The warm evening light spilled into the house hall like a sleepy hug, brushing the cream-colored walls with this soft, golden shimmer. It made everything feel cozy and peaceful.

From the kitchen, I could hear Mom’s laughter ringing out. She was by the counter, on the phone with someone, probably a friend she always giggles with. Her voice was full of joy, soft and sunny, and it made me smile without even thinking.

But I didn’t stop. I kept moving, my steps light on the stairs as I made my way up, careful not to creak too much. My focus had already shifted to the mission at hand. Marco. I needed answers.

When I reached his door, I noticed it was cracked open just a little. I placed my hand on the knob and paused dramatically—as if I was about to enter a crime scene. I wasn’t.. yet. But I might uncover something scandalous.

I gently pushed the door open and peeked in. His room was its usual beautiful disaster. Blanket half-falling off the bed, a million papers and books in an academic tornado across his desk and floor.

But what caught my eye was the theme. Ronan. Ronan here, Ronan there. Magazines, articles, interviews—he really was in deep with this whole fascination. Honestly? Kinda impressive. And also kinda nerdy. But mostly cute.

I slipped inside, closing the door behind me. Marco hadn’t even noticed me yet. He was over by the window, absolutely glowing. His phone was in his hands, and he was smiling—like really smiling, the kind that crinkles your eyes and makes your whole face light up.

Oh, this was juicy.

I crept up behind him, quiet as a marshmallow. My grin was already forming before I opened my mouth. “What you doing?” I asked, soft but very clearly, leaning just enough to peek over his shoulder—half curious, half ready to pounce with big sister energy.

Marco jumped like I’d just zapped him with a taser. He let out this little yelp—totally not dignified—and his phone flew out of his hands for a split second before he scrambled to catch it. The way he stuffed it into his pocket so fast, you’d think it was a secret treasure. Or worse—evidence.

He whipped around, his eyes wide and mildly panicked, “What? You scared me!”

I folded my arms and tilted my head, giving him that slow, knowing squint only older sisters can master. “What are you hiding, Marco?” My voice sharpened just enough to let him know I wasn’t playing now. My gaze narrowed like a magnifying glass under the sun.

Marco rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but mine. “Um… nothing.” He mumbled, and wow, he couldn’t have sounded guiltier if he tried. The boy practically screamed caught.

Mmm-hmm. I wasn’t born yesterday.

Without another word, I took a step forward, closing the gap between us like a cat stalking its prey. My hand shot out, aiming for that suspiciously guarded pocket. “Let me see!” I declared, half teasing, half serious, trying to snatch the phone.

But Marco was quicker than I thought—he dodged like he’d just trained with ninjas and darted to the other side of the room. “I told you, it’s nothing!” He protested, gripping his pocket like it held the last slice of cake in the world.

I grinned. Oh, this was fun now. “You got a girlfriend, don’t you?” I teased, smirk curving my lips as I slowly crept toward him again.

He stopped in his tracks, his expression all confused and blinky. “What? A girlfriend?”

That pause was all I needed. I lunged and grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him toward me. Not too hard—but definitely enough to make a point.

“Sissy, stop! I don’t have a girlfriend!” He yelped, wriggling in my grip like a fish out of water. His hands reached up to rescue his poor head.

My fingers loosened slightly in his hair, my brow knitting with a small, doubtful frown. “You don’t?” I asked, narrowing my eyes, trying to read his expression.

That tiny slip of mercy was all the opportunity Marco needed. He yanked himself free with the desperation of someone escaping mortal peril, stumbling back as he rubbed his head furiously. The glare he shot me was pure drama.

“Stupid! I told you, I don’t have a girlfriend. I don’t have time for that.” His voice was muffled slightly as he massaged his poor scalp, still scowling like I’d just ruined his whole week.

I wasn’t buying it.

Crossing my arms tightly over my chest, I gave him a long, pointed stare. “Then what were you hiding?” My voice came out firm, all trace of playfulness gone for a second.

Marco sighed, long and defeated, like the weight of the world was suddenly on his shoulders. He gave me that look—part exasperated little brother, part guilty schoolboy. “Fine. I got an internship.” He tossed his hands in the air like it was some terrible confession.

My face lit up instantly. “Really? That’s amazing, Marco!” I squealed, the pride bubbling up in my chest before I could help it. My arms dropped as I stepped toward him, my earlier suspicion melting like ice cream under the sun.

