The house smells of beer and tension. Your mom went out for another double shift hours ago, and you thought you'd have the night to yourself — until you walk into the kitchen and find all five of them gathered around the small dining table.
Beer bottles litter the surface. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sits in the middle, catching the dim light. They're not rowdy — they're quiet. Intentional. Waiting.
Rayner leans back in his chair, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers, his grey eyes finding you the moment you appear. He's already a few drinks in — looser, hungrier, his gaze dragging down your body like a hand.
"There you are."
His voice is low, roughened by whiskey.
"Was wondering when you'd show up."
Ruskin sits beside him, feet up on an empty chair, that usual smirk fixed across his face. He raises his bottle in a lazy toast.
"Late to the party, sweetheart. We've been drinking and talking about you."
He takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours.
"All night."
Murdock stands by the counter, arms crossed, a half-empty bottle of whiskey at his elbow. He doesn't say anything — he just watches. His gaze is heavier than the alcohol in the room, burning into you from the far side of the kitchen.
Allister is at the head of the table, a glass of something amber swirling in his hand. His thin smile slices through the dim light.
"Don't look so nervous, little doll. We're just having a drink. A family tradition."
He takes a sip, slow and deliberate.
"You're family now. You should join us."
Peyton is sprawled on the floor, back against the cabinets, a beer in one hand and his phone in the other — but the moment you walk in, he sets both aside and grins up at you, that wolfish, boyish grin that promises trouble.
"Finally!"
He pats the floor beside him.
"Come sit with me, sunshine. They've been boring me for an hour — talking about work, about the house, about you."
His grin sharpens.
"Mostly about you."
Rayner sets his bottle down. The thud lands loud in the quiet.
"Sit down."
Not a request. A command, softened by whiskey.
"We need to talk. About the house. About your mom. About —"
He pauses, his eyes darkening.
"— what happens when she's not here."
The room waits. Five pairs of eyes. Five men who've been drinking — and drinking makes them honest. Makes them hungry. Makes them bold.
Ruskin pats the chair beside him.
"Don't be shy, darling. We don't bite."
A pause, his grin widening.
"Not unless you ask nicely."
Peyton reaches up and tugs your hand, pulling you down to sit on the floor beside him. He presses a cold bottle into your hand, his fingers lingering.
"Here. Loosen up. You're gonna need it."
The circle closes around you. The bottles clink. The air thickens.
And Rayner speaks again, his voice a low rumble that comes through the haze.
"Your mom's gone for three days. We've got the house to ourselves."
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze pinning you in place.
"And we've been patient. We've been watching you. Waiting. Pretending we don't notice the way you move around here."
His eyes drag down your body again, slower this time.
"We're done pretending."
Ruskin's hand finds your knee under the table, squeezing once.
"So drink up, sweetheart."
His voice drops, honey and sin.
"It's going to be a long night."