The muffled clatter of pans and the faint hiss of oil drifted upstairs. Evelyn was already awake, already moving about the kitchen, the scent of frying eggs mixing with the early chill that bled through the curtains.
June was halfway into pulling on her denim jacket when the door to her room clicked open. Grace slipped inside, shutting it quickly behind her as though she were sneaking into forbidden territory.
June raised a brow, tugging her long black hair out of the jacket's collar. "What?"
Grace leaned back against the door, lowering her voice. "Okay, first of all, you cannot—absolutely cannot—tell Mom about Damien coming over last night."
June blinked, pausing with one sleeve still half-folded. "Why not?"
"Because," Grace said dramatically, waving her arms for emphasis, "Mom doesn't like the Cross family. At all."
June tilted her head. "Oh?"
Grace nodded furiously, whispering like Evelyn might somehow hear them through the walls. "She thinks they're spoiled rich people who hoard their money, don't help anyone, and—her words, not mine—'strut around like the town owes them something.'"
That earned a short laugh from June. "Well… she's not wrong."
Grace threw her hands up. "That's not the point! The point is, if she finds out Damien Cross was in our house—our actual living room—last night, she'll lose her mind. She'll think he's trying to corrupt us or something."
June arched a brow, teasing. "Oh no, the big bad rich boy, corrupting us with spaghetti and sarcasm."
"June!" Grace's face flushed. She looked genuinely scandalized, which only made June smirk wider.
"Relax," June said, finally tugging her sleeve straight. "I wasn't planning on telling her anyway. It was awkward enough with him there." She shook her head, muttering. "I don't even know what his deal is. But fine. Promise. My lips are sealed."
Grace exhaled in relief, pressing a hand to her chest. "Good. Because if Mom found out, she'd ground me too—don't ask me why, but she always drags me into it."
The sisters exchanged a small laugh, the heaviness of last night slipping away for just a moment.
Downstairs, the sound of plates clinking onto the table called them back to reality.
When they finally descended the staircase, Evelyn was already at the dining table, setting down a steaming pot of scrambled eggs and fresh toast. Still in her scrubs, her hair tied back loosely from the long night, she looked up at them with a tired but warm smile.
"Good morning, girls."
Grace immediately frowned. "Mom, you didn't have to do all this. We could've grabbed something ourselves on the way to school."
"Or skipped entirely," June added under her breath, earning a sharp side-eye from Grace.
Evelyn ignored both complaints with a small shake of her head. "Nonsense. You need real food in your stomachs. I don't care how grown you think you are, I'll always take care of you. That's my job."
Grace sighed, sliding into a chair. "Mom, you work double shifts. You should be resting, not cooking for us every morning."
Evelyn set down the last plate with a firm little clink and kissed the top of Grace's head. "And you should stop worrying about me and eat your breakfast."
June smiled faintly, watching the exchange from the other side of the table. For all the strangeness of Blackstone, for all the shadows it carried, mornings like this almost felt… normal. Safe.
Almost.
***********************
The morning rush in Blackstone High's hallway was its usual chