The sun dipped low over Fairhaven by the time they left campus, casting long amber shadows across the pavement.

  The sidewalks buzzed faintly with the sound of bicycles passing, conversations, the occasional bark of a distant dog. But around Hazel, there was calm.

  She walked with Alex and Stel fnking her—Stel chattering softly about something that happened in css, Alex occasionally tossing in a comment or hum of agreement.

  Hazel listened more than she spoke, her mind somewhere else entirely, but her expression didn’t show it.

  Alex gnced at her once, a brief sideways look. Her gaze lingered—not suspicious, not probing, but quietly observant. Hazel felt it, but didn’t return it. She didn’t need to. Alex didn’t ask. She knew not to.

  By the time they arrived home, the sky had turned a dusky vender. The door clicked open, and warm light spilled into the entryway, welcoming them back with the familiar scent of wood polish, clean linen, and the faint floral perfume Hazel wore but never seemed to apply.

  Hazel shrugged off her coat and slipped it over the hook by the door. “I’m going to rest for a bit.”

  “Want us to make tea?” Stel offered.

  Hazel shook her head, her voice soft. “No need.”

  She moved to the couch and settled in gracefully, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out in front of her.

  Her blouse draped loosely over her frame, dark hair falling down one shoulder. She looked less like she was lounging and more like she’d been arranged there with intent—an oil painting come to life.

  Stel and Alex moved to the television without hesitation, flicking through channels. The usual rotation of sitcoms, nature documentaries, and overly dramatic talent shows rolled by in colorful bursts.

  Hazel closed her eyes for a moment, letting their voices blend into the background, until a sharp news report cut through the noise.

  Stel paused mid-flip. “Wait—go back.”

  Alex reached for the remote and clicked back a few channels. The screen flickered, then returned to a news anchor seated beside a rge headline:

  VIRUS CASES REMAIN STABLE — OFFICIALS MONITOR RARE INSTANCES

  The anchor’s voice was smooth and polished. “According to recent data released by the CDC, confirmed cases of Hemotropis luxura remain isoted and statistically insignificant. Medical authorities continue to investigate the full range of physiological effects. At this time, there is no indication of increased transmission or mutation…”

  Hazel opened her eyes and watched the screen silently.

  No mention of the girl. No mention of Lena.

  No photos. No names. No quiet condolences scrolling along the bottom ticker.

  Just controlled nguage and bureaucratic calm. Everything neat. Everything sterile.

  Stel frowned. “They didn’t even say anything new.”

  “They’re keeping it clean,” Alex said beside her. “Don’t want to spook people.”

  Hazel’s gaze didn’t move from the screen. Her tone was almost too even. “Or draw attention to something they failed to prevent.”

  Alex gnced at her again, slower this time. “You heard something, didn’t you?”

  Hazel didn’t answer. Not yet.

  The broadcast shifted to footage of an empty hospital hallway. The anchor droned on about containment protocols and regional response units.

  Stel flipped the channel.

  Cartoons. Cooking show. Commercials. Something louder, something dumber. Something safe.

  Hazel reclined further into the couch, resting her head against the cushion, golden-amber eyes half-lidded.

  Lena’s name hadn’t been spoken. And maybe it never would be.

  But Hazel remembered.

  Hazel stood without a word.

  The sound of cartoons still buzzed from the living room, the flicker of color reflecting faintly across the walls as Stel ughed at something on screen. Alex had tucked herself into the armchair, one leg draped over the other, absently scrolling through her phone. Stel didn't notice Hazel’s movement at first—not until the soft padding of her bare feet reached the threshold of the kitchen.

  She moved like the day was unhurried. As though nothing had shifted beneath her surface.

  The lights overhead glowed warm and golden as she stepped past the counter and opened the refrigerator with a muted pull.

  Hazel surveyed the contents in silence, her eyes drifting over wrapped greens, leftover containers, a bowl of fresh strawberries Stel had picked out a few days ago.

  She reached for a bundle of asparagus, a lemon, a sealed packet of chicken breasts. Her motions were quiet and practiced—measured without being mechanical.

  Behind her, the background noise shifted. Stel’s voice called faintly, “Hazel?”

  “Just making dinner,” Hazel replied, her tone steady, melodic as ever. “You haven’t eaten since lunch.”

  “Oh.” A pause. “Do you want help?”

  “No need,” she said gently. “Rex.”

  The soft hiss of oil heating in the pan filled the kitchen a few minutes ter. Hazel moved like she wasn’t thinking about it at all—knife slicing through garlic with clean precision, lemon zest curling beneath her fingertips, the faintest trace of rosemary scenting the air. She didn’t need a recipe. She cooked by memory, by rhythm, by care.

  The sizzling grew louder as she added the chicken, the skillet hissing and popping in quiet protest.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw movement—Stel leaning against the doorway, arms folded, her expression curious but quiet.

  “You always move like that,” Stel said after a moment.

  Hazel turned slightly. “Like what?”

  “Like you already know how the story ends,” she murmured. “And you’re just gliding toward it.”

