapki.'

oh accha, you thought as you rolled your eyes, and took the 'gift' he had brought for you, wrapped in a newspaper.

you knew what it was as soon as you saw it. you had seen it enough times when you and your ammi, your aapi and the other women in your house had went shopping.

bangles, from a street vendor.

to think that iqbal jahangir ahmed, son of brigadier jahangir ahmed, had abandoned his knack for the finest designed jewelry just because you had said you preferred glass bangles over gold ones, because they were often lighter.

you opened the package slowly, a smile crossing your face as soon as you see the colour. your favourite. of course, he knows. however much of hot-headedness he had inherited from his father, it couldn't be denied that he had also inherited an incredibly observant nature from his ammi. only lord knew how that woman could so easily guess what you were thinking.

a part of you always wished she hadn't been married to that pimp of a man.

as you looked up to see iqbal looking at you expectantly, you couldn't help but laugh.

'ajeeb hai aap bhi, abhi naraaz thi ab hass rahi hai. manna padega, hamaare jaise hoshiyaar aadmi ko bhi hairaan kar deti hai aap.'

as your full fledged laughed turned into giggles,eventually quietening, covered by his slightly unruly hair, you noticed a cut. fresh.

ya allah.

you must be the most horrible lover on earth. he must be in so much pain right now-

'iqbal, hame abhi bataye ye kaise hua.' (as if you don't already know how it must have happened.)

'arrey aap kyu yeh fizul ki baatein soch-'

'ham aapse waapas naraaz hojayenge iqbal.'

as soon as you say that, his hands hook around your thighs, lifting you up, making you sit on the wide windowsill. he knows how difficult it is for you to keep standing when you're stressed.

his hands now hold your face, making you look up at him.

'zyada kuch nahi hai, aap to jaanti hain abbu ko, aise hi bas, ek rally mai jaa nahi paaya, dusra kuch kaam tha, unhe pata chal gaya, dekhiye ham yahi to hai aapke saamne kuch nahi huya hai hame, faltu mai itna sochne se aapke sar mai dard hojaayega.'

you wanted to scream at him. why. why does his father want him to be a part of all that.

and why do you always agree, you wanted to ask iqbal.

since then, a small part of you had come to realise that iqbal had started to believe in what his father believed. and you knew very well how much it would cost him.

he had climbed the ranks quite steadily, not surprising, he had always been the type to excel, and once he put his heart to something, he had it done.

but what you kept hearing about him and his conquests confirmed that he had lost his heart somewhere on his way to the air-conditioned offices of the isi.

you had watched from the balcony as he had had to shoulder his mom's coffin on her last journey.

she will finally be at peace, was what you had thought. he hadn't cried, but you could swear you could see the weight of grief- and anger- settling on his shoulders permanently.

you never really saw him after that.

your family had moved away, and when they asked you to marry, you couldn't help but agree.

your husband wasn't bad. on the contrary, he treated you just fine. he was an informer to the isi, nothing fancy or over the top really, just tracking the activities of local drug cartels and mafia, through local word of mouth. but that meant you heard of him daily.

the major never forgets, your husband says.

but iqbal does, you want to say. he forgot me, that's why i'm here.

i should've stopped him. but would he have listened?

and now you have been told he's dead. killed.

whatever he had done had to come back to him someday.

'suno, zara idhar aana bahu', your mother-in-law's voice breaks you out of your thoughts.

'ji, aayi.'

you can't bear to sit for too long anymore.

author's note (do people read this anymore): i'm so sorry. idek what this is. lekin agar galti se pasand aajaye to comment aur reblog karna like karke mat bhaagna!! constructive criticism is appreciated!!

But, they were both officially grounded, so it’s not like Dad had much of a choice. Abby got in trouble for going to Shaun’s, and Dad got in trouble for letting her go to Shaun’s, and the whole thing was so ridiculous she honestly thought it might’ve been a stress-induced fever dream. Because truly—how does one ground a man in his late forties? What does that even look like? Do you take away his car keys? His favorite chair? His dad-privileges? Apparently, in this house, it looked like making him sit around looking like the world’s most miserable Elf on the Shelf for a couple of days. He actually did it, too—moped in the living room like he’d been banished from civilization—so Abby decided that was between him and whatever cosmic force named Mom had humbled him, because it certainly wasn’t going to be her business.

And with Part Two coming out literal days after her birthday, Abby had to start his education early. Immediate intervention. Emergency musical reconditioning. Because he kept calling it a princess movie, and that was so…wrong. So wrongly wrong. It offended her on a spiritual, molecular, ancestral level. Like, buddy. Sweetie. Father. Get a grip. Elphaba is not a princess. Glinda is not a princess. Nothing about the socio-political structure of Oz indicated monarchical princesshood. The Green Girl is out here dismantling systemic injustice and he’s calling it a Disney audition. Truly, hopeless.

So Abby sat him down, grounded or not, and informed him that if he was going to be forced into parental timeout, he might as well use the time productively. By which she meant: he was about to receive the comprehensive Wicked education of a lifetime. And to his credit—maybe out of boredom, maybe because she threatened to hide his leg if he said no, maybe because he secretly adored spending time with her even when pretending not to because she was adorable and he loved her dearly—he actually listened. Not without commentary, obviously, but still. It was a start.

That, and the fact they were watching it for the third time this week. But whatever. Abby wasn’t about to brag about her win. Not yet. She needed to keep that card in her back pocket in case For Good sucked—which it absolutely wouldn’t, but still. You never tempt the universe like that. So she stayed quiet on her side of the couch, calc homework open on her school-issued laptop, pretending she was focused while Elphaba and Galinda spun around their dorm room like emotionally unregulated theater kids right there on the screen. Which if anyone else was watching Ariana and Cynthia’s interviews, they’d know that description was absolutely accurate, but that wasn’t Abby’s business.

Dad was next to her, burritoed in the quilt he’d brought home from Grandma and Grandpa’s last weekend after he and Grandpa went fishing—which, excuse, rude of him to go without her, but fine, whatever—his head propped on his fist, eyes already doing that slow, tragic droop. She’d barely been home five minutes, which meant he’d barely been awake five minutes. Man ran like a raccoon on the world’s worst sleep schedule. 

Things had gotten weirdly routine lately. Dad got home after she’d already left for school, passed out immediately, then woke up right before she got home like some kind of emotionally available vampire. They’d hang out while he powered up—TV, homework, talking—then he’d make dinner so it was ready for her and Mom when Mom got home. Then he’d leave for work again. Lately, he’d been leaving earlier, and Mom had been getting home later, which they both said was because of a patient. Abby figured it had to do with that little girl Mom was pretty much constantly shopping for now, but she didn’t really care. She wasn’t mad about it. She was just glad there was someone there when she got home. Someone half-awake, wrapped in a grandma quilt, silently absorbing Wicked for the third time like it was important cultural homework. Which, to be fair, it was.

She poked him in the ribs with the edge of her computer. Not hard. Just enough to be annoying.

“Dad,” she said.

He grunted and sat up, blinking like he’d just been yanked out of a different dimension. “Yeah?”

“You’re falling asleep.”

“M’not.”

“Yes you are.”

He squinted at her. “I was thinking.”

“About what.”

“Important stuff.”

She stared at him for a beat, then shoved her computer and math notebook into his chest. “Help me.”

He rubbed his face, sighed like she was ruining his entire life, and took them on reflex, like this was just something he did now. “Do you seriously not have anything better to do than bother me?” he asked, already squinting at the page like it was gaslighting him. “Jesus, how many Baker girls am I going to get stuck doing homework for?”

“No,” Abby said, tugging hard on his quilt until it slid over and covered her lap too. “I’m grounded. And so are you.”

He scoffed. “I am a grown man with a job.”

“Who’s grounded.”

“I pay taxes.”

“While grounded.”

