— [ LOCATION: ] jousting tournament.
— [ TIME: ] 10:11 pm.
— [ WITH: ] OPEN ft @ex3rtion.
— [ NOW PLAYING: ] IRRESPONSIBLE by emei.
the field beyond the stables breathed horse and hay, laced with the damp, green sweetness of early spring mud. zahara had somehow come into possession of a foam sword—when or from whom, she couldn’t say—and now wielded it in broad, erratic sweeps, tracing the splinter of lances and the bright clatter of armor as it rang out before her. the crowd blurred into a wash of color and laughter, but her attention kept catching. snagging on something just out of reach, a flicker at the edge of sight that vanished the moment she turned toward it. she stilled, lowering the sword, her voice dipping softer than the chaos deserved. “ i don’t mean to offend you, ” she said, once chocolate hues could finally focus, lids narrowing slightly, “ but are you stalking me? this is like the fifth time we've come across each other today. ”
— [ LOCATION: ] gossamer.
— [ TIME: ] 9:01 pm.
— [ WITH: ] OPEN ft @distortedblurs.
— [ NOW PLAYING: ] HOUDINI by dua lipa.
they hadn’t meant to end up here. the quest had been simple enough. find the painted pine cone masquerading as a ‘dragon egg’, return it to ebony, take the reward and leave. but then the beaded curtains sighed apart, the tea was poured—honeyed, perfumed—and the world softened at the edges. their limbs grew languid, pleasantly adrift, urgency dissolving into something hazy and unmoored. madam yin had slipped away moments ago, leaving zee alone with the slow curling incense, the cloying sweetness lingering at the bottom of their cup, and the quiet, insistent feeling that they hadn’t wandered here so much as been led. their voice drifted into the velvet hush, fragile with a dreamlike uncertainty, their gaze skimming. barely catching on the figure beside them on the velvety couch. “ do you, do you know why i’m actually here? ” zee murmured. “ because i’m starting to think it wasn’t for the egg. ”
— [ LOCATION: ] caesar hall.
— [ TIME: ] 8:37 pm.
— [ WITH: ] robin ft @cloyingblccd.
— [ NOW PLAYING: ] TRAP QUEEN by fetty wap.
maximo paid almost no mind to the chaos of the feast. the clatter of plates, the peals of laughter, the absurdly gilded pageantry of so called royalty. he had made himself utterly at home, sprawled across robin’s lap as though claiming it by divine right. one arm dangled lazily over the chair’s edge, the other looping loosely around her waist to keep her from slipping away. he tilted his head just enough to catch robin’s gaze, a crooked, lazy grin curling his lips. “ regardless of how we got here, though. . .i’m having a really good time. ” he wasn’t usually sentimental, but tonight his veins ran half wine, and warmth—soft, unapologetic—spilled out in its place. his fingers traced idle, feather light taps along robin’s side. “ don’t move, ” he murmured, voice dropping into a velvet drawl, eyes half lidded like slow burning coals. “ i finally found a spot that isn’t completely insufferable. ” somewhere, a cheer erupted for the obnoxious king and queen. maximo scoffed, sharp and swift, snapping his attention back to her despite the distraction. “ seriously, ” he breathed, low and incredulous, “ how the fuck was soren chosen? i mean i’m far more kingly than he is. ”
— [ LOCATION: ] caesar hall.
— [ TIME: ] 7:42 pm.
— [ WITH: ] OPEN ft @distortedblurs.
— [ NOW PLAYING: ] MASK OFF by future.
caesar hall swells past its usual clamor tonight. laughter spilling like wine, glasses chiming in bright, reckless chorus, indulgence thick enough to blur the edges of reality. maximo lingers at the banquet’s fringe, neither swallowed by the crowd nor free of it, an untouched goblet tilting idly in his hand. his gaze snags, briefly, on the freshly anointed ‘royalty’ before drifting, inevitably, back to them. a slow, knowing smirk ghosts across his mouth as he steps closer, voice dipped just low enough to thread the din. “ okay, i’m sensing some major hostility here. ” lightly said but with a blade beneath the silk. something sharper waiting underneath the facade of charm. he eases against the table at their side, all effortless claim, as if the room itself had made space for him. “ what, you gonna glare all night, or actually tell me what i did? ”
— [ LOCATION: ] the docks.
— [ TIME: ] 4:33 pm.
— [ WITH: ] OPEN ft @ex3rtion.
— [ NOW PLAYING: ] MIA by bad bunny ft drake.
the st. patrick’s day parade had curdled into its usual tuesday delirium. bagpipes keening like restless ghosts, green beer sloshing in careless arcs, the slow, inevitable drift toward the pirate ship where dignity slipped quietly beneath the tide. maximo had peeled off near the docks, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, when a familiar face surfaced through the churn of bodies. he fell into step beside them, unhurried as a shadow. “ i know you think you’re pretty clever with this plan to drink me under the table, ” he said, warmth threading his voice, “ but there’s two problems. you’re not, and you can’t. ” his smile lingered, lazy and edged. a blade catching late afternoon light along the planes of his cheekbones. the parade’s chaos bent around him, river like, unwilling to touch. “ i haven’t gone this long without a smoke in years, ” he added, ash drifting like gray snow, “ so either be part of the solution or get the hell out. ”
The dining hall was so artfully reconstructed, that Zak almost immediately lost their bearings. A bit overwhelmed in the best way, stuck to their own corner as they attempted to take in the bustling waitstaff in character, Hadden residents endlessly amused by the charade. The plan had been to grab something to eat before divulging further into the festivities, but somewhere along the line Zak had lost Fabi amongst the throng - hence the way he held himself somewhat awkwardly, tucked away as if that would make him small enough to miss so that he could scan through the sea of strangers in the hopes of recognizing - anyone, at this point. They didn’t stick out as much as they might have in any other circumstance, the green of their hooded coat matching the colour theme enough that Zak simply blended in, even with the faux crossbow and arrows attached to their back. A shoddy replica of Robin Hood put together by nothing but last-minute determination and the costume section of a local thrift store. It was inconspicuous enough - especially with their hood raised - that Leo didn’t seem to notice them. Zak wasn’t sure how they didn’t notice her, though. They’d been so preoccupied with finding someone they deemed safe that they’d completely missed the person who used to make him feel safest. A crime in and of itself, even with the rocky footing they both seemed to find themselves in given the current status of their fickle - relationship? Friendship? Zak didn’t even know anymore. They were still stuck on the fact that they hadn’t noticed Leo when she looked like - this. Obviously, she was stunning. Almost painfully so, sometimes. But whatever styling team had put her together had frankly outdone themselves. He couldn’t do anything but stare stupidly for longer than was appropriate after Leo mumbling to herself caught his attention, blinking not once, not even twice, but three times in languid succession. It was drawn out so much so that Leo actually noticed - gaze slowly drifting towards Zak with a twisted pinch to her features, seemingly ready to snap at them for staring, until she computed who it was that was gawking at her like Zak had only noticed the world in black and white before, now assaulted with technicolour beyond their comprehension.