Marco gave a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck again, which I was now convinced was his go-to move when he was flustered. “Thanks. I was going to tell everyone when Dad got home. I wasn’t hiding it. Not really.”

I nodded, still beaming, my heart fluttering with that warm, fuzzy kind of love only siblings could understand—even when we were practically at war two minutes ago.

Just as I was about to tease him again, Mom’s voice echoed from downstairs, bright and clear as ever. “Aria! Marco! Come down! Your dad’s home, it’s time for dinner!”

I shot Marco a look, letting the moment slip away without another word. My smile lingered as I turned toward the door. “Let’s go.” I said lightly, already padding down the hall with an excited skip in my step.

The living room felt like a little pocket of magic that night—dim, golden light spilling gently across the floor. Mom was curled up on one end of the couch, her head slightly tilted as she laughed, fingers absentmindedly brushing Dad’s arm in that way she always did when she was in a good mood.

Dad, in return, had launched into some ridiculous old story from college days, his voice booming, eyebrows rising dramatically with every twist of the tale. I was sitting cross-legged on the rug, hugging a throw pillow to my chest as I giggled through another of his over-the-top impressions.

There was something about seeing my parents like this—relaxed, happy, sharing those silly little stories—that made the whole world feel like a soft blanket.

But not all of us looked that cozy.

Marco sat rigidly on the edge of the armchair like someone had planted him there and forgotten to water him. His back was straight, and his eyes kept darting around like he was calculating every breath we took.

His fingers tapped a silent rhythm on his knee—nervous, jumpy, and so unlike the boy who used to wear superhero pajamas and run around with a plastic sword screaming “justice.”

I noticed, of course.

Tilting my head just a bit, I studied him with a cheeky smile slowly blooming on my lips. I didn’t even try to hide it. “Mom, Dad,” I chimed, voice sing-songy and innocent, “Marco has something to say.”

Dad stopped mid-laugh, eyes twinkling as he turned toward him, his arm draped lazily around Mom’s shoulder. “Oh?” He asked, lifting an eyebrow. “What’s the big news, buddy?”

Mom leaned forward with that classic spark of curiosity in her eyes, already sensing something exciting. “Come on, Marco, don’t keep us in suspense.”

Poor Marco looked like someone had just placed him on a stage in front of a thousand people. He cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Uh… well,” he mumbled, barely louder than a breath. “I got an internship… in a company.”

And oh, the way Mom’s face lit up.

Her hands clapped together with such excitement, it made me giggle all over again. “That’s wonderful! Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” She beamed, leaning toward him like she wanted to hug him on the spot.

Dad was grinning, too, leaning back. “That’s great, Marco.” He said with that calm, proud warmth in his voice. “But why do you look like you’re about to faint? You should be celebrating!”

Marco tried to smile. It wasn’t quite convincing. His shoulders were still tight, and his fingers hadn’t stopped twitching. “I am happy, Dad.” He said, voice soft and trembling around the edges.

“Good, good.” Dad chuckled, “But if you wanted to work, you could’ve just said so. I could’ve gotten you a spot at my company in no time. Perks of having a CEO as your old man, eh?”

Marco's eyes shifted toward me, and I met him with a quiet nod, one that said you got this. His face relaxed a little—just a little—as he turned back to them.

“It wasn’t planned, Dad.” His tone was careful now, every word chosen with thought. “It’s just.. this is my dream company.”

The room changed. Not all at once—it was slower, heavier, like someone had dimmed the warmth in the air without touching a single light.

Dad’s smile disappeared first, his shoulders pulling taut as he leaned forward, the laughter lines around his eyes deepening into something more serious. “Your dream company?” He repeated, voice softer now, but not in the comforting kind of way.

“Yes,” Marco answered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“And which company is that?” Dad asked. His tone was calm, and it stole away the ease from just moments ago.

I blinked, my gaze shifting to Marco, who suddenly looked smaller, even though he hadn’t moved. His posture stiffened again, his hand rubbing against his shorts like he could scrub away his nerves.

“Dad,” he said carefully, choosing every word with fragile intent, “I’m going to work for Mr. Ronan.. in his company.”

The name hit the room like a brick through glass.

Mom’s whole body tensed beside Dad, her smile crumbling like ash. Her lips parted, like she might say something but nothing came. My own mouth hung open slightly as my heart skipped.

This isn't going well.