He looked down at the notebook, squinting like it might burst into flames. “I’m a different kind of grounded,” he muttered. “This is… adult grounded. With responsibilities.”

Abby rolled her eyes. Sure, Dad. Keep telling yourself that. It sure didn’t seem that way when they’d both ended up parked at the kitchen table the night Mom came home from work, totally exhausted and overstimulated and gearing up to become the absolute freak she’d morph into come Thanksgiving next weekend, and somehow caught them in stereo—Abby sneaking back in through her bedroom window at the exact same minute Jack pulled into the driveway almost twenty-four hours late. Same clothes he’d left in the morning before to go fishing with Grandpa. Clothes that now smelled aggressively like Grandma’s fabric softener.

Abby, being a seasoned professional, immediately shut her mouth and nodded like she’d been trained for this. She knew the signs. Mom’s hands on her hips. Jaw clenched. Full government name deployed without a single muscle relaxing in her face. That was DEFCON One. Dad, unfortunately, was a fool. A dumb-dumb idiot. He huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe disbelief, and Mom zeroed in on him like a heat-seeking missile. Abby stomped on his foot under the table in warning, but it was too late. He was cooked. She was pretty sure she watched him mentally get sent back to bootcamp as Mom went in with, “Oh no. Let’s move on to you, then. Why don’t we, Jack?”

Abby sat there grimacing through the whole thing, staring very intently at a knot in the wood grain while Mom dismantled him piece by piece, until The Mom Finger finally swung back in her direction. “Grounded,” Mom growled. “Two more weeks.” Then the finger turned back to Dad, sharp and final. “You too.” And with that, Mom stomped upstairs and left them sitting there in stunned, reverent silence, like survivors of a natural disaster.

Abby wasn’t actually sure what Dad’s punishments had been—those negotiations happened behind closed doors after he’d worked up the courage to wander into his own bedroom—but she did know one thing. He hadn’t argued it. Not once. Which told her everything she needed to know. Completely, utterly, cooked.

He leaned closer to her notebook and frowned harder. “Why are the numbers doing that?”

Abby reached over, grabbed Mom’s spare readers off the side table, and dropped them into his lap. He held them like they were a personal insult. “I don’t need—”

“You do.”

He sighed, defeated, and slid them on. The creases his forehead had folded into lessened almost immediately. “Christ, your mom is blind.”

“I’m telling her you said that.”

He glanced at her over the top of the frames. “Great—exactly what I need. Being in even more trouble with your mother.”

Abby snagged the remote and cranked the volume before he could say anything, the music blasting like she was trying to prove a point. Dad scanned her homework, calm and focused, like he wasn’t sitting there actively being on trial. 

“At least I didn’t get beer drunk on a boat with Grandpa and make Mom work a double to cover your shift because you couldn’t legally drive home,” she muttered, dragging her finger along the cracked screen print of the Coldwater High Football square stitched into the quilt in her lap.

“Nah,” Dad said, not even glancing up, casually marking something with her pencil like the audacity wasn’t astronomical. “You just lied about where you were and puked all over our bathroom.”

She froze, remote still dangling in her hand, and stared at him.

…Okay. Rude.

Touche, dickhead.

Abby slumped back against the couch, jaw tight, letting the music swallow her pride while he kept annotating like he hadn’t just body-slammed her entire argument. 

Dad handed her homework back, mistakes all circled because God forbid he ever actually tell her what she got wrong, and slid her computer back into her lap like the whole exchange was complete and final. “Besides,” he added, already settling back, “I’ve only got two more days left on my sentence. I’m basically paroled. I’ve worked my way back into your mom’s good graces. You still have a week, kid.”

Abby squinted at the page, erased one of the problems aggressively, and started over. “Six days,” she corrected, because facts mattered.

“Close enough,” Dad said, resting his head back against his fist again. His eyes slid shut as he hummed along to Popular, off-key and unapologetic, sinking deeper into the couch like a man at peace with his choices—even the bad ones.

Abby rolled her eyes before she returned to torture à la derivatives, pencil scraping against the paper while Dad started up his pre-snoring old man breathing beside her. She stared down at the numbers—god, this would be so much easier if she was allowed to use her phone but no. Grounded. 

When Mom and Dad snuck out as teenagers, it was romantic and cute. When she did it, it was unsafe and disrespectful. Whatever. Could they even legally keep her phone if she was turning eighteen tomorrow? Probably. She didn’t know how phone ownership worked. She wasn’t an adult. 

She glanced at the time glowing in the corner of her laptop screen—half an hour. That was Mom’s window. Dad would perk back up soon, like he always did when the clock crept close to her getting home. He’d somehow finagled his schedule this week through a million trades with Shen, swapping ER shifts like Pokémon cards, just so he could be home tonight and be on the day shift tomorrow for her birthday. Which was… weirdly sweet. Like, aggressively thoughtful. The kind of thing that made her chest do that uncomfortable tight thing she hated because it meant she was about to get emotional for no reason.

She’d never really had a dad around for her birthday before. At least not one who wanted to be. And here was Dad acting like her turning eighteen was a national holiday—insisting he cooked tonight because they were going out to eat tomorrow, pacing around the kitchen earlier talking about “timing” and “resting the meat.” If she was lucky, it meant he was grilling something. Abby hadn’t even known the grill in the backyard worked until Dad had unofficially moved in and resurrected it like some suburban rite of passage.

It was nice. Embarrassingly nice. In a dorky, soft way that made her throat feel a little thick if she thought about it too long. Only Mom had ever been this excited about her before. And now there was Dad too—half asleep on the couch, humming show tunes off-key, rearranging his entire life so he could be there when the clock hit midnight.

Abby shifted on the couch, inching closer until her shoulder brushed Dad’s side, the quilt sliding with her until a square cut from one of Mom’s old high school cheer shirts filled her lap. Dad reacted almost instantly—his arm lifting and settling over her shoulders like it had always belonged there, paired with a thunderous old-man inhale. His eyes stayed half-open, fixed on the screen, like he was determined not to miss anything even as sleep crept up on him.

He gave her shoulder a small squeeze. “Go finish up at the table before you fall asleep,” he murmured, like she was the one moments away from slipping into oblivion. “Mom’ll be checking homework when she gets home, and I might’ve talked her into taking time off for good behavior.”

Abby snorted softly but didn’t pull away right away, letting the weight of his arm linger for just a second longer before she gathered her notebook. 

“Or,” Abby said, tilting her head and turning on what she was pretty sure was her most devastatingly charming expression, lashes batting up at him, “you could finish it for me? Since it’s almost my birthday. And you love me.”

Dad huffed out a quiet chuckle, squeezed her shoulder again, and gave her a gentle nudge like he was physically redirecting her toward responsibility. “Like I said, kid—I don’t need any more trouble with your mom. Go get it done.”

She groaned but tried one last time, voice going soft and dramatic. “Pleaseeee, Daddy?”

“Nope,” he said immediately, not even opening his eyes this time. “Nice try, House. What are you going to do next year when you don’t have me around, huh? You’re gonna have to figure it out.”

“Whatever,” she snorted. “You’ll miss me too much to tell me no.”

“Just because it’s true doesn’t mean it’s right, kid.”

Abby groaned and slid off the couch, trudging toward the dining room table to set herself back up like a good little grounded human. Atlas wasted no time, slipping into her spot on the couch and army-crawling into Dad’s lap like he owned the place. Dad’s phone buzzed on the arm of the couch, which he slowly flipped over with a half lidded glance down before he cursed under his breath and sat up. 

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You take the chicken out of the freezer this morning?”

“Was I supposed to?”