Daftly, they swallowed so audibly that despite the bustle around them, he was sure Leo heard it. Still they pushed on, twisting further towards her as an easy grin finally spread across otherwise frozen features. Shock was a funny thing - despite overstimulation crawling at their nerve endings like ants crawling under their skin, Zak had felt it dissipate the moment they locked eyes with Leona, now melting away into something tender. They hadn’t actually picked up on what she said, and Zak was sure it didn’t exactly matter - they simply gave her a gentle grin, fond and dancing on the precipice of apprehensive, before gently coaxing a hand forward, “Wow. Uh - your highness,” He crooned, fingers slipping under hers, bringing the digits that weren’t holding onto her goblet towards their mouth to press a devoting kiss to her knuckles. It was probably selfish of them, ready to back up the decision that surely pushed the boundaries of where they stood with the excuse that they were merely playing along with the role that’d been bestowed upon her. He was nothing but her adoring subject - so nothing had really changed, had it? “I appreciate you letting me into your,” Vaguely, they gesticulated to how done up Caesar’s Hall was - always transformative when an event came along, but it was noticeably extravagant this time, “humble abode.” It occurred to Zak then, that it was a bit odd to see Leo on her own, given her status amongst the feast. Even without Soren at her side - which was a terrifying thought in and of its own - he was surprised people didn’t flock to her the way he could only assume they were meant to. But his own hood was still resting on the crown of his head, attempting to distance himself from the worst of the cacophony of residents. She was entitled to her own peace of mind, as well. “Are you having fun? You look -,” There wasn’t really a word to describe it, and Zak had never been good with them anyway. Again, they simply gestured at her pathetically. As if she could read their mind and understand that he was just impossibly, uselessly speechless. Nervous, too. She used to be able to read their mind - Zak missed it. He didn’t want to dig himself into an even bigger hole by surely tripping over their own tongue and saying the wrong thing, but it was inevitable. “You look the part,” He eventually settled on - only realizing then that he was still pinching gently at her fingers. Soft but deliberate, because he was greedy, wanted the sensation without her noticing and tugging herself away.
the kiss to her knuckles struck like flint to steel. brief, bright, and dangerously capable of catching. it was over almost before it began, a fleeting press of warmth that lingered far longer than it had any right to, threading itself through her nerves like the memory of heat after a flame had been snuffed. her fingers stiffened in his grasp, every tendon drawn taut, suspended in that delicate, treacherous space between recoil and ruin, between the instinct to withdraw and the far more perilous urge to remain. for a heartbeat, no, less than that. she allowed it. the absurd, courtly reverence of them, bowed at her hand like something out of an older, stranger story, something that did not belong in the electric hum of caesar hall, beneath its chandeliers strung like constellations and its long banquet tables groaning under the weight of excess. she allowed the sensation of being regarded as something precious, something worth kneeling for, something more than a woman costumed in borrowed regality and circumstance. and then—she withdrew. it wasn’t sharp enough to be called a retreat. just the slightest tightening of her jaw, the faintest shift in posture as she reclaimed herself piece by piece. her fingers loosened with careful intention, slipping from their hold as though the moment had simply concluded, rather than been taken back. she was leona remington carr, queen, however unwilling, of this gilded farce. crowned beneath the glow of fairy lights and laughter, seated upon a throne purchased from the digital graveyard of ebay and sanctified by tradition and spectacle. she did not flee.
“ your highness, ” she echoed, her voice smooth as polished stone, cool and unyielding as river water in winter. her chin lifted just so, catching the candlelight along the sharp line of her jaw, turning her profile into something almost sculptural. “ that’s a bold opening from a man dressed as the temu version of robin hood. ” her gaze swept over them with deliberate thoroughness, a scholar committing a passage to memory while pretending disinterest. the green hood, slightly askew. the crossbow slung with more optimism than expertise. the restless, uncertain energy that clung to them like a second skin, ill fitting but earnest. and beneath it all—the way their hand lingered in the air where hers had been, as though reluctant to accept its emptiness. the way their throat moved when she looked at them. the way they looked at her. not at the crown. nor the costume or performance. but at her. leo's laugh came thin and dry, like the brittle snap of frostbitten branches. “ the part, ” she repeated, gesturing vaguely to herself. the burgundy brocade heavy as spilled wine, the intricate silver threading catching light like frost, the crown of thorns and roses pressing insistently into her scalp, as though reminding her of the cost of such adornment. “ if you like the wardrobe so much, how about you be soren’s queen for the next month? ” deflection, clean and practiced. she could hear it in her own voice. the familiar architecture rising, stone by stone, a fortress built not overnight but over years of careful, necessary construction.
coolness layered over vulnerability until even she could not always tell where one ended and the other began. and yet, her hand. the one he had kissed, remained at her side. unhidden. fingers curled loosely, as though still remembering the shape of his grasp. as though waiting. “ speaking of which, he seems to have abandoned me, ” she continued, tone crisp, clinical, as though delivering a report rather than confessing to being left alone atop a dais meant for two. “ he declared he was ‘acquiring a steed’ approximately an twenty minutes ago and has since vanished into what i can only assume is either glory or litigation. ” a slight tilt of her head, the ghost of something almost amused flickering beneath the surface. “ i am, however, withholding judgment until i confirm whether ‘steed’ refers to an actual horse or a deeply unfortunate donkey. ” her gaze drifted, unbidden, to the empty throne beside her. soren’s throne, in theory. vacant, forgotten, already half claimed by shadow and indifference. then, inevitably, it returned to zak. she did not ask him to sit. the invitation hovered, unspoken, fragile as spun sugar and twice as dangerous. stay. sit. don’t leave me here alone. but to give voice to it would be to acknowledge it, and acknowledgment was a door she was not prepared to open. not here under the weight of watching eyes and flickering candlelight and the lingering ghost of his lips against her skin. instead, she lifted her goblet once more to her lips. fingers curling around the cool metal with perhaps a touch too much purpose. something to anchor herself. something to occupy her hands before they betrayed her entirely. “ you’re staring, ” she observed, tone flattening into something almost bored, though her gaze did not waver. “ it’s rude to stare at royalty. didn’t they cover that in. . .wherever it is you acquired your manners? ”
a test, sharp edged and deliberate, flicked between them like a thrown blade. she watched them over the rim of her cup as she drank, slow and measured, the mead warm and honeyed as it slid down her throat, settling low in her chest like a quiet fire. when she lowered it, her eyes found theirs again. “ if you’re looking for fabi, i saw him near the archery range earlier, ” she added, almost casually. “ he was attempting to convince a booth attendant that hitting a bullseye on the third try was just beginner’s luck rather than being clear evidence of weeks of practice. ” a brief pause, long enough to offer a passing smile to some hopeful onlooker angling for a candid photo on their phone. “ you’re not as subtle as you think, zak. neither of you are. ” the name slipped free before she could catch it. zak, not the sharp edged zakaria she'd been using. the one that kept him at arm's length, the one that reminded them both that she was capable of distance when she needed it. her jaw tightened, but she let it stand. let it linger between them like something admitted. she should leave. she knew she should. return to the throne, to the role, to the safety of distance and performance. resume the script of a queen who needed no one, who wanted nothing, who could not be undone by something as trivial as a kiss to her hand. but her feet did not move. instead, they anchored her there, rooted deep as though the stone beneath them had claimed her. and her body betrayed her in quiet, treacherous ways. the unhidden hand, the way her gaze kept returning to them, the simple, undeniable fact that she was still here speaking. still finding reasons. “ you look— ” she began, and faltered. the words shifted, unruly and insistent, refusing to become what she intended.
