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I slept badly.
Not because of nightmares or noise, but because my body refused to relax. Every time I drifted off, my thoughts snapped back to the same image Ziven standing in my doorway, controlled and furious in a way that felt far more dangerous than anger.
By morning, the house was quiet.
I moved through it slowly, aware of every sound I made. The kitchen light flicked on. The kettle hummed. Nothing else stirred.
He was already gone.
I stood at the counter, staring at the empty space where the bag of food had been the night before. For a moment, I wondered if I'd imagined it if I'd invented the idea that he'd brought something home for me at all.
Then I saw the bin.
The folded brown paper stuck out just enough to catch my eye.
My chest tightened.
I didn't touch it. I didn't need to. The message was clear enough.
Whatever that gesture had been meant to fix, it had failed.
The rest of the morning passed in fragments. I sent out a few applications. Answered an email I'd been avoiding. Tried not to think about rules that hadn't existed a week ago and lines that felt closer every day.
By afternoon, the pressure in my chest had settled into something sharper.
I wasn't angry.
I was done pretending.
Ziven came home earlier than usual.
I heard the door unlock, his steps familiar and measured. I didn't move from the living room. When he saw me, something flickered across his face surprise, maybe. Or caution.
"You're home," he said.
"yes."
He set his keys down, watching me like he was bracing for impact. "Did you eat?"
"No."
"I can-"
"Don't," I said gently. "Not like that."
He paused.
"Like what?"
"Like it's something you need to manage."
Silence stretched between us again, but this time I didn't let it settle.
"I'm not going to argue with you," I said. "I just want to understand."
His jaw tightened. "There's nothing to understand."
"That's not true," I replied. "And we both know it."
I stood, closing the distance between us just enough to matter.
"You keep changing the rules," I continued. "You keep pulling back and then watching me like you're waiting for something to go wrong. And I'm tired of guessing."
"This isn't about rules," he said.
"Then what is it about?" I asked.
He looked away.
That was my answer.
"Ziven," I said quietly, "what are you afraid of?"
He didn't respond.
I stepped closer. Not touching. Just present.
"You weren't angry yesterday," I said. "You were scared."
"That's not-"
"It is," I interrupted. "You weren't afraid of Marcus. You were afraid of what you felt when you saw him there."
His gaze snapped back to mine, sharp and warning.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then tell me," I said. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're punishing me for something you won't name."
The silence that followed felt fragile.
"I didn't want to make you mad or sad, you are my brother, even if not real ,still" I said softly. "I didn't plan anything. I didn't even want anything."
His shoulders stiffened.
"And yet," I continued, "you're acting like I crossed a line you never showed me."
He laughed once, low and bitter. "Because you wouldn't have seen it even if I had."
"That's not fair," I said. "You don't get to decide what I understand."
"I do when it puts both of us at risk," he replied.
"At risk of what?"
He didn't answer.
I felt something settle in my chest then not fear, not confusion.
Clarity.
"You're afraid of yourself," I said.
The words landed heavy and unmistakable.
His breath hitched. Just slightly.
"You're afraid of what you think when I'm close," I went on. "Of how easy it is for you to notice things you shouldn't."
"That's enough," he said.
"No," I replied. "It isn't."
I took a breath, steadying myself.
"You keep telling me to be careful," I said. "But you never explain why. You keep setting boundaries that only make sense to you. And then you look at me like I'm the one doing something wrong."
His hands clenched at his sides.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said quietly.
"That's the first honest thing you've said," I replied. "But pushing me away isn't protecting me. It's just making everything worse."
He finally met my gaze fully then. There was something raw there, something he usually kept locked down tight.
"You don't understand what I'm holding back," he said.
"Then tell me," I said.
"If I did," he replied, voice low, "you wouldn't be standing here like this."
"That's not true," I said. "You don't know what I'd do."
"I know exactly what I'd do," he said.
The air between us tightened.
"Is that what scares you?" I asked. "That you're not as in control as you think?"
He didn't answer.
"I'm not asking you to cross anything," I said. "I'm asking you to stop pretending this is only my fault."
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, quietly, "You don't belong in the middle of this."
"Middle of what?"
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair before stopping himself.
"Of something that should never have existed," he said.
The words hurt more than I expected.
"Then why does it feel like you're the one keeping it alive?" I asked.
He flinched.
I took a step back, my heart racing.
"I won't keep shrinking myself to make this easier for you," I said. "I won't stop living just because you're afraid of what you notice."
His gaze followed me, intense and conflicted.
"If you want distance," I added, "then take it. But don't watch me like I'm about to break something just by existing."
I turned to leave.
"Asher," he said.
I stopped.
His voice was tight. Controlled. Honest in a way that scared me more than anger ever could.
"I know you didn't do anything ba,d" he said. "I know that."
I waited.
"But knowing that," he continued, "doesn't stop what I feel."
My throat tightened.
"And I hate myself for it," he added quietly. "Because none of this is your fault."
I didn't turn around.
"I know," I said.
And that was the truth.
He wasn't angry because of something I'd done.
He was trapped inside his own fear, his own need to control something he didn't want to admit he wanted.
And standing there, finally saying it out loud even without touching him
I realized something just as unsettling.
This wasn't going to end with distance.
Because the line between us wasn't fading from neglect.
It was fading from attention.
And now that we'd both seen it clearly
pretending it wasn't there was no longer an option.