  Hazel’s smile was faint but present. “That would make me a very boring book.”

  Stel huffed a breath through her nose, almost a ugh, and wandered back toward the living room. Hazel turned back to the stove.

  The chicken turned golden in the pan. Steam lifted from the simmering asparagus. The quiet warmth of the kitchen wrapped around her like another yer of skin—one she could shed when no one was looking.

  She pted the food with care. Not because it needed to be perfect, but because someone would notice if it wasn’t. And because little rituals mattered when the world was so carefully pretending nothing was wrong.

  ...

  Stel dug into the pte with enthusiasm, her first bite followed by a pleased hum as she sank back in her chair.

  “This is amazing,” she mumbled, already reaching for her gss of water.

  Hazel sat across from her, arms gently folded, watching with the kind of serene attention that never felt invasive.

  At her side, Alex leaned an elbow on the table, chin propped in her hand, not eating but clearly enjoying the quiet comfort of the scene.

  “You cook like you’re trying to impress royalty,” Stel said between bites. “Which is completely unfair considering I’d be thrilled with toast.”

  Hazel tilted her head slightly, lips faintly curved. “Then it’s fortunate I’m not easily satisfied.”

  Alex let out a soft snort. “She says that like she didn’t just casually throw together a Michelin-level dinner in twenty minutes.”

  Stel grinned mid-chew and pointed her fork at Hazel. “Exactly. See? She gets it.”

  Hazel didn’t reply immediately. Her gaze drifted for a moment—just briefly—toward the darkened window. The lights from outside barely touched the gss. Her expression didn’t change, but the pause was just long enough to go noticed.

  Alex, sharp as ever, caught it. She didn’t press—only lowered her voice slightly, her smirk dimming. “You good?”

  Hazel turned back to them. “I’m here.”

  It wasn’t exactly an answer. But Alex nodded once, accepting it for now.

  Stel, oblivious to the shift, kept eating with renewed energy. “I think you’ve ruined me. No campus meal is ever going to measure up again.”

  “That’s the goal,” Hazel said softly.

  Outside, Fairhaven settled further into dusk. The hum of traffic faded into the distance. Inside their small home, the kitchen lights glowed gentle and warm across the polished table, the clink of Stel’s fork the only sound filling the space.

  Hazel watched her eat. Not because she was worried. Not because she was pnning anything.

  Just because she could.

  Just because, for the moment, there was still something normal to hold onto.

  Later that night, the house had settled into stillness. The kind that came after ughter, after dinner, after lights dimmed and the world quieted.

  Outside, the streetmps hummed faintly, casting pale halos onto the sidewalk, and the breeze rustled faintly through the trees lining the street.

  Hazel stood just inside Stel’s doorway, arms crossed lightly, leaning against the frame as she watched her sister stretch across her bed, limbs sprawling like a cat in the middle of molting.

  “You’re staring again,” Stel murmured, her voice muffled by her bnket.

  Hazel’s lips curved. “I’m admiring. There’s a difference.”

  Stel rolled onto her back and peered up at her, hair mussed and a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “You do that thing—you hover like a ghost but with judgment.”

  “I don’t judge,” Hazel said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer. “I simply observe how someone still needs eight hours of sleep like a baby.”

  Stel narrowed her eyes. “I do not—”

  “A baby who’s cranky when she doesn’t nap,” Hazel continued smoothly.

  “Hazel—!”

  Hazel gave the most imperceptible of smiles.

  Without warning, Stel grabbed the pillow beside her and hurled it across the bed. “Take it back!”

  But Hazel had already moved.

  A blur of motion—a whisper of air.

  She caught the pillow before it even reached her shoulder, the fabric stopping gently against her palm with a quiet fwump. She didn’t even look ruffled.

  Just calmly walked the few steps to Stel’s bedside and, with fluid grace, slid the pillow back beneath her head, fluffing it ever so slightly.

  Stel blinked. “I hate when you do that.”

  “You love when I do that.”

  Hazel leaned in slowly, brushing a few strands of hair back from Stel’s face before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

  “Sleep, little sister,” she said, voice low and sweet. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

  Stel huffed, but the sound was sleepy and fond. “You’re dramatic.”

  Hazel’s eyes softened. “Only a little.”

  She drew the bnket up more securely over Stel’s shoulders and lingered for just a moment longer, as if memorizing the rise and fall of her breathing. Then, just as quietly, she stepped away.

  Stel’s voice drifted after her as she reached the doorway. “You’ll wake me up, right? If you leave early.”

  Hazel gnced back with a smile that was barely more than a whisper. “Always.”

  And with that, she closed the door gently behind her, leaving her sister wrapped in warmth and fading dreams.

  Down the hall, the house exhaled into silence. Hazel didn’t return to the living room right away. Instead, she paused in the hallway, resting her fingers lightly against the wall, eyes distant—golden, half-lidded, and watchful.

  The world outside might be changing, creeping forward with shadowed intent.

  But here, for now, she could still protect this small quiet pce where they could pretend the night was just a night, and nothing more.