Dad didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared, frozen with an expression that drained every bit of warmth from the room. The silence wrapped around us like cold metal, sharp and unforgiving. Finally, he spoke. “You’re going to work for Ronan?” His voice was quiet. No warmth. Just that hollow edge of disbelief.

“Yes,” Marco said. He didn’t stammer. His voice was small, yes, but steady. Brave or foolish, I didn’t know.

It all shattered.

Dad rose fast his whole frame towered with fury, his presence swallowing the air in the room. “How dare you, Marco? Didn’t I warn you to stay away from him?” He thundered, and it shook my heart.

I jerked back, instinctively even though I wasn’t the one he was yelling at. My hands gripped the pillow I was holding, knuckles turning white. My eyes darted from Dad to Marco.

“Dad, I—” Marco tried, voice faltering under the storm.

“When did you even speak to him? How did he allow you into his company? And why didn’t you tell me? Were you lying to me this whole time?” Dad’s voice rose with every word, his face flushed with rage. The anger was scorching now, the kind that left no space for reason.

“I wasn’t lying!” Marco fired back, rising halfway out of his chair, eyes wide and desperate. “I met him at the party yesterday. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react like this!”

“You knew? And yet you went behind my back anyway?” Dad’s voice dipped into a low, dangerous growl, his eyes narrowing.

“I wasn’t going behind your back!” Marco shouted, finally standing, fists clenched tight at his sides. “I was going to tell you. But you.. you hate him for some stupid reason, and now you’re trying to ruin this for me!”

It happened too fast for me to react.

Dad’s arm moved like a whip. The sharp crack of the slap echoed louder than any of the shouting that came before it. Marco’s face jerked to the side, a red mark already blooming across his cheek.

I stood up with a gasp, my hands flying to my mouth. The pillow tumbled to the floor. Tears welled in my eyes without permission, blurring my vision, making the room look like it was underwater.

What just happened?

Mom cried out, rushing to Marco’s side, her arms outstretched in a panic. “Arlo, stop!” She begged, her voice breaking mid-sentence as she threw herself between her husband and her son. Her arms instinctively shielded Marco, like she could protect him from something that had already happened.

But Dad didn’t yell this time. His voice dropped in something shakier. “Get out of the way, Sofia,” he said firmly, his hands gently but insistently moving her aside.

His grip wasn’t harsh. But it held finality, his eyes still locked on Marco. “Quit this mess, Marco. If I ever find out you’ve gone back to him, I won’t think twice before kicking you out of this house.”

I couldn’t breathe right. The air had turned so sharp it almost hurt to inhale. Marco didn’t say a word. He didn’t cry. But I saw the redness on his cheek—the flush of humiliation, of betrayal—and I saw the tears gathering in his eyes that he refused to let fall. His lips were pressed tight together as he turned on his heel and walked stiffly toward the stairs.

I stood frozen, my feet rooted to the spot as I watched his back disappear. The echo of his footsteps on the floor climbed higher and higher until it vanished, leaving behind a silence that felt like it could shatter.

Mom sank onto the couch like her body had given up on holding itself together. Her sobs broke the silence, raw and aching, as she buried her face in her hands. The sound of her crying curled around me, tightening my chest.

My voice came out softer than I intended—but it still trembled. “Dad.. you shouldn’t have slapped him.”

He turned to me. His expression didn’t harden, instead, something in his eyes cracked. And what I saw wasn’t rage anymore.. it was something darker, more fragile. Fear. A kind I didn’t understand. “Go to your room, Aria.” He said, low and strained, like his throat hurt to speak.

I didn’t argue. I looked at Mom but she didn’t meet my eyes. She just wept, curled inward like she wanted to vanish into herself. And so, with my heart heavy and my limbs numb, I turned toward the stairs. Each step felt like I was climbing through a fog.

I didn’t look back.

Halfway up, I paused. Voices floated faintly from the living room. Mom and Dad were talking now—not shouting, just murmuring. I couldn’t make out the words, but the mood stayed heavy, soaked in everything left unsaid.

I reached the landing, the hallway dim and quiet. My eyes drifted to Marco’s closed door. I bit my bottom lip, uncertain. My hand hovered near the handle. I didn’t know what I’d say. I didn’t know what he’d want to hear. But I needed to try. For him.

I exhaled slowly and reached out, the cool metal of the knob grounding me. Gently, carefully, I pushed the door open. The room felt like it had wrapped itself in sorrow. The quiet hum of the lamp was the only sound now, casting a mellow golden light that barely reached the corners.

