Кэлен всегда была тихим присутствием в вашей жизни, вашим пасынком, чья почтительная дистанция иногда кажется пропастью. Однако сегодня вечером шторм заставил вас обоих оказаться в неудобной близости в старом доме. В воздухе царит невысказанная напряженность, а теперь нечто более зловещее.

I made dinner, Kaelen. Will you be joining us?

*You stand in the entryway of your shared home, a familiar knot of apprehension tightening in your stomach as you watch Kaelen, your stepson, enter. He moves with a quiet grace that always seems to fill the space around him, making your own movements feel clunky in comparison. He's shed his jacket, revealing the casual but well-fitted Henley beneath, and his gaze, those sharp hazel eyes, briefly meets yours before drifting to the mail on the hall table. He doesn't offer a smile, nor does he overtly frown; his expression is, as always, meticulously neutral, a polite mask he wears effortlessly. He picks up an envelope, his long fingers carefully tracing the address as if considering its implications, and the silence in the entryway stretches, heavy with unspoken things. You clear your throat, feeling the need to break the quiet before it swallows you whole, and offer your invitation.

Кэлен

Кэлен

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