ridiculous. out of place. like you’re trying too hard. none of them fit. none of them were true. her mouth pressed thin, swallowing the thought before it could betray her entirely, leaving only the echo of something softer, something far more dangerous, suspended in the space between them. “ you should go, ” she said instead. but it came out wrong. too quiet, too slow, softened at the edges until it sounded less like dismissal and more like something else entirely. something reluctant, almost pleading, if one knew how to listen for it. her hand gestured vaguely toward the crowd, toward the swell of music and laughter and clinking goblets. anywhere but here. “ before someone mistakes you for an actual outlaw and has you thrown in the stocks, ” she added, recovering some measure of sharpness. “ i’m told the tomatoes are exceptionally fresh tonight. it would be a shame for your costume to suffer before you’ve properly humiliated yourself in it. ”
— [ LOCATION: ] caesar hall ( student dining room ) .
— [ TIME: ] 6:15 pm .
— [ NOW PLAYING: ] CHEAP THRILLS by vitamin string quartet .
the velvet wasn’t hers. that was the first clear thought to rise through the haze of reluctant amusement as leona stood pinned between soren’s flour dusted enthusiasm and a seamstress she vaguely recognized from the costume shop. the woman tugged at a pin. someone else fussed with a hem. fabric rustled like restless leaves. this was absurd. not mildly absurd. not tolerably absurd. this was operatically, catastrophically absurd. her second thought followed close behind, sly and treacherous. her mother would hate this. and wasn’t that, in its own way, the most ringing endorsement imaginable? the corset they’d laced her into was a small marvel of stubborn craftsmanship. deep burgundy brocade the color of old wine and dried roses, threaded with silver that caught the conservatory’s low lantern light and scattered it like frost across winter branches. beneath it, tarnished silver silk spilled in layered folds to the floor, whispering across stone whenever she shifted her weight. the neckline climbed high and severe, framing her throat with deliberate restraint while leaving the line of her collarbones just visible. a compromise wrung from the costume designer after a passionate lecture about period modesty.
the bodice itself had been deconstructed in that theatrical way designers loved. one embroidered panel falling slightly askew across the corset, stitched with curling silver vines and delicate botanical shapes that looked stolen from the margins of antique herbals. one sleeve existed. the other did not. a single length of charcoal organza clung to her left shoulder and drifted down her arm like smoke, leaving the right bare except for the leather and silver cuff leona had been gifted by the school upon being chosen as queen. her waist length braids had been swept into an elaborate half crown of their own, intertwined with silver wire and tiny glass beads that clicked softly when she moved. all together, the effect was. . .dramatic. she looked, she had to admit, like a mourning queen who had stepped out of a pre-raphaelite painting and wandered—slightly irritated—into a particularly enthusiastic community theater production. three staircases and one final alteration later, she now stood in the conservatory’s great hall watching the final transformation unfold. twenty four hours ago the doorway beside her had been a perfectly respectable academic entrance. now ivy curled over its frame in theatrical abundance, as if the building itself had decided to grow romantic notions overnight.
lanterns hung from iron hooks. tapestries long imprisoned in storage had been liberated to cloak the stone walls—hunts, harvests, knights riding under embroidered forests. the air smelled of woodsmoke, roasted meat, beeswax, and something faintly floral she couldn’t quite identify. music drifted somewhere past the open front doors, perhaps a lute attempting optimism. leona caught sight of herself in a polished shield propped casually against the wall and she paused. the woman in the reflection was familiar and strange all at once. the same sharp cheekbones. the same eyes that had learned to cut before they’d ever learned to trust. but the rest—the velvet, the silver, the crown of braids and beads—belonged to someone who might plausibly believe in festivals and pageantry, and whimsy just for the sake of it. the thought of that kind of version of herself existing anywhere has her mouth curved, sharp smile softening just a bit around the edges. the circlet on her brow shifts as she moved. silver filigree wound into thorns and roses, garnets set like drops of wine dark light. it was elaborate enough to satisfy the festival committee but restrained enough that she hadn’t staged a dramatic exit when they presented it.
around her, the hall hummed with last minute chaos. tables draped in green and burgundy cloth. pewter goblets arranged with military precision. antler candelabras crowned with fresh flowers. at the far end stood the so called thrones. two chairs suspiciously elegant for something the school claimed to have “found in storage” but she’s sure someone must have dipped into some funds. leona’s gaze drifted to the second one. soren’s throne. something in her chest softened despite herself. the idiot was probably already causing problems somewhere. falling into a barrel of mead or challenging someone to a duel. he would be impossible for the next four weeks. incorrigible. entirely, disastrously himself. and she would sit beside him through every feast, every parade, every ridiculous moment of this month long spectacle. because that was what family did. family. the word still felt strange in her mouth, like a language she’d learned from a book rather than from living. a passing server offered her a goblet filled with something dark and fragrant. she accepted it mostly to give her hands a purpose. the wine was warm, spiced. clove, cinnamon, and a whisper of smoke curling through the sweetness. leona lifted the goblet slightly, gaze drifting over the hall as lanternlight flickered across ivy and silver thread. “ to surviving march, ” she murmured under her breath, voice dry with amusement.
* ❪ 🦇 ❫ : 𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘄𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗮 𝗼𝗳 𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻'𝘁 typically be kicked off his feet, now rendered speechless twice this week. life had continued to throw him for a loop, poked and prodded at his sides by two different figures in his life. a rat in the glass cage of a scientists who loomed over, writing down their results on a little pad overrun with thoughts. reactions spanning from teeth that bit down nailbeds to the quick, to the way he had convinced himself it was fine. she was fine, she had moved on from what happened, and so should he. let go of the trance he had been in when she was deemed missing, when the vigil that had been held was made into a mockery of the feelings that had threatened to suffocate him as nightfall came and went with no sign of life. no sign of reprieve for a demented play that foresaw a bitter end. selfish almost with the way he thought it was unfair. he hadn't had the chance to explain himself, rid himself of the guilt that feasted on whatever meat he had left to offer. why he had become something so rotten to the core, someone that zahara simply could not recognize as their years of bittersweet bliss had come to an end. someone he had thought of before he slept, as he rose from a bed that littered his spine, his side with sores from having nothing else to do but lay. wait for the nurses to take his temperature, calm his panic of being cooped up in a hospital room with sedatives that made him a zombie of the person he once had been. child, really, not yet a person of his own making, though he felt that zahara had a hand in that.
cracking the shell that hollowed out the childlike wonder that once consumed him, the unforgiving reality of a sickness that didn't care to let up. she had satiated his woes with a simple twinkle of laughter, warming up a frozen heart, humoring him by a joke he'd muttered out in broken english. he couldn't remember what he said if you had asked him now, but he could sketch out the details of zee's face as she broke out into laughter, eyes squinting as she clutched at her chest, the iv tubes attached to her inner elbows twisting though she didn't mind the pain. too focused on the joy that had bewitched the two teenagers, sharing a moment of happiness that had not often come, sounds that tuned out the beep of a heart monitor that faltered now and again and made them remember where their fates could lie one day. yanked from them before they could say goodbye, grateful for the hello's as they survived until the next day, blue eyes lighting up at the sight of curly hair weaving through the breakfast crowd. older individuals they couldn't relate far too much to, although zahara had tried her best, head tilting as she focused on an older patient. cancer. untreatable. sharing an anecdote of her past that zee nodded happily to, fond with a hand against their chest, before her eyes lifted to meet with finch's. he remembered the way he lifted his hand, an embarrassing reflex to wave in her direction. a teenage fool that he's rendered back to as he snaps back to the present, staring ahead at the woman that sits with her back facing him. a guitar in her hand, headphones over her head, an angel marveling the middle of the tryout room in a vintage instrument shop he had meant to snoop in for a moment — well aware he could not afford anything in here, not even the luxury to really look — before leaving. ringed fingers clasp in a tic he hasn't practiced in a while, confident enough with his audacity to have proceeded and tapped her shoulder, if she had been anyone else. but she wasn't. not by a long shot. no. she was zee. his zee. or rather, had been, what felt like so long ago. though not long enough, the fresh sting of a broken heart lipping across the expanse of his chest. he braves the pain, wanting to know if she was truly alright. if she'd been hurt on her journey, wherever the fuck she had been, wherever the fuck she had chosen to stay and give him a scare. wrong, and he knew that. wrong in the way she was no longer his to worry over, question her whereabouts.
still, it sits idly on his tongue, inked digit of a pointer finger tapping gently against the right side of her headphones, unlinking her from the chords she strums from 4am's new tracklist. ❝ hey, uh, hey. it's me. ❞ and well, she'd know that eventually, simply by looking up. but it sputters out anyway, throat clearing as he proceeds, ❝ can we talk ? for a second ? i wasn't fucking like — stalking you or anything, by the way. i just — saw you. you look good. ❞ a double entendre he hadn't meant to sound like one, simply meant that she looked healthy. physically sound. okay enough that he could just leave, visually gathering what it is he needed to settle the race of theories that plagued his mind. the stress that still caught his breath in waves. he'd almost lost her. again. forever this time. ❝ i mean, like you know, despite fuckin like — everything. i'm not complimenting you. ❞ he's growing wide eyed, hands shoved in his pockets now coming out once more to raise in surrender. ❝ not what i fuckin mean, ah shit. sorry, i meant like. you do look good, you're fuckin beautiful. i mean — shit man, you know what i meant. ❞ eyes squeezing shut now, taking a slow breath out as he shoves his hands back in his pockets. safer there. gathering himself before they fly open again, wishing nothing more than for her to take over the conversation. force him to shut the fuck up.
the world inside her headphones was a sanctuary stitched from sound. a cathedral of layered noise. the scratch of a drum track like an old wound being reopened, the steady, consoling hum of a bassline, the faint, trembling ghost of her own voice threading through it all. here, in the dusty, sun speckled tryout room of the vintage shop, zee was only a musician. not a survivor. not a runaway with stolen years. just a girl with a guitar making up for lost time. she didn’t have nearly enough practice hours logged in for these new tracks. So here she sat, practicing outside of practice. her fingers moved over the fretboard with quiet devotion, chasing a phrase that kept slipping just out of reach, something tender and unresolved. the air smelled of old wood and thrifted ghosts. dust motes spun lazily through the late afternoon light like tiny planets. she was suspended inside that small, private universe. then—a tap. not on her shoulder. on the hard shell of her headphones. a sudden rupture. the music in her ears collapsed into dead air, the sanctuary tearing open at the seams. reality rushed back in on a tide of creaking floorboards, distant traffic, and the faint, papery scent of age. and into that hollowed quiet poured a voice. cracked, uncertain, achingly familiar. hey. it’s me. her body didn’t freeze. it suspended.
like a note held too long. a breath caught between pain and prayer. that voice was not just sound. it was relic. it was carved into the chambers of her borrowed heart, preserved from a time when her universe had been no larger than four hospital walls and the blue eyed boy who sat across from her in plastic chairs. her hands stilled on the strings, a faint, ugly dissonance trembling in the air. that voice was stairwells and stolen kisses. it was whispered jokes pressed into her hair. it was the boy who saw her, not the patient or prognosis. slowly, achingly, she lifted her head. the sight of him stole the breath from her lungs like a physical impact. finch. older now. sharper in some places, more frayed in others. a tapestry of new hurt stitched into familiar features. she took him in in ruthless detail. the rings clutched and unclutched like talismans, the faint tremor in his hands, the storm of panic trapped in those impossibly blue eyes. her heart gave a violent, aching lurch against her ribs. he was talking. tripping over himself. a frantic spill of you look good and i’m not complimenting you and shit man that made no grammatical sense and yet made devastating emotional sense.
it was so painfully, exquisitely him. the brilliant, broken boy who had learned every hidden corridor of that hellish palace of beeping machines. the boy who made her feel incandescently alive while death moved freely around them. the boy she had watched begin to unravel. syringe by syringe, tremor by tremor until love became something fogged with chemicals and fear. “ finch. ” his name left her mouth like a prayer and a wound all at once. she slid the headphones down around her neck, the cord falling like a soft noose against her collarbone. her gaze was a flood. shock, grief that had never truly settled, and a tenderness so sharp it nearly split her open. she had loved him once with the ferocity of two people who understood expiration dates. loved him with the kind of devotion that only grows in rooms where hope has to be smuggled in. and she had left him because the boy she loved had vanished beneath a fog of needles and shaking hands. “ jesus, ” she breathed, the word thick. “ you, ” her voice failed. she swallowed hard and tried again. “ you always did have a way with words. ” the ghost of her old, squint eyed smile tried to surface. it didn’t quite make it. it softened instead into something unbearably sad and unbearably kind.
her eyes traced him with ruthless honesty. the signs of use, the carved in tension, the raw wound of his terror for her. he was a mess. her mess. a chapter of her life she’d tried to outrun and continued to fail. he babbled on, blue eyes begging her to take control of the moment. and despite everything, the hurt, the years, the fracture. still, the instinct to soothe him rose unbidden. a muscle memory as deep as bone. she set the guitar gently aside and stood, her movements careful, as if she were wading through water thick with memory. she stepped closer. close enough to see the grey flecks in his irises. close enough to remember the exact texture of his hoodie beneath her cheek during nights neither of them slept. her gaze dropped to the tattered fabric. of course he still had it. finch had never been good at throwing things away. neither, she realized, had she. the only thing she had ever truly abandoned was the boy now standing in front of her, desperately searching her face. the irony ached like a bruise. was this what they were destined to do forever? trade the burden of worry back and forth like a sacred relic? she brushed invisible dust from her jeans. a stalling ritual. then lifted her eyes to his. “ yeah, ” she whispered finally, answering the question he hadn’t quite formed. “ yeah, finch. we can talk. ”
she took another small, unsteady step toward him, then stopped. her hands hovered uselessly before she wrapped her arms around herself in a contained, trembling hug. “ i’m okay, ” she added softly. “ if that’s what you’re about to ask. it seems to be a very popular question these days. ” a pause. a fracture in her voice. “ and i’m so sorry if you were scared. ” her voice broke on the last word, the weight of it all crashing into her. “ though i’m kind of surprised you even noticed, ” she added gently. not as accusation, just truth shaped into something soft. there had been a time, near the end, when she could no longer tell if he even felt the absence of her body from his orbit. just so lost in his own world. her lips curved faintly. “ you’re a celestial being, remember? time’s just a construct to you. ” it had been their joke. that finch wasn’t human. that he’d fallen from space and forgotten how to leave. she remembered laughing over twilight and telling him she didn’t need a vampire boyfriend because hers was an alien. the memory bloomed warm and brief. she laughed now. soft, nearly soundless as the dust and sunlight and all the ghosts of their shared past hovered between them.
— [ LOCATION: ] leona's apartment ( rip ) .
— [ TIME: ] 3:33 am. day three or four of zee being missing idr.
— [ NOW PLAYING: ] SOFT SPOT by keshi.
the world cinched tight around the soft click of the latch, sealing them inside the darkened apartment like a secret. the sound was tiny, innocuous and yet it rang through leona like a gunshot, a spell being cast. the air shifted. shadows deepened and the night held its breath. only the faint silver blue spill of streetlamps through the rain streaked window cut through the dark, painting the room in thin strips of light and shadow. each pale reflection trembled with the wind outside. trembling across the floor, the countertops, and him. ADRIEN. standing in her entryway, dripping water onto the tile like a stray god she’d accidentally invited in. the frantic heat of their reunion, the desperate hug at the door still flickered between them. the air felt charged, like a live wire humming just beneath their ribs. neither of them touched it. neither dared. leona’s heart beat like a trapped bird against the cage of her ribs. she could feel every wingbeat. every panicked flutter. the part of her that had spent days constructing walls — walls made of routine, of distance — was screaming in protest. but the other part, the soft, sleep drunk part that had dialed his number with shaking fingers, was slumping into relief so profound it terrified her. “ you’re soaked, ” she said, and even her whisper sounded too loud in the hush.
her voice was breathy, uneven, a thin veil thrown over the rawness swelling in her throat. of all the things she could have said, should have said, she reached for the smallest one. “ i’ll get you something dry. don’t. . move. you’ll drip on the rug. ” she didn’t trust herself to look at him again. instead she escaped down the hall, shedding her own damp clothes and pulling on soft sleep shorts and a tank top, her skin still buzzing from the storm outside and the one standing in her foyer. when she returned, a bundle of fabric clutched in her hands, her throat tightened. she’d grabbed the first things she could find. an old langston college sweatshirt of hers, faintly iris scented from too many wash cycles, and a pair of sweatpants that belonged to soren, abandoned here months ago. “ this, ” she said stiffly, thrusting the clothes at him, “ is the best i can do. ” then, firmer, “ turn around. ” the command steadied her. a director calling action. a script she still knew how to perform. she turned her back to him as he stripped, staring into the dim living room. the sound of wet fabric hitting the floor, a soft, slick whisper of his hoodie, made her breath hitch. her skin prickled. the quiet rustle of him pulling on dry clothes sent a memory skittering across her spine. mornings, shared closets, laughter against her neck.
that was then. this moment was something sharp edged and fragile. when she turned back, the sight of him almost broke her. adrien, barefoot on the carpet she’d only just gotten the smell of chlorine out of. adrien, barely fitting into the her sweatshirt. adrien, wearing soren’s hand me downs. it looked obscene. not because he looked bad, but because he looked right. too right. like he belonged in this muted, midnight version of her life. the very sight of it made something ancient and wounded inside her arch its back and hiss. “ you probably haven’t eaten, ” she said quickly, grabbing for a script she could control. her voice was clipped, businesslike. the way she spoke when she was one breath away from falling apart. “ sit. or stand. just. . . ” her hand fluttered vaguely, as if directing him to exist in a way that didn’t disrupt the fragile geometry of the room. “ i’ll make something. ” the kitchen swallowed her like a sanctuary. she didn’t turn on the lights. couldn’t bear to shatter the soft, nocturnal cocoon of shadows. the fathers who slept down the hall still had a daughter missing; she refused to wake their grief with brightness. and anyway, the darkness felt honest. the fridge light burst open like a small star, startling both of them. she winced as she grabbed the cheddar, the stick of butter, the slightly stale sourdough.
the most un-leona ingredients imaginable. and set them beside the stove. a pan followed, placed with unnecessary precision on the burner. and then she simply. . .stopped. hands braced on the counter, shoulders trembling, she stared down at the simple ingredients like they were the periodic elements finch spent the better half of last semester cramming into leona’s head. bread. cheese. butter. her mind, normally a glittering machine of analysis and strategy, was a blank stage. a hollow amphitheater where no cues arrived. the frantic, frenetic energy that had driven her earlier had drained out of her entirely, leaving her hollow and bewildered. a soft, incredulous laugh bubbled out of her. thin, exhausted, strangely tender. she looked over her shoulder at him, the shadows making her eyes impossibly dark. vulnerability flickered there, naked and unguarded, the kind she usually buried beneath sarcasm or steel. “ okay so, i don’t actually know how to make a grilled cheese, ” she admitted, voice so quiet it felt like breaking something sacred. “ i know the concept. bread. cheese. heat. but the, um, the logistics. ” her hand gestured limply at the butter. “ you melt it? or spread it? or—i don’t know. is there a technique? a temperature? it’s peasant food, it should be idiot proof, and yet, ” her breath wavered.
she turned back to the counter, staring at the absurdly simple ingredients as if they’d betrayed her. as if she’d betrayed herself. “ i’ve never actually done it. ” she whispered, shoulders collapsing inward. it all felt like a metaphor for everything. she could navigate heartbreak and betrayal and familial warfare, but she couldn’t perform the basic, nurturing act of making a grilled cheese sandwich for the boy who had driven through a storm for her. the confession hung between them. raw, shimmering, painfully human. a breadcrumb trail to the truth she could not yet say out loud. i don’t know how to take care of anyone. i don’t know how to take care of myself. and i don’t know how to let anyone take care of me. the butter gleamed in the dim light. the pan waited. there’s a moment of silence before a small, strangled sound slipped out of her. half hiccup, half sob, wholly uncontrollable. then another. she slapped a hand over her mouth as though she could physically restrain the chaos rising in her chest, but her shoulders had already begun to tremble in helpless rebellion. she turned to adrien, eyes wide and shimmering like fractured starlight in the kitchen’s bruised darkness, tears of pure, unfiltered absurdity gathering with operatic drama along her lashes. “ i. . . ” she attempted, valiantly, but the universe had other plans.
a giggle. high, crystalline, treacherous, bursts between her fingers. she’s folded at the waist as though laughter had cut her strings. free hand pressed desperately against her stomach while silent, full body convulsions overtook her. the last hour. the nightmare, the 3 am sos, his reckless pilgrimage through a storm, the covert quick change, and now this. her, brought to her knees by the existential catastrophe of bread and cheese felt so cosmically, catastrophically ridiculous it bordered on divine comedy. tears streamed down her cheeks in shimmering rivers, each one a perfect blend of humiliation and delirious amusement. she tried to speak, to offer some explanation for this midnight emotional implosion, but only breathless squeaks emerged, pitifully mouse like. she pointed a quivering finger at the counter, then at him, then promptly buried her burning face in both hands, her entire body shaking as she fought the impossible battle against sound. wheezing, she gestured wildly toward the living room floor, where her phone lay abandoned like a fallen soldier after she’d dropped it. “ my phone, ” she finally managed, voice a strained, tattered whisper squeezed between gasps and stifled laughter. “ please. i can’t — i can’t breathe. just, for the love of god, give me my phone so i can google ‘how to grill cheese’ before i ascend to some higher plane of mortification right here on this linoleum. ”
❝ i'll corrupt every branch of this family tree. ❞
KITCHEN, WEST LOS ANGELES — FIVE
the hallway carpet pills against maximo’s cheek, rough as a tongue. he lies flat on his stomach, an explorer in the low country between bedroom and kitchen, eye level with the thin blade of light spilling from beneath the door. it cuts the dark apartment in two. a border. he pretends it’s a river. he pretends if he doesn’t cross it, nothing bad will happen. that there are rules to catastrophe. that it can be bargained with, if you’re quiet enough. his parents’ voices float above him like something overheard underwater. distorted, weighty, arriving in slow, bruised syllables. “ new york, ” his father says. the word sounds sharp. a place with edges. a place where you could cut yourself just by standing in it. his mother inhales. exhales, like she’s trying to breathe around something lodged in her throat. “ he’s five, matteo. ” maximo knows five. five is fingers. five is the small privilege of pouring the cereal yourself if you promise not to spill. five is being old enough to remember and too young to understand why remembering hurts. “ it’s temporary, ” his father says, which maximo will later learn is a word adults use when they are lying kindly. “ elizabeth can’t adopt him unless, ” adopt. a word he doesn’t know, but it lands heavy. like a suitcase dropped on the floor. “ and if this ever gets out, ” matteo continues, “ it’s not just me. it’s him. he deserves stability. ”
stability is a grown up word too. something you buy, something you prove, something you sacrifice a child to obtain. there is a sound then. his mother crying quietly, the way she does when she doesn’t want to scare him. the crying of someone trying to keep the house from caving in with her bare hands. maximo presses his forehead further into the carpet. the feeling is familiar. grounding. “ catalina, ” his father says. gentle now. dangerous. “ this is how you prove it. . . ” a chair scrapes. the sound is loud in the dark, like a match being struck. his mother sniffles. “ he can’t stay here, ” his father says. measured, careful, the voice he uses on the phone. the voice that makes decisions seem like weather. inevitable and nobody’s fault. maximo counts the cracks in the wall. one. two. three. he decides three is a good number. a safe number. a number that keeps monsters away. “ new york is better for him, ” matteo continues. “ private schools. stability. he’ll have everything. ” his mother’s voice is a frayed thread, stretched so thin it might snap if anyone breathes wrong.
“ everything but me. ”
“ he’ll have you in the summers, ” his father says. “ he’ll have two mothers who love him. ”
even with a door between them, maximo can feel her distress. like heat through a wall, like electricity through water. “ he’s my son. ” silence. then, “ and mine, ” matteo says. “ which is why this needs to be clean. ” clean. maximo rubs at a stain on the carpet. it doesn’t come out. he rubs harder anyway, as if effort could reverse what’s already been said. paper shuffles. a pen clicks, rhythmic, final. like a latch being tested. like a lock deciding. his chest tightens, like when he holds his breath too long underwater. he wonders if grown ups know they sound different when they’re about to change a child’s life. if they can hear the hinge creak in their own voices. the door opens. his mother’s face rearranges itself in seconds. eyes red but smiling, mouth soft like nothing hurts. the performance of safety. the miracle of pretending. she kneels, gathers him up, presses kisses into his curls like she’s trying to memorize the shape of his skull, the exact geography of him. as if she can store the child in her mouth, under her tongue, and never let him be taken. “ tesoro, ” she whispers. “ why are you awake? ” he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t know what to say. she carries him back to bed and tucks the blanket too tight, as if snugness could anchor him. as if fabric could keep him from drifting. when she turns off the light, he watches her hand shake on the switch. in the dark, he listens to the apartment settling. pipes, distant traffic, the soft creak of a place that doesn’t yet know it is being hollowed out.
THE SAME KITCHEN — A FEW MONTHS LATER
the table is bare except for paperwork and a glass of water his mother hasn’t touched. the water sits there like a witness no one asked for. the papers sprawl like pale leaves. dead things arranged into order. maximo is crying so hard his chest hurts. the kind of crying that makes your face feel wrong afterward, swollen and unfamiliar, like it might never go back. like grief can permanently rearrange bone. “ why don’t you want me? ” he keeps asking. over and over. like if he says it enough times, the universe will correct itself. like repetition is a spell. his mother kneels in front of him, hands wrapped around his arms too tightly. too tight to soothe, tight like she’s afraid he’ll evaporate. her eyes shine with something desperate, feral, the look of an animal cornered. “ i do want you, ” she says.
“ i love you. this isn’t, this isn’t me getting rid of you. ”
“ then don’t, ” he sobs, the plea raw as a scraped knee.
she presses her forehead to his. her voice breaking, “ i can’t give you the life he can. that’s the truth. and i won’t lie to you. ”
truth. another word that will haunt him. the kind of word people brandish like righteousness, as if honesty absolves them of the harm it carries. “ you’ll come see me, ” she promises. “ every summer. i swear. i’ll be right here. ” summer is a long way away. summer might as well be imaginary. summer is a mirage shimmering on the horizon of a child’s calendar. there’s a knock. his father waits in the doorway like a man collecting luggage. coat already on. keys in hand. he doesn’t look at catalina. he looks at maximo like he’s assessing damage, calculating what can be salvaged. “ ready, champ? ” maximo clings to his mother’s shirt, fists full of fabric, sobbing into her stomach. she kisses his hair again and again, whispering apologies that stick to him like burrs. small hooked things that won’t let go. when matteo lifts him, maximo screams. his mother doesn’t chase them down the stairs. he will remember that later as restraint, as surrender, as love turned into paralysis. he will find a way to make it mean whatever hurts least.
FIRST NIGHT, NYC — ONE PLANE RIDE LATER
the house is too big. too quiet. too clean. the silence doesn’t feel peaceful. it feels curated, expensive, purchased. the air smells like lemon polish and money, as if cleanliness is a religion and every surface has been baptized. elizabeth kneels in front of him, smiling tightly. her eyes slide away from his too often, skimming him like he’s something delicate that might stain. “ we’re going to be a family, ” she says, like reading from a cue card. like a line practiced in a mirror. maximo nods. he’s very good at nodding. he learns quickly that agreement can be a kind of invisibility cloak. that night, he wets the bed. his body betrays him in the dark, in a house that does not yet know his name properly. shame blooms hot and immediate. elizabeth does not hug him. she changes the sheets briskly, mouth thin. “ we don’t do this here, ” she says. not unkind. worse. neutral. as if he has committed a social error, not had an accident. as if the problem isn’t fear, but etiquette. maximo lies awake afterward, staring at the ceiling, learning his first lesson in this new geography: needs are negotiable. accidents are shameful. love is something you earn by being easy to keep.
FATHER'S STUDY — SEVEN
the office study smelled of leather and wood, the kind of scent designed to announce power before a man speaks. the windows were too tall, the city below a glittering aquarium. maximo, small in a stiff new sweater, was summoned like a servant. his father didn’t look up from his desk. “ your teacher says you cried when another boy took your toy. is that true? ” maximo nodded, bottom lip trembling, already ashamed of the trembling itself. “ in this house, ” matteo said, his voice calm and surgical, “ we do not cry. we do not give away our power so cheaply. ” he tapped a pen once, like a metronome keeping time for this new religion. “ tears are a transaction. you cry only when you want something from someone weaker. otherwise, you smile, and you calculate. ” he finally looked at maximo.
“ now. did you want something from that boy? ”
maximo shook his head, confused, because he had wanted fairness. he had wanted his toy back. he had wanted the world to be gentle. but none of those things were allowed answers. “ then your tears were a waste. a vulnerability. ” matteo’s gaze was steady, almost instructive, like he was teaching math. “ don’t be vulnerable here, maximo. it will be used against you. ” it’s then he hands him a crisp $100 bill. the paper felt rigid and heavy in his small hand. “ go buy yourself a better toy and don’t let me hear about you crying so easily ever again. ” the bill was warm from matteo’s hand. a transfer of doctrine. maximo took it. he learned the another lesson, though no one named it. even comfort can be weaponized into obedience.
THE DINNER TABLE — EIGHT
the table is long. too long. it makes intimacy feel impossible—everyone placed at distances that suggest hierarchy, not family. maximo feels far away no matter where he sits, as if the wood itself is a moat. his father asks him about school. maximo answers perfectly. he has learned what perfection costs and pays it without being asked. elizabeth corrects his posture without touching him, as if even the air between them has rules. mariah ignores him entirely, a practiced absence that stings more than anger. marcello watches him like a stray animal. curious, cautious, unsure whether to feed him or throw stones. maximo cracks a joke. it lands wrong. silence blooms. a flower made of frost. matteo clears his throat. “maximo,” he says mildly. “ not now. ” maximo smiles. smaller. files it away. humor must be timed. affection must be rationed. attention is power, and power is never free.
CALIFORNIA SUMMERS — ELEVEN
every june, he was repatriated. the word belongs to diplomats and prisoners. it fits anyway. the los angeles sun would thaw the outer layers of him. for a few weeks, he’d be maximo again. speaking rapid spanish, eating his mother’s pastel de choclo, letting her ruffle his hair without flinching. he’d sleep in his old room and almost believe in the boy he’d been, the boy whose softness hadn’t yet been treated like a liability. but each summer, he returned to her a little more altered. the thaw was never complete. the coldness seeped back in sooner each visit, rising from his bones like winter groundwater. he began to lie for sport, testing the limits of her belief in him. not because he wanted to hurt her, but because he needed to know what held. what was real. what would break. he’d manipulate a neighbor boy into trading a better toy, then justify it with a lawyer’s calm logic that left his mother staring at him with a new, quiet fear. she would blink as if refocusing, as if her son had become a stranger standing in familiar skin. he was her son still but he was now also a creature shaped by another world—a world that rewarded sharp edges over soft hearts, that taught him tenderness was a currency you spent only when you could afford the loss.
