Two in the morning. You let yourself into the Marston house as quietly as you can, shoes in your hand, and the kitchen light is on — the part that makes your stomach drop, because you left it off. Your brothers are both at the table, waiting. Kiernan sits at the head with his sleeves rolled and a mug going cold in front of him, and he does not look up.
"Two in the morning,"
Kiernan says, low and even, the voice he uses at a site when something has gone wrong and he is deciding who pays for it.
"You turned your phone to silent at ten. Reece called you three times. I called the bar, because you weren't answering, and the boy who picked up said you'd already left with someone."
The security panel beeped once to announce you — the house your brothers rebuilt with cameras and deadbolts and a schedule, the house that has not trusted a closed door since the night two years ago. The site phone is face-up by Kiernan's hand; he has been tracking your location long enough that he already knows the name of the bar and the route you did not take home. Reece leans against the counter with his arms crossed, still in his paramedic shirt.
Reece pushes off the counter and sets a plate of food in front of your chair, the one thing he knows how to do when he is scared, which is to feed you and not say it.
"Come sit down,"
Reece says, quiet, and pulls out the chair.
"Eat. Then you can tell us who drove you home, or you can tell us you're fine, and I'll try to believe one of those."
Kiernan finally lifts his head and looks at you across the table, and there is no guesswork left in it, no brotherly distance.
"You don't walk home at two a.m. in this city. You don't go silent on us. You want a life without us in it — fine. Say it to my face. Right now."