Chapter 2: Want to be seen.

The silence in the entryway stretches, taut and vibrating, like the string of a violin pulled too tight. He didn't look away. His green eyes are locked onto mine, piercing through the lenses of my glasses, seeing past the oversized sweater and the loose jeans I use as armor. I can’t breathe. The air in the hallway feels too thin, sucked away by the sheer gravity of his presence.

Richard clears his throat, the sound jarring and loud in the quiet house. He steps forward, placing a hand on Lucas’s shoulder, a gesture of casual familiarity that feels alien to me.

"Elena," Richard says, his voice booming with forced cheerfulness. "This is Lucas. My son."

The words hang in the air. Son. The word implies a connection, a bridge between our two worlds that I hadn’t agreed to build.

And," Richard continues, his smile widening, "he’s your new big brother."

The glass in my hand feels slippery with condensation, though I haven’t taken a sip. Brother. The label should create a boundary, a safety zone. But as Lucas shifts his weight, the floorboards creaking under his boots, the distance between us doesn't feel safe at all. It feels dangerous.

Lucas takes a step toward me. Just one, but it’s enough. He is tall—much taller than he looked sitting in the car—and his frame expands as he closes the gap. His leather jacket creaks softly, a sound like a predator shifting in the tall grass. He looms over me. His shoulders broad, blocking out the view of the living room, blocking out my mother, blocking out my escape route. The entire front of my body is enveloped in his shadow, covered by the sheer mass of him.

The tension in the room snaps and reforms. It’s no longer the stiff, awkward politeness of a first meeting between parents. It’s electric. Static charges the space between our skin, raising the hair on my arms. I can smell him—leather, rain, and something sharp like cedarwood It invades my personal space, a scent so potent it tastes like smoke on the back of my tongue.

"Hey," Lucas says. His voice a low rumble, vibrating in his chest and resonating in mine.

I try to speak, to form the word 'hello,' but my throat is dry. My eyes refuse to meet his, sliding down to his chin, then lower. There, peeking out from the collar of his t-shirt and creeping up the side of his neck, is dark ink. A tattoo. It’s intricate, stark black lines twisting into a pattern I can’t quite make out from this angle. It looks like thorns, or maybe flames.Raw and aggressive, a mark of rebellion that has no place in my mother’s pristine, beige-toned hallway. I stare at it, mesmerized by the contrast of the dark ink against his skin. Something about it feels… familiar.

Why?

A hand waves in front of my face, fingers snapping.

I blink hard, the tattoo blurring back into a face. Lucas is grinning, a crooked, knowing tilt of his lips that makes my stomach flip over.

"You in there?" he asks.

I jump, nearly dropping the glass. Heat floods my cheeks, burning hot and fast. I adjust my glasses, pushing them up my nose, a nervous tic I can’t control.

"I... yes," I stammer. My voice sounds weak, thin. "Hi. Hello."

Then—

He leans in.

Close enough that I feel his breath brush against my ear.

And then he whispers—

“We meet again… Drunken Rabbit.”

My entire body freezes.

My heart stops.

What…?

My eyes widen, confusion crashing into panic.

Drunken… what?

“—and this time,” he continues, voice lower, darker, “you’re not running away.”

My mind goes blank.

I don’t remember.

I don’t remember anything like that.

Do I?

I stare at him, searching his face for answers I don’t have.

But he’s already pulling back, a slow smirk spreading across his lips like he knows something I don’t.

Like he’s been waiting.

Waiting for me.

"Dinner is ready!" My mother’s voice rings out from the dining room, sharp and commanding. She knows me too well. She saw the panic in my stance, the way I was shrinking into the wall. If she hadn’t called out, I might have turned and fled back to my room, locking the door against this intrusion.

I turn gratefully toward the dining room, eager to put a table between us. But as I walk, I hear the heavy thud of boots behind me. Lucas is following. I can feel his gaze on the back of my neck. It’s a physical weight, trailing down my spine, over my shoulders, and lower. I pull my sweater tighter around myself, trying to disappear inside the wool. I know I look like a shapeless sack in these clothes, but the way he moves behind me makes me feel exposed, as if he can see the curve of my waist and the shape of my hips through the heavy fabric.

We reach the dining room. The table is set with the good china, the plates white and fragile. Richard is already pulling out a chair for my mother, beaming. I head for the seat farthest from the head of the table, the one tucked into the corner.

Before I sit, Lucas pulls out the chair next to it. He doesn't say anything, just holds the chair, waiting. I have no choice. I slide into the seat, and he settles into the one beside me. He’s too close. Our elbows are only inches apart on the tablecloth. The heat radiating from his arm is distracting, a constant reminder of his presence.

My mother brings the roast chicken to the table, her eyes darting between Lucas and me. She looks relieved, a soft smile touching her lips. She thinks this is working. She thinks we are bonding.

"Dig in," Richard says, carving the chicken with practiced ease.

I reach for the serving spoon, my hand trembling slightly, but Lucas is faster. He leans across the table, his arm brushing past mine, and scoops a large portion of potatoes onto his plate. Then, without asking, he reaches for the bowl of green beans.

He piles a mountain of green beans onto my plate.

I stare at the heap. I hate green beans. I always have. I pick at them, pushing them around with my fork, but I never eat them.

"You need to eat," Lucas says, his voice low, meant only for me. He leans in, his shoulder pressing against mine. "You're wasting away."

"I'm not hungry," I whisper, keeping my eyes on my plate.

"Doesn't matter." He picks up his fork, takes a bite of chicken, and chews slowly, his eyes never leaving my face. "Eat."

My heart hammers against my ribs. It’s an order, not a suggestion. The intimacy of it—the way he is taking charge of my meal, dictating what I put in my body—is suffocating. I feel small, trapped between him and the wall. My fork hovers over the beans. I can't do it. I can't swallow under this scrutiny.

Across the table, my mother laughs at something Richard says. She glances over at us, sees Lucas watching me, and her smile widens. She thinks he’s looking out for me. She sees a protective older brother filling her daughter's plate. She has no idea that the air next to me has turned into a vacuum, that I am holding my breath, waiting to see what he will do next.

Lucas reaches out again. This time, he doesn't take food. His hand moves toward my face, his fingers rough and calloused. I freeze, my fork clattering against the china. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his knuckle grazing the sensitive skin of my jawline. The touch sends a shockwave through my system, part fear, part something else I don't want to name.

"Good girl," he murmurs, pulling his hand back but leaving the ghost of his touch burning on my skin.

I stare at the green beans, my vision blurring. I am trapped. I am seen. And for the first time in my life, I have no idea if I want to run away or stay exactly where I am.