Dad was up like a shot, Atlas clinging to him, with Moose trailing behind like the loyal snack-expecting entourage they clearly were. Abby sighed, flipping her notebook open again, and copied another equation onto her paper, cheek propped on her fist. “There’s a bottle off—”

The sound of a wine bottle being uncorked came from the kitchen just before the freezer door rolled open with a satisfying creak. “On it,” Dad called back, already halfway through the first step of damage control. “We’re fucked, boys. I’m blaming you two.”

Abby smirked to herself, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. Cooked. Totally, utterly cooked. 

Much to Dad’s luck, having the wine already open and dinner halfway done by the time Mom walked in basically saved his life. Not having the other half ready? Barely registered. Mom must’ve had a brutal shift, because she poured herself a second glass before even saying anything about their freezer fuck up—and it wasn’t even a scolding glass. Just… liquid patience. Abby kept her head down at the dining table, grinding through the last of her calc homework like a pro, pencil scraping the paper like it owed her money. She was already mentally drafting the ultimate “can you believe I’m turning eighteen tomorrow?” speech for maximum emotional leverage. Mom couldn’t critique if she was crying over baby pics, Abby reasoned, and honestly, Mom had spent most of the week doing exactly that anyway.

But much to Abby’s surprise, Mom was in a genuinely good mood. A relief, honestly, because she’d been ridiculously uptight and snippy all week—something Jack had been telling Abby to cut her some slack over. Both of them had been tense, jumpy even, like they were coiled springs waiting for a spark, but tonight? Mom was back to her usual self, thank god. Swaddled in her old Eagles sweatshirt and faded leggings, curled up under the Tatooine blanket on the couch with the dogs doing their little happy wiggle, listening to Abby ramble on about the latest Charlee/Sabrina drama from third period. Cheeks pink, eyes soft, nodding along like she actually cared about the chaos unfolding at school while Dad finished dinner in the kitchen.

By the time dinner was done, dishes cleared, and they were halfway through Four Christmases—her pick, obviously, because she was the birthday girl and Christmas had basically been in effect for, like, three weeks straight—Abby felt that familiar jitter of almost-birthday excitement settle into her chest. It wasn’t just the birthday. It was the whole Birthday Eve energy, the way the air seemed to hum with anticipation, the quiet promise of chaos to come. And, yep, Mom was twitching. Abby caught her glancing at the clock, the garage door, scanning the living room like she was running an internal security check. She knew exactly what was coming. She’d been decoding these Birthday Eve tells since she was five. The subtle pacing, the fake casual sips of wine, the “just checking something” glances… Mom couldn’t help herself.

Dad, on the other hand, was loving the whole thing. He kept sending Mom secret eyebrow messages over his wine glass, smirking like he thought Abby wasn’t in on the game even though she was trying really hard not to act like it. Abby played dumb, rolled her eyes, and launched into the annual performance: “But it’s so early! I’m not even tired!” she protested, right as the movie ended. Mom gave her that trademark look, Dad smirked knowingly, and Abby knew she was about to lose this battle—but it was worth it. Every year she played the part, because the payoff was always worth it.

She trudged up the stairs anyway, dragging her feet, but once she hit her room, she flopped onto the bed with a happy wiggle. Blankets pulled up, favorite pillow tucked under her chin, she let herself savor the moment. Mom followed, leaning over to plant those forehead-and-cheek kisses that she’d been doing since Abby was tiny, singsong voice reminding her to stay in bed until morning. “Don’t even think about sneaking out,” Mom added lightly, though the warmth in her eyes said otherwise.

Abby nodded, letting herself be tucked in, whispering goodnight to Mom and Dad. Then she lay there, listening to the quiet hum of the house—the faint clink of dishes still being put away, the dogs sighing contentedly on the couch, Dad muttering something inaudible in the kitchen. Her heart was buzzing, chest tight in that weird, happy way when the house went quiet, and she braced herself for it.

The footsteps.

Santa had elves, she guessed. But birthdays? Birthdays had Mom. Abby lay with her pillow smooshed under her cheek, face slowly stretching into a grin as soft footsteps padded up the hall. The old step ladder creaked under careful weight, like anyone thought that would stop the ancient thing from making noise. She heard Dad mutter something, Mom shush him, and both of them stifle quiet giggles.

Then came the crinkle—the plastic-y backing being peeled off something, that sharp, echoing sound down the hallway. Abby pressed her cheek harder into the pillow, holding back her own giggle as whispers floated down the hall: “Hold it here… no, a little higher… perfect.” She could picture them, crouched on either side of her door, carefully smoothing the surprise in place, and it made her chest feel all warm and tight.

She listened, eyes squeezed shut, savoring every little sound: Mom and Dad moving up and down the hall, murmurs and laughs blending together, excitement buzzing like electricity. Wine thick in Mom’s voice, tired but happy, and Dad’s quieter chuckles mixing in. She always pretended she didn’t listen. She always pretended she didn’t notice. But tonight? Tonight it was worth every second to just lie there, soaking in the sound of the two of them outside of her door, feeling eighteen start to bubble up around her like magic.

After a while, Mom declared her door “done” in a whisper that was a little too loud—Abby grinned, already picturing the triumphant little smile behind it—before their footsteps retreated back down the stairs. Their voices grew fainter, shuffling and bumping around below, until one of the dogs pawed at her closed door with a soft whine and Dad called him back downstairs.

Abby pressed her ear to the pillow, straining to catch any keywords that might match the very detailed birthday wishlist she’d presented last weekend. Maybe a hint of a Dior saddle bag—which Dad had called “ridiculous” and Mom had snorted at—but nope. No sphinx cat, no size-four day Disney trip, nothing. Just soft wine-giggling and whispered strategy.

Eventually, the TV downstairs clicked on low, and the hallway sounds faded into background noise. Abby let herself sink deeper into her pillows, the clean scent of laundry detergent from her comforter mixing with the faint lavender from her diffuser. The heaviness she’d been carrying all night—the restless energy, the excitement, the barely contained anticipation—finally started to lift. Her eyes fluttered shut, and for the first time all day, she let herself drift.

That was until a full-fledged ambush erupted at her bedroom door. Paws batted hard against the wood, loud, pathetic whines escalating into shrill barks. Dad called the dogs again, earning a groan that definitely came from Moose, followed by another whistle and call from Dad that quieted the attack for all of ten seconds before it spiraled into a full-blown Eric Andre–style beatdown.

Abby seriously considered hopping up to sneak them in without breaking the sacred “door stays closed until morning” rule—strictly enforced on Birthday Eve and Christmas Eve—but before she could move, she heard two sets of footsteps tiptoeing up the stairs. Not playful tiptoes this time. They were tight, careful, deliberate, like they were moving through a laser maze or something.

“…Not saying no, Beth,” Dad whispered, voice rough, tired, different. “I love being here with you two. Really, baby, I do. It’s just… letting it go means that… I don’t know how to put it—it just feels like I’m—.”

“I’m not asking you to let her go, Jack,” Mom whispered back, soft and precise. Abby’s ears perked. She leaned a little closer to the door, curiosity fully activated. “You know I would never ask you to do that.”

Abby froze for a second. This wasn’t the usual Birthday Eve chaos. This was… serious, quiet, and soft in a way that made her tummy feel funny. She wasn’t supposed to listen. She wasn’t supposed to know. But she did, and honestly? It made the night feel bigger, somehow. Like she’d accidentally stumbled into a behind-the-scenes moment she wasn’t supposed to see.

Abby pulled back just as their voices neared her door, flopping onto her bed and pressing her face into her pillow like she was dead to the world. The doorknob twisted slowly, and then—chaos. The dogs barreled in, gold and hot-pink glinting metallic in the hallway light, leaping onto her bed and knocking her pillows everywhere. Dad gently pushed the door closed behind them, and she caught the soft sigh that escaped him.

“I know you wouldn’t,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“That was her home, too. I know that,” Mom’s voice followed, and Abby thought she caught a sniffle too deep to be Mom’s. “I’d never ask you to walk away from that before you were ready.”

“I know,” Dad’s voice came again, tighter this time, raw in a way that made Abby’s stomach twist. “This is home now, though—you, her. It hasn’t felt like home there in a while. I don’t know why I feel like such a jackass saying that out loud. It’s just an apartment, it shouldn’t matter—.”

“It should. Don’t minimize what it was because you think that’s what I want to hear. I’m just asking you to think about it,” Mom said softly, and Abby could hear her hands sliding over Dad’s sweatshirt, careful and deliberate in the quiet.

Moose crawled up onto the bed, hot, stinky breath invading Abby’s face before he curled up into a tight ball, pressing his big butt against her shoulder like he owned the space. Atlas began his descent into the Frito mines under her covers, rustling and snuffling his whole way down to her feet.

“I don’t even need an answer tonight,” Mom went on. “I don’t need one any time soon—your lease isn’t up for months. I just… we just like having you here. That’s all. No rush, no obligations. Think about it.”

Abby stayed face-down in her pillow, listening, chest tight in that weird, this-is-so-soft-and-awkwardly-emotional way. She wasn’t supposed to be eavesdropping. God, why did she always have to overhear them in the middle of an emotional revelation? So awkward. She turned over, ignoring the little glow in her chest that had been burning low since Dad referred to them as home, though. That was kinda cute.

Mom and Dad’s footsteps started moving back down the hall, voices fading softer with every step.

“Just give me some time to get my head on straight about it. Run it by Grier next week, maybe,” Dad said.

“All the time you need, handsome,” Mom replied.

“Hey,” Dad said, and their footsteps paused. “I love you two more than anything. You know that, right?”

Abby curled up tighter, pressing her cheek against Moose’s warm, furry back. She’d heard Dad say I love you to Mom before. He said it to Abby every morning when he was home to see her off to school, and every night before bed too. But this… this was different. Hearing herself included in those words made her throat tighten in a way that was both weird and warm. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, just let it settle around her like a quiet little glow. It was nice, she guessed.

“I know,” Mom said, voice softening, almost gooey. “I’ll never get tired of hearing you say it, though.”

Silence fell for a long moment, only broken by Atlas grumping down by Abby’s feet before rolling onto his back with a dramatic, loud groan. Abby wrapped an arm around Moose, pulling him a little closer, and caught Mom’s little giggle drifting through the quiet. Then Dad’s whisper floated over: “So… you ready for bed or…?”

Abby gagged internally. Oh barf, dude. She didn’t even have the energy to roll her eyes properly, just flopped a hand over her face and groaned into Moose’s fur. This is so cringe. Kill me now. But somehow, through all the grossness, she couldn’t stop the tiny, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Mom giggled again, the sound soft and light, bouncing down the stairs. “Nice try, buddy. You have balloons to blow up,” she said, footsteps creaking with every step. “And last I checked, you’re still grounded.”

Dad groaned quietly before calling back, “You’re seriously keeping up on that?”

“Get the glue dots out of the hall closet, would ya?” Mom called.

“The… fuck is a glue dot?” Dad’s voice came back, equal parts confused and exhausted.

Abby stifled a snort into her pillow, letting herself sink deeper into the comforter. She rolled over, warm and cozy, listening to Dad mumble to himself as he tried to read craft supply labels in the dark. Moose twitched happily, Atlas rolled again, and despite herself, she let a tiny laugh escape. Okay, fine, she thought. Maybe they’re not the worst humans ever.

“Alright, birthday boo,” Mom said, wrestling with her seatbelt with flimsy dinosaur hands, careful not to touch anything with her fingertips. “Where to next?”

Abby glanced down at her hands, tilting them under the visor light so the chrome caught just right. “You got gel, Mom,” she said. “You don’t have to do all that. They’re cured.”

“Alright.” Mom blinked, immediately buckling like a normal person again before sliding her sunnies back on. She reached out, palm up. “Let me see.”

Abby scooted closer and stuck her hand out, rotating it so the chrome caught the light. The polish flashed silver, then pink, then almost blue, like it was showing off on purpose.

Mom hummed, turning Abby’s fingers gently. “Okay,” she said, smiling. “These might actually be my favorite birthday nails yet. Good choice, kiddo.”

Abby grinned, checking them again like they might’ve changed in the last five seconds. “As they should be,” she said. “Very on theme for my adult era.”

Mom hummed, already easing them out of the parking lot. “Okay. We can’t grab your cake for a few more hours, so—lunch first, or mall?”

“Mall,” Abby said instantly. No hesitation. No qualifiers. Mall was the correct answer always.

Mom laughed, shaking her head. “Thought so.”

The sky stayed stubbornly gray under the same heavy blanket of clouds that had been squatting overhead since homecoming like it forgot how to leave. Abby drained the rest of her birthday drink, chewing on the ice, basking in the quiet thrill of knowing her friends were stuck in third period while she was out here—eighteen, freshly manicured, and living her best academically excused life.

This was the tradition. Every year as far back as she could remember. Mom stayed home, Abby slept in and woke up to a house covered in streamers and balloons and to pink chocolate chip pancakes, she got to skip school, and the day belonged entirely to them. When she was little, it was the park or a movie she inevitably fell asleep halfway through when her sugar crash hit. Now it was coffee, mani-pedis even though Mom always picked the same red like she was in a lifelong committed relationship with it, lunch, and a slow lap around the mall with her birthday money burning a hole through her pocket where they didn’t buy much—at least, Mom didn’t—and talked about everything.

Mom always asked if she wanted to switch it up. Do something new. Something big. Abby never did. This was her favorite part—being in the passenger seat, music low, the world muted outside the windows, Mom beside her like nothing else mattered for a few hours. And honestly? It never got old. This was birthday tradition. And birthday tradition meant LuluLemon and eating double her body weight in Texas Roadhouse rolls. Duh.

Mom glanced over at her, smiling like she knew something Abby didn’t—which, rude, but also intriguing. “I do have a surprise on the way, though,” she said. “If that’s okay with you.”

Oh. Say. Less.

Abby lit up immediately, plopping her phone facedown and pivoting her whole body toward Mom like this was now a full interrogation. Elbows on the center console. Hands folded under her chin. Lashes deployed. Maximum charm. “What is it?”

Mom laughed, that soft, fond laugh she only used on Abby, and leaned over just long enough to kiss the top of her head without taking her eyes off the road. “If I tell you,” she said, smug as hell, “then it isn’t a surprise.”

Abby groaned dramatically and flopped back into her seat. “I hate that answer.”

“I know,” Mom said, still smiling. “I’m just the worst, right?”

Abby leaned over again immediately, because absolutely not—she was not letting that go. She braced one hand on the center console as Mom flicked the turn signal on, the soft tick-tick-tick filling the car while she merged into traffic. One hand stayed steady on the wheel, the other drummed lightly against it in time with the radio. Abby tapped the center console like it might cough up answers and started rapid-firing guesses.

“Okay, wait. Are we going to the animal shelter?” she asked, eyes huge. “Because I could be emotionally prepared to meet my soulmate cat today.”

Mom snorted. “You are not getting a cat today.”

“Okay but notice how you didn’t say ever,” Abby said quickly, filing that away. “Are we going to the airport? Because if you’re secretly driving me to DisneyWorld right now, I forgive you for grounding me.”

Mom laughed harder. “We are not going to the airport.”

Abby gasped. “Oh my god—are you taking me to get my purse?”

“Sweetheart,” Mom said, voice gentle but firm in that way that meant the conversation was already over, “your father and I are not spending four thousand dollars on a purse when you just use the same fanny pack.”

Abby blinked. “Okay but—”

“Not happening,” Mom continued, cutting her off as she merged lanes. “If I’m dropping that kind of money, I’m taking you to Disney.”

Abby’s head snapped around. “Wait,” she giggled, equal parts shocked and mortified. “It costs how much?”

Mom actually turned her head for a second, bafflement crawling across her face before she burst out laughing. “You didn’t look up how much it costs before you slapped it on your birthday list?”

“No!” Abby said instantly.

“Why?”

“I don’t know!” she protested, throwing her hands up. “Taylor Swift has one!”

Mom let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. 

“You saw a billionaire with a purse and thought, ‘Yes. My parents. Same tax bracket.’ Abigail Quinn, you have truly lost your mind.”

“Aunt Becca has two!”

“Aunt Becca didn’t pay for either!”

Abby dissolved, laughter bubbling out of her. “I didn’t think it through!”

“Clearly,” Mom said, laughing too now—real laughter, the kind that shook her shoulders and showed all her teeth. “Next time, maybe Google first before financially devastating your family.”

“I just thought it was cute!”

“It is cute,” Mom said, still laughing. “On Taylor Swift. Not on my credit card.”

Abby groaned, flopping back in her seat, but she couldn’t help laughing too. Mom’s laugh was real, loud, infectious—the kind that made everything else feel like background noise. “Fine,” Abby muttered, grinning despite herself. “I get it. Four grand is crazy.”

“Crazy,” Mom agreed, still laughing, her hands calm on the wheel as she turned onto the main road away from the mall, which was honestly suspicious behavior. Abby groaned and slumped back into her seat, watching the gray sky slide by. 

“Okay, but can I have a hint?” she groaned. “This is psychological warfare. I’m literally eighteen and being emotionally manipulated in a moving vehicle on my birthday.”

“Okay, relax,” Mom said, laughing as Abby was still mid-rant. “We’re almost there.”

She turned into a small parking lot and eased the car to a stop in front of a squat little building with heavy, deep red curtains pulled tight over the windows like it was guarding secrets. Mom killed the engine and checked the time on her phone while Abby leaned forward in her seat, brow furrowed, staring up at the place.

“…What is this,” Abby muttered. “Why does it look like a vampire lives here.”

Mom ignored her, twisting around to grab her purse from the backseat, then glanced at the clock on the dash. “We’re a little early for our appointment,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just said something insane, “but it should be fine.”

Abby’s head snapped back around. “What appointment?”

She squinted harder at the building, eyes dragging up the brick until they snagged on the sign above the door—STEEL CITY TATTOO & PIERCING.

Abby gasped so hard it actually hurt her neck when she whipped back toward Mom. “No way,” she said, voice climbing. “You’re joking. You have to be joking.”

Mom just smiled, completely unbothered, laughing as Abby spiraled in real time. No. Absolutely not. There was no universe where her mom casually pulled up to a tattoo shop, said appointment, and meant it. That was actually insane. Like—objectively more insane than a four-thousand-dollar purse.

And then Mom did the unthinkable and nodded.

“Surprise.”

Abby screamed—not, like, loud, but internally—and launched herself across the center console, arms flying around Mom’s neck. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” she chanted, half laughing, half vibrating. She pulled back just enough to stare at her. “Does Dad know?”

Mom nodded, still laughing. “He knows. He actually picked the place. Only way I could get him to agree.”

Abby’s jaw dropped. “Dad picked the tattoo shop. I’m unwell.”

Mom checked the time again, maddeningly calm. “Your appointment’s in twenty minutes,” she said. “So you should probably figure out what you’re getting.”

Abby froze.

“…Twenty minutes?”

She had to pick out her first tattoo in twenty minutes.

Abby fumbled for her phone so hard in her excitement that it nearly slipped right out of her hands. Cool. Chill. Totally fine. She yanked open Pinterest like it was a life raft, heart absolutely pounding. How did people do this on purpose? Like—plan tattoos? This was a surprise tattoo. That felt illegal.

Okay. Options. Goose? No—too silly for a first tattoo. That felt like a second-or-third-tattoo decision. Disco ball? Maybe. No. Not yet. You’re On Your Own, Kid? Iconic, yes, but also… maybe too much pressure for tattoo number one. She scrolled faster, chewing her lip, Mom completely unbothered beside her, checking her mascara in the mirror like this wasn’t a core memory unfolding.

Then she stopped.

“Oh,” Abby said softly, smiling down at her screen. She turned toward Mom. “Wait. Would you… would you get one with me?”

Mom raised an eyebrow but took the phone when Abby handed it over, sliding her glasses on to look. “That depends,” she said gently. “What are we getting?"

Abby swallowed. “What about this?”

Mom stared at it for a long second. Then her smile softened, eyes going a little shiny, and she leaned over to kiss Abby’s cheek. “I’ll do that.”

Abby lost it.

She squealed, unbuckled, did a tiny feral happy dance in her seat. “Oh my god,” she said, breathless. “This is the coolest you’ve ever been. I’m telling everyone.”

Mom laughed, brushing Abby’s hair back from her face before pushing her door open. “Okay,” she said, already stepping out, “let’s go before I change my mind.”

Abby popped out of the car after her, still buzzing. “Wait—hold on—important follow-up question,” she said, speed-walking to keep up. “Can I also get my nose pierced?”

Mom stopped to glance back at her over her shoulder. “Why not?”

Abby skidded to a halt. “Wait. Actually why not? Or fake why not?”

Mom grinned and reached for the shop door. “Real why not.”

Abby gasped. “You’re joking.”

Mom opened the door, the bell chiming brightly overhead. “Nope. If Grandma loses her mind over it when they get here tonight,” she added casually, “we’ll blame your father.”

Abby beamed. “Deal.”

“Does it hurt?”

Abby shook her head, still poking gently at the tiny diamond stud as she examined herself in the visor mirror. It looked… rough. Like, seriously crusty—dried blood, plasma, faint marker lines from where the piercer had measured everything out. Not cute yet. But once it healed? Adorable. A moment. She was absolutely swapping it for a hoop. This was the soft launch of a whole new era. High School Abby? Retired. Gone. Never heard of her.

“Stop touching it,” Mom said, batting Abby’s hand away as she slowed onto their street. “Your hands are filthy. You know your dad’s already going to combust about you getting a piercing in the Triangle of—”

“—Death,” Abby finished automatically. “An infection could go straight to my brain. I know, I know. I’ll stop touching it.”

She did not, in fact, stop touching it—but she did switch to admiring it from a safe distance, grinning at her reflection like she’d just unlocked a secret level of adulthood.

Abby snapped the visor shut and dropped her hands back onto the cake box in her lap, palms flat like she was guarding it with her life. Same bakery as always, but the decorator absolutely ate this year—a heart-shaped cake in pink, orange, and teal with The Life of a Birthday Girl piped across the top like it was a headline. It matched the TLOAS listening party cakes she’d aggressively sent Mom screenshots of so perfectly it felt illegal.

She traced her thumb along the edge of the box, then her eyes drifted down to the clear, plasticky bandage stuck in the crook of her left arm. Under it, Mom’s handwriting sat dark against her skin—I will follow—with a tiny dragonfly perched above it. Abby glanced sideways and spotted the matching bandage on Mom’s arm, same spot, her own handwriting there instead: Where you lead.

Okay. Cool. Casual. Not emotionally devastating at all.

“How long do we keep these on?” Abby asked, carefully smoothing a wrinkle in the bandage like she might break it if she wasn’t gentle.

“A couple days,” Mom said, slowing at the end of their street as a car passed. She waved like a normal person who hadn’t just gotten a mother–daughter tattoo and green-lit a nose piercing. Whatever Jack was doing to her was making her so much less lame. “I’ll probably leave mine on longer. We use these in the ED all the time—they’re really good at keeping the gross stuff out.”

Abby nodded, and Mom turned into the driveway, slowing to a stop. She glanced over at Abby, smiling in that quiet, end-of-the-day way. “Good day?”

Abby smiled back, easy. “Yeah,” she said. “Good day.”