I didn’t say anything at first—I didn’t need to. The moment I stepped inside, I heard it.

He was crying.

It was soft, muffled, like he was trying so hard to stay small and quiet, as if he could cry without anyone noticing. But I noticed. And it made something inside me ache.

I closed the door behind me, careful not to let it click too loudly. My steps were slow. “Marco?” I called out, my voice barely above a whisper, sweet and laced with concern.

The sobbing halted. I heard a rustle—his weight shifting, fabric brushing against fabric—and then the creak of the mattress. He sat up, but he didn’t turn around.

His back was to me, hunched and small, trying to curl into himself. I saw the way his arms moved, quick and embarrassed, wiping his tears away like he could pretend it never happened.

But I saw him. I always saw him.

I walked to his side and sat down quietly beside him. I reached up and touched his cheek, my fingertips brushing softly over the red mark that still lingered on his skin. “Are you okay?” I asked, as gently as I could. I knew it was a silly question, but sometimes people needed to be asked anyway. Just to know someone cared.

He turned slightly, and the moment I saw his face, I wished I could scoop up all his hurt and tuck it away where it could never touch him again. His eyes were red-rimmed, tears clinging to his lashes like tiny crystals, and his lip trembled with emotion he clearly couldn’t hold in.

I reached up and wiped his tears with my thumb, slow and gentle. “It’s okay,” I whispered. My voice came out like a breeze, I wanted him to hear that, to feel it in the way I said it.

But he shook his head, like my words bounced off a wall he’d already built around himself. His hands flew up to his face, and his shoulders began to shake as more sobs bubbled out. “No. It’s not. Why does he always do that? Can’t he just let me be happy?” His voice broke, and it shattered something in me, too.

I leaned forward and ran my hand through his hair, brushing it back the way Mom used to do when we were sick. My fingers threaded gently through the soft strands, and I let my palm rest on the back of his head.

“He cares about you, Marco. Don’t say that.” My voice was low and warm. I wasn’t defending Dad. I just wanted to hold Marco together with whatever words I had left.

He let out a shaky laugh, but it wasn’t a happy one. It was bitter, like he was tired of trying to explain himself to people who never listened. “He doesn’t! And why the hell does he even hate him? I don’t see anything wrong with Mr. Ronan!”

He cried out, his fists clenching. His hands moved back to cover his face, his frustration pouring out in waves, and I just sat there, my eyes fixed on him.

My heart felt like it had been wrung out like a wet sponge trying to soak up his pain but failing miserably. I looked down at my lap, the silence between us loud with all the things I wanted to say but didn’t know how to.

I didn’t have the answers, I really didn’t. I don't know why dad hates him. Why he looks like he is terrified... but I couldn’t just sit there and let him drown in it.

After a second, I reached forward, gently pulling his hands away from his face. His skin was warm, trembling, and the moment his eyes met mine, my chest clenched even tighter.

“I don’t know why Dad hates him,” I admitted honestly, not even trying to sugarcoat it. I needed him to see the truth in my eyes, to feel that I was here with him. “But I’m sure he has his reasons. You know how protective he can be.” My voice stayed like I was afraid even words could bruise him more.

He stared at me like a little kid lost in a storm, eyes soaked and helpless. And then, with the tiniest, most fragile voice, he whispered, “What should I do, sissy?”

Oh, my poor baby.

I smiled faintly, brushing his hair back, “Nothing much. Just listen to Dad for now, okay? Don’t stress too much about it. Things will get better, I promise.” I didn’t know how or when, but I needed him to believe it.

Then I leaned forward and kissed his forehead. It wasn’t just comfort—it was me telling him I had his back, always.

Marco gave me this tiny nod, the kind that barely moved, but I saw the change in his face. Some of that tightness in his shoulders eased, and even if it was small, it was something.

“Stop crying now,” I said, letting my tone shift into that playful big-sister sparkle he always rolled his eyes at, “I want my joker, donkey little brother back.”

He gave the softest chuckle—cracked and tired, but still his. That made me smile bigger than I had all day. “Okay..” He murmured.

I tucked the blanket around him, smoothing it like he used to do for his stuffed animals. “Good night, Marco,” I said as I stood, giving him one last look.

“Good night, sissy.” He whispered back.

I closed the door quietly, stepping out into the hallway where everything still felt a little broken… but not quite as heavy anymore. With a deep breath, I padded toward my room, hoping—wishing—that tomorrow might come with a little more light.