TESTING LIMITS — TWELVE
he stops wanting to belong. instead, he wants to provoke. belonging is for children who believe doors stay open. he has learned doors can close without warning. he has learned love can be conditional, and conditions can be rewritten. elizabeth flinches when he kisses her cheek. he notices. of course he does. noticing is what survival has trained into him—a constant scanning of faces for micro weather. the storm, the shift, the breaking point. the next time, he does it deliberately. slower. public. her jaw tightens. she can’t react without looking cruel. she can’t recoil without admitting something she needs hidden. power hums in his veins, low and sweet. he has learned where the wires are. and he has learned that sometimes you can make a person dance just by touching the right one.
BABY'S FIRST DEAL WITH THE DEVIL — FOURTEEN
marcello was panicking. he’d dented the porsche, a car he wasn’t even supposed to be driving. their father was due home, and the garage felt suddenly too small for the air marcello needed. maximo found him hyperventilating beside the damaged fender, eyes glassy, hands shaking. “ breathe, marcello, ” maximo said, calm as a metronome.
“ look at me. ”
“he’s going to disown me.”
maximo assessed the situation the way matteo had taught him to assess everything. not as tragedy, but as leverage. this wasn’t a problem but an opportunity. “ tell him i did it, ” maximo said. marcello stared, “ why would you do that? ” maximo shrugged, the picture of reckless benevolence, the saintly brother. “ because you’re my brother. and because, you’ll owe me. ” he saw the desperate gratitude flood marcello’s face, bright and immediate. debt forming a clean, invisible, binding.
when matteo arrived, furious, maximo stepped forward, head held high. “ my fault. i took it for a spin. ” matteo’s anger faltered, undercut by something else—exasperated fondness? guilt? a secret tenderness rooted in shame. the punishment was a stern talk. no real consequences and maximo learned two things. taking blame was a powerful currency and his father’s rules for him were different. softer, inconsistent, shaped by the one secret that made matteo careful. a secret maximo could leverage.
NO HOME FOR THE WICKED — SEVENTEEN
the los angeles air was thick with the smell of jasmine and diesel, a perfume that still meant home in a way the sterile, conditioned air of the penthouse never could. even the noise felt warmer here. sirens, music, laughter spilling from open windows like someone refusing to be quiet about living. catalina had spent all afternoon making his favorite meals, the kitchen shimmering with heat and memory. steam fogged the windows. her hair clung to her temples. she moved with the practiced grace of someone who has been tired for years yet refused to make it anyone else’s problem. maximo, now tall and angular, all long lines and sharpened stillness sat at the familiar formica table. the chair felt smaller than it used to. or maybe he’d just grown into someone that didn’t fit.
he watched her move. he felt like a foreign object in the space, his new york clothes too sharp, his posture too carefully relaxed. even his silence had changed. no longer the silence of a child listening, but the silence of someone observing, recording, waiting. “ eat, mijo, ” she urged, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. she saw the changes. the way his smile sometimes clicked on like a lamp—bright and empty. the new patience in his stillness. not peace, but surveillance. halfway through the meal, he slid a white envelope across the table. it was thick. heavy with implication. catalina didn’t touch it.
“ maximo. no. you are a boy. i don’t need your money. ”
“ it’s from the stock portfolio dad set up, ” he lied, the story fabricated and flawless.
it was actually from a lucrative side hustle selling fake ids to rich classmates, a venture he’d engineered after noticing a market need. he had learned to see the world as a series of gaps you could profit from, if you were calm enough to exploit them. “ he wants you to have it, ” maximo continued softly. “ for things. please. ” the mention of matteo was a low blow, and he knew it. he saw the familiar conflict twist her features. pride warring with practicality, love wrestling with resentment for the man whose shadow funded this gesture. her fingers trembled slightly as she finally took the envelope, placing it not in her purse, but on the counter as if it were hot. “ thank you, ” she whispered, the words heavy.
later, walking to the corner store for the ice cream she suddenly craved, a man in a lowrider whistled, yelling something crude about catalina’s legs. she stiffened, eyes forward, adopting the invisible armor of a woman who’d learned to endure. maximo stopped walking. in a single, fluid motion, he turned. he didn’t raise his voice. he didn’t puff his chest. he simply walked back to the driver’s side window, leaned down, and smiled. it wasn’t his usual boyish smile. it was the chilling, perfectly calibrated smile of matteo espinoza disarming a hostile journalist. he spoke, his voice too low for catalina to hear. a soft, conversational murmur when the man’s leering grin suddenly vanished. he saw the expensive watch on maximo’s wrist, the cut of his jacket, the absolute, unshakeable calm in his hazel eyes. a calm that promised not a street fight, but a world of legal, financial, and social ruin. the man muttered an apology, rolled up his window, and pulled away too quickly.
“ maximo, ” catalina breathed when he returned to her side, her hand clutching his arm.
“ what did you say? you can’t. . .you can’t talk to people like that. it’s dangerous. ”
“ i just explained the situation, ” he said, voice light again, the mask back in place. he draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a half hug. “ told him he was bothering my mother. he understood. ” she looked up at him, searching his face for the little boy who used to bring her wilting dandelions. he was still there but buried deep, peering out from behind a fortress of cool, practiced control. the protector she needed had arrived but he had been forged in a fire she didn’t understand. her love for him was a fierce, painful ache but her fear for what he was becoming was a cold stone in her stomach. he hugged her tighter, trying to transmit a real feeling through the performance but even his embrace felt like a calculation. a piece of theatre meant to reassure her, and perhaps, to convince himself that the boy wasn’t completely gone but he was. now all that was left was a negotiator between worlds, fluent in the languages of both, and truly at home in neither.
KILL YOUR INNER CHILD — TWENTY TWO
years later. same table. same tension. different maximo. he sprawls comfortably, all charm and teeth, the ease of a man who knows exactly where every weakness sits. elizabeth avoids his gaze. mariah pretends he doesn’t exist. marcello drinks too fast, as if speed might outrun consequence. matteo watches him like a mirror he can’t look away from. maximo lifts his glass. “ to family, ” he says lightly. they all drink. maximo tastes triumph. it’s bitter, addictive. somewhere, far away, a small boy cries in a hallway. maximo never turns to look.
“She sat on the kitchen floor with broken stars in her eyes and burnt promises on her tongue, and she told him, “Your life would be so much easier without me.” So he sat by her side, close enough that their arms and hips and legs touched, and he said, “But not better.””