Dad’s truck was already parked out front, and Abby clocked the little ribbon of smoke curling over the fence from the fire pit. Figures. She honestly couldn’t remember a time the backyard got this much use before Dad started staying with them. Mom had built the whole setup one summer and then barely touched it. Dad, meanwhile, acted like it was his emotional support fire pit. She hadn’t heard a lot of stories about Dad’s partying days in high school, but he seemed like the kind of guy who really fucked with keeping the bonfire going, and that told her everything she needed to know honestly.

He’d probably be out back right now—TV on, fire going, dogs circling like sharks until they eventually gave up and piled next to him to beg for his coffee. Abby loved finding him out there. It made the house feel… fuller. Less like it echoed when you walked in. She liked coming home and seeing him through the glass door, still half-asleep with bedhead from crashing after work, smiling at her like she was the best part of his day before she went out to sit with him and he asked how school was.

He’d traded for the day shift for her birthday too, which had apparently caused mild chaos. Miss Dana was straight-up baffled when Abby brought Mom her forgotten lunch the other day, and Hoodie Guy had Opinions™ about it apparently, but all Abby heard was this aggravating, grating noise the second he opened his mouth. 

“Robby must’ve let Dad come home early,” Mom said, unbuckling and sliding out of the car. She leaned back across the seat, reaching for the cake box in Abby’s lap. “Here—lemme get this in the fridge before Grandma and Grandpa show up. You grab the mail key out of my purse and run to the box? Aunt Becca texted me that your gift came earlier.”

Abby grinned, already sliding her hand into Mom’s purse to pull out the key. She swung her car door shut and twisted Mom’s gas cap until it clicked when she passed by—Dad had said that was probably why her check engine light had been on all week, so she figured she was technically fixing something? Moose barked at the noise, but Dad’s calm, low voice immediately quieted him down.

Slingshotting her belt bag over her shoulder, Abby started down the sidewalk toward the mailboxes. She slowed as she passed the neighbor’s house, her eyes catching a black car parked in front of it. Not just black—like, so black it swallowed the light. Windows so dark you couldn’t see inside. She froze mid-step, heart doing a little tap dance. She hadn’t seen it on the street before. And it didn’t match any of the Lopez’s cars, even though it was blocking their driveway. She tilted her head, scanning for movement, but the car stayed still, silent, like it was waiting for something.

Shaking off the unease, she forced her gaze back to the mailbox and tried to keep her stride casual. Unlocking the box, she dug through the usual mix of junk and bills. An envelope from UPenn caught her eye, but she flipped past it fast—likely a reminder that her application was due next weekend and her stomach immediately did that twisty anxious thing. A USC envelope followed, which she quickly stuffed into her belt bag, before finally pulling out a light blue envelope with Aunt Becca’s messy, playful handwriting scrawled across it. 

Relief washed over her in a tiny rush—her aunt’s stuff was never threatening, just extra. Probably a gift card or a wild, over-the-top check with some ridiculous note Mom would roll her eyes at before reminding Abby to call and thank her. Abby tucked it into her bag and exhaled, trying not to glance back at the black car again or to think about the two college letters pressing against her like weights.

Abby started heading back to the house, mail clutched to her chest like it was a shield. The black car was still there, and she couldn’t tell if it was paranoia or legit vibes, but something felt…wrong. She shrugged, adjusted her bag, and tried to keep it chill.

As she passed the car, a flash of light caught her eye. She froze mid-step, heart doing that weird rapid-tap thing, fingers tightening around the mail. Probably just headlights? Yeah, probably. Still felt weird.

Then the engine rumbled. The car started creeping up the street, slow but steady, like it knew she was watching. Her chest went tight, and she picked up her pace, practically jogging now, eyes locked on the driveway, mail held like a life preserver.

Finally, the car passed, its tires humming against the asphalt, and she watched it disappear around the corner. Breathing a little easier, Abby walked up the drive and pushed open the front door, letting the familiar warmth of the house swallow her unease.

Abby stepped inside and froze for a second, grinning like a total nerd, the strangeness of the car immediately forgotten. The house was decked out—orange, pink, and yellow streamers and balloons bouncing from the ceiling, shiny foil stars catching the light, garlands of brightly colored felt and ribbon Mom had made back when Abby was little still draping the walls. They’d probably stay up until next week, but she was hardly complaining. Everything smelled like clean laundry and vanilla from the candles Mom had lit. The dining room table was set perfectly, flowers in a vase, gifts stacked neatly, and her birthday plate Mom painted when she was still pregnant with her waited at the head of the table like it had been ready for her.

She peeked into the kitchen and found Dad in his pajamas and a hoodie, pouring coffee while the dogs sat like little furry bouncers at his feet. The police scanner murmured in the background, that monotone squawk somehow oddly soothing as Dad muttered back to the dogs about nothing at all. He turned to Mom, indignance written all over his face, and dragged a hand through his hair. 

He groaned, hands on his hips like he’d just been asked to scale Everest. “Why do I have to get dressed? We're not leaving for an hour.”

“You’re in pajamas, Jack,” Mom said, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

“I’m in sweats. What? I’m not allowed to wear sweats in my own home?”

Mom turned toward him, closed her eyes, and took a long, steady breath through her nose before blowing it out. She reached over and rubbed his arms like she was calming a very cranky toddler. “My parents are going to be here in ten minutes. Put on some pants.”

Dad threw up his hands, obviously having decided that this was the hill he wished to die on. “So? Your dad’s going to show up in the same jacket he’s been wearing since ’91. This family is hardly the House of Gucci, sweetheart.”

Mom shot him one last “don’t even think about it” glare before sliding past him.

Dad let out a long, fake dramatic sigh, muttered something under his breath, and then rolled his eyes once Mom’s back was turned. “Fine, fine. I’ll change before dinner, geez.”

Then he spotted Abby, and suddenly his whole face lit up like she was the Wi-Fi signal he’d been hunting all day. He lifted an arm. “Hey, birthday girl,” he said, pulling her under it for a tight squeeze, pressing a quick kiss to her hair and rubbing her arm. “Day with Mom good?”

Abby nodded, letting him plant another smushy kiss on her head before he stepped back. His eyes flicked to the bandage on her arm, and he tilted his head. “Okay…let me see that little masterpiece.”

Abby grinned and held her arm out, practically bouncing on her toes as Dad’s blind ass squinted like a confused mole. She guided her arm under the kitchen light. “Cute,” he finally muttered, tone like he was trying not to sound too impressed.

“Mom and I got matching ones!” she added, super proud, catching Mom’s little smile as she reached for the mail from Abby’s hands. Dad reached for Mom’s arm, scanning over her matching tattoo before planting a quick kiss on her cheek. 

Then Dad’s attention swung back to Abby. His eyes widened just slightly before he smoothed into classic Dad-cool, tilting her face now under the light like he was inspecting fine art. “Wow,” he said, shaking his head with a grin. “Mom really let you go all out on the adulthood thing, huh?”

“She was, like, totally chill about it today,” Abby said, angling her face so he could get the full effect, feeling her chest puff up a little with pride.

“I can see that,” Dad said, sliding into full-blown doctor mode like it was second nature. He held her face carefully under the light, giving it the once-over. “Cute,” he added, before getting serious. “Go clean it out real good before your grandparents get here. Wash your hands—gloves on. Guess you’re done picking your nose for a while, huh kid?”

Abby rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her face. “Oh my god, you’re so annoying,” she muttered, shaking her head as he chuckled at his own lame joke, clearly pleased with himself.

Abby trudged up the stairs, nodding along to the running list of antiseptics and meds Dad was rattling off from downstairs like some weird, over-caffeinated pharmacy commercial. She could hear Mom laughing at something, her voice high and delighted, and Abby’s earlier feigned annoyance melted into a grin she didn’t even try to hide.

She stepped into her room, streamers and tinsel bouncing above her head and made a beeline for her desk drawer. She shoved the USC envelope inside and slammed it shut before flopping her bag onto her unmade bed. The bathroom came next—she pulled the med kit from under the sink, whispering the list back to herself like a chemistry exam she actually cared about, and got to work. Hands scrubbed, gloves on, she tackled her nose like a tiny operating theater, saline washing through the fresh piercing while her eyes threatened to water. Fuck, she was gonna sneeze. She was so gonna sneeze. Sneezing would be catastrophic.

But, of course, she held it. She couldn’t sneeze. That was for weenies. And Abby? Girls who got a tattoo and a nose piercing on the same day? They were not weenies. Obviously.

Abby barely had time to shove the med kit back under the sink before the doorbell rang, and of course, Moose and Atlas absolutely lost their ever-loving minds. Barking, scratching, chaos incarnate. Mom’s voice joined the symphony, rising in a mix of exasperation and annoyance. “They can walk right in! What are they doing ringing the bell? I tell them every time—just come in!”

Mom’s annoyance didn’t last long though. Dad called the dogs away from the doors and Mom swung it open with a bright, “Hi!” and the flood of Grandma energy barreled in like a cannon. Bags rustled, Grandma started talking before the door was even open, voices started overlapping over the sounds of footsteps. 

Abby practically flew down the stairs, two at a time, a silly little grin plastered across her face. The chaos downstairs felt like a warm, fizzy memory she hadn’t realized came as a sound—like mornings when the news played on the TV while Mom and Grandma whispered to each other in the kitchen, and Grandpa snored away in the guest bedroom.

By the time she rounded the corner into the living room, it was pure, chaotic joy. Moose and Atlas were glued to Grandpa’s legs, tails wagging like drumsticks, while he hugged Mom like he was afraid she might float away. Meanwhile, Grandma had Dad’s face squished in her hands, talking so fast and excited that his face was all gooey and soft as he tried to follow along.

Abby leaned against the railing for a second, taking it all in—the noise, the motion, the smells of coffee and firewood drifting from the backyard. Her chest felt full, all warm and buzzy, and she realized she didn’t want to blink, didn’t want to miss a single second of this—her messy, loud, perfectly ridiculous family.

“I found a whole mess of your things down in the basement,” Grandma continued, staring Dad down like she was giving him marching orders, his face still in her hands like he was a newborn. “I packed them all in an extra suitcase for you to go through. You just throw out what you don’t want. I need the suitcase back though, Jackie. It’s part of a set.”

“Okay, Ma,” Dad said, nodding so hard it looked like his neck might pop.

“And I hope that’s not what you’re wearing to dinner. I looked at the restaurant online—it looks nice. You should wear real pants.”

“I’ll change, Ma,” he said, raising his hands like a man surrendering in a duel.

“You need to shave. You should shave, too.”

“Leave him be, Lee. You just walked through the door and you’re already pesterin’,” Grandpa said, patting Moose’s side as if that somehow solved everything.

“What? He looks handsome. He just needs to shave. I can’t tell him that he should shave?” Grandma fired back, hands on her hips, eyes sparkling with that impossible energy Abby loved so much.

Grandma and Grandpa’s voices started overlapping in that familiar, chaotic duet of ‘we’ve been married for a million years’ bickering Abby had grown up hearing, voices climbing over each other before Grandma waved Grandpa off and finally let go of Dad’s face before she turned on Mom.

Grandma’s hands flew up as soon as she spotted Mom. “Did you make a reservation this year? Last year we were standing in that lobby for an hour! Tommy, you remember that mess, don’t you?”

“I remember,” Grandpa grumbled, giving Moose a pat on the head like that would make Grandma stop. “It’s called a line, Lee. People wait in lines. Not the end of the world.”

Mom’s voice was sharp, a little tight around the edges. “I made a reservation, Mom,” she said through gritted teeth, and Abby had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“Did you? You promise?” Grandma pressed, eyes narrowing. “Because if it’s like last year, I swear I’m taking my coat and leaving.”

“I made a reservation, Mother.”

“Well goodness, Elizabeth Diane! You don’t have to take a tone!”

He stares at her quietly for a long moment, swallowing nervously. 

“Benedict,” his mother warns. 

“I need to go.” 

“Benedict.” 

He’s on his feet quickly and out the door, and Violet sighs heavily. 

“Oh, my boy,” she mutters. 

***** 

Eloise finds him hours later, late that night, on the swings, looking a little disheveled, and takes a seat. 

“Mama has been looking all over for you,” she tells him. “I heard you found your glove lady.” 

He doesn’t respond. 

She sighs. “Benedict.” 

“She is…everything I thought she might be,” he admits quietly. “She is kind and clever. She looks after her sisters.” 

“As you look after yours?” Eloise asks with a smile. “When you are not playing the scoundrel.” 

“And she is so beautiful. Still.” 

“So what is the problem?” Eloise asks, a little annoyed. “You have found her. You should be happy.” 

“I do not know if I am what she wants,” he admits. “I am…I am not the Bridgerton that anyone should give their heart to.” 

“Has it occurred to you, brother, that that is not your choice?” Eloise asks, more annoyed now. “That maybe young ladies get to decide who they give their hearts to? Or not?” 

He looks at her, a little vulnerable. 

“When you met her today, what did she say?” Eloise asks. “Was she happy to see you?” 

Benedict nods.

“Did she or did she not agree to come to tea?” Elosie asks. 

“She did,” he confirms. 

“Then I think you should respect the lady’s choice,” Eloise says, reaching a foot out to kick him a little. “However you may feel about you, she obviously sees something in you she quite likes. Or she would not have been happy to see you. Or agreed to come to tea. Now for god’s sake, go sober up so you are not hungover by the time she gets here tomorrow.” 

***** 

Sleep is a little hopeless for Sophie. She’s excited and nervous about tea with the Bridgertons, and she cannot stop thinking about the way he looked at her; Blue-grey eyes wide with hope and nerves and a little astonishment. The way they had almost kissed again, his lips so close. Her mind drifts back to the masquerade, then, his smooth dip down to pull her back into their dance form. His lips pressing to her cheek in what felt like a promise for more. His surprised gasp as she stole a real kiss from him. Her first kiss. 

Her hand drifts down her body, under the blankets, and she eventually finds release in the memory of his arms around her, and then finally sleep. 

***** 

“You shall wear this one!” 

In the morning, their lady’s maid, Hazel, is fixing Sophie’s hair into soft, loose curls while Rosamund goes through the wardrobe in Sophie’s room, and Posy lays on the chaise, already dressed and waiting. 

Araminta had ordered that both sisters should go with, but when Araminta mentioned attending, their father had forbade it. 

“You will make a mess,” he had commented. “As you have already made a mess of Sophie’s prospects. She’s had not one suitor in years. So you will stay home, and the girls will take Hazel with them, and it will all be as it should.” 

Sophie can’t say she isn’t relieved. 

Rosamund reappears with a blue-gray dress. “You will look beautiful and he will think of you at the masquerade and he will propose on the spot.” 

Sophie turns and smiles at her. “I do love that dress, and I will take your advice, but Rosamund, that is not how these things normally go. We must get to know one another properly.” 

“Do you doubt in him?” Posy asks, looking  concerned as she sits up. 

“I…doubt in me,” Sophie admits quietly. “He is so…handsome, and he clearly has more life experience than I. It is possible that…despite our early connection, I am not what he looks for.” 

“Bosh!” Rosamund cries. “He looked at you like you hung the whole sky yesterday! And you are plenty worldly with your…your books and your sense. And beautiful! So beautiful Mama barely lets you out of the house because she is jealous of you.” 

“I think,” Hazel says gently. “That you should listen to your sister. Word around is that he has been looking for his lady in silver, and that is you.” She smiles at Sophie in the mirror. “For once, Miss Sophie, let yourself be swept away.” 

“Listen to Hazel,” Rosamund orders. “She is absolutely right in saying that I am right.” 

Sophie smiles and shakes her head. “I will try.” 

Once she dresses and settles her necklace on, they head down the stairs, and Araminta watches as they slide into their overcoats to leave. 

“Goodbye, Mama,” Posy smiles at her. “We shall come back with much to tell I am certain.” 

Araminta says nothing, her eyes trained on Sophie.

“Think of it this way,” Rosamund tells their mother. “If all goes well, and Sophie forms an attachment, she will marry and then she will no longer be your problem.” 

Araminta storms out of the room. 

Sophie takes a breath, takes her sisters hands and heads out the door.

***** 

“You are going to wear out the carpet with your pacing,” Anthony warns his brother. 

Benedict stops and turns to him…

And the rest of their family.

Because all of them are here. 

All of them. 

Kate and Anthony, newly returned from India. Colin and Penelope. Francesca and John. Eloise, Hyacinth. Gregory, freshly back from Eton. Even Daphne is here, though Simon stayed in Clyvedon on business. 

“I do not see why all of you had to attend,” Benedict says, clearly stressed out. 

“Is that a joke?” Colin asks, bewildered. 

“Our beloved free-spirited brother has found possibly a match, and you expect us all to stay home?” Daphne scoffs. “I was already in town and planning to come for tea. This is just an added bonus.” 

Francesca purses her lips and gets to her feet, stepping over to Benedict and tugging on his waistcoat gently. “It is only nerves, and it is natural when you find someone.” 

He gives her a grateful grin and kisses her forehead. “I am well.” 

“Come sit, Benedict, Dear,” Violet beckons. 

“Has anyone met her?” Anthony asks Eloise and Penelope. 

Penelope shakes her head. “I have heard that there was a third Penwood daughter, but she never makes it to events.” 

“The stepmother hates her,” Benedict informs them. 

“Araminta Gun is not a terribly agreeable woman,” Violet comments. “If she dislikes her, it may be to the young lady’s credit.” 

Mrs. Wilson steps in, then. “Miss Gun, Miss Li, and Miss Posy,” she announces. 

Benedict turns and smiles nervously, stepping forward toward Sophie, and then stepping back, clearly unsure of what to do. 

Anthony looks at him as if he is mad, before turning to the new arrivals. “Thank you for joining us. I am Viscount Bridgerton. It is very nice to meet you all.” 

Sophie takes the lead, giving him and everyone a curtsy. “Thank you for inviting us.”

“This is Sophie,” Rosamund speaks up. “Miss Sophie Gun, and I am Miss Rosamund Li, and this is our other sister, Posy Li.” 

“It is so nice to see you all,” Violet beams. “Please, come join us.” 

“My, you are…you are so many people,” Posy comments, smiling brightly. “Our tea times are only just the three of us and Mama, and one time Mama locked Sophie in her room so we were down one.” 

Sophie takes a deep breath as everyone freezes at the statement. “That…was…a very long time ago, indeed. And it has not happened since, and we should change the subject.” 

Kate smiles at her understandingly, and bids everyone to sit down. “Miss Gun, I hear that you dressed all in silver for the masquerade ball. That sounds lovely.” 

“It was my mother’s dress,” Sophie smiles as she sits with her sisters on one of the sofas. “She wore it to a ball once, and my father says he never got around to giving it away, but I think perhaps he saved it for me. She is wearing it in a miniature I have of her.” 

“Oh, how nice,” Violet smiles. “I remember your mother a little. She was quite beautiful.” 

“Thank you,” Sophie smiles. 

Benedict watches her intently, noticing her expression shift as she tries to hide the emotion of talking about her mother. 

The conversation keeps going, and Benedict finds that he has nothing to add; there is nothing to say as Sophie deftly handles a room full of his family. She laughs softly when Eloise makes a joke, and she answers questions about herself. 

She reads. She is endlessly fascinated with plants and gardening. She loves art(!) and science. She speaks quite a few languages. 

“Why are you not saying anything?” Anthony hisses at him. “She is here to see you.” 

Benedict startles a little. “I paint!” he cries abruptly, stopping all conversation.

Anthony buries his own face in his hands, slightly mortified. 

Sophie blinks and purses her lips, clearly trying not to laugh at the outburst. “Do you?” 

“He did,” Gregory comments. “He left the academy two years ago, but he is quite good.” 

Colin nudges their brother. “Unhelpful.” 

“I…I have some of my work here, unfinished though it is,” Benedict tells her, feeling a little hopeful. “Perhaps you would like to-” 

“I would love to see it,” Sophie smiles. 

Kate smiles at everyone, and gets to her feet. “I shall accompany them down to the study.” She gestures for Sophie to get to her feet, and Rosamund also starts to stand but Posy drags her back down. 

“You have a lovely home! I quite like your purple flowers outside,” Posy says. 

Benedict leads the two ladies out of the room and down the stairs. “Forgive me for…” he gestures vaguely. 

Sophie laughs softly. “Are you quite well?” 

“I…am…nervous,” he admits sheepishly. “I have never had a lady over for tea with my family. I tend to not do those things.” 

Sophie nods. “Well. You were my first caller yesterday,” she admits. “So, we are somewhat even. At least societally speaking.” 

Benedict grins at her as they enter the study and he leads her over to the corner, where there is a small rack of paintings. “Gregory exaggerates about my talent,” he admits as he steps aside to let Sophie look. 

“He does not,” Kate comments from across the room. “You are quite talented, brother.” 

“Lady Bridgerton and Gregory are right,” Sophie says as she pulls an unfinished landscape from the rack. “This…this is beautiful. The style is unrestrained yet full of feeling.” 

He blinks, a little surprised. “That…that was the intent.” 

She smiles at him as she keeps looking. “Your family is very kind.” 

“And large,” Benedict adds. “I did not realize they would all show up today. It must feel daunting.” 

Sophie shrugs. “What would be more daunting is if my stepmother had accompanied me today. She wanted to, and my father told her no.” 

“Well, at least he is sensible,” Benedict mutters. 

“When he pays attention,” Sophie mutters as she keeps looking, pulling another half-finished painting out. 

Of a woman in a silver gown. She blinks up at him. 

He flushes. 

So does Sophie. 

Benedict takes a breath and looks to Kate. 

Who has suspiciously left the room, leaving the door open just a crack; a sign of her trust in him. 

“I have thought about very little else but you,” he admits, his eyes turning back to Sophie. “Since that night.” 

Sophie gazes up at him softly. “When I saw you in the Penwood drawing room, I thought my heart would just leap out of me and run off.” 

They both laugh softly at that as he steps closer to her, taking the painting from her gently and putting it back, before taking her hand and holding it gently. 

“I know we do not know each other well,” he says quietly as he gazes at her. “But…I would like to. I want to.” 

Sophie smile as she gazes back, squeezing his hand gently. “I would like that very much, Mr. Bridgerton.” 

“Benedict,” he urges gently. “Please.” 

He has no idea how they became so close in proximity. Again, but there is suddenly very little space between them. 

“We should not,” she whispers, repeating his words from their night together on the terrace. Her nose bumps against his gently, and her eyes drift shut. 

“No,” he agrees as his lips ghost over hers. “We should not.” 

“Are you quite well, brother?” Kate calls from outside the door. 

Sophie jumps back from him, taking a breath and turning away. 

“Quite well!” Benedict calls, watching the back of her head. “Quite…quite well!” 

Sophie turns to look at him and takes another breath. “You are quite talented. You should finish a few of these. They are lovely.” 

“As are you,” he says absently. 

She flushes again. 

“May I call on you again tomorrow?” Benedict asks. 

Sophie nods. “Yes. I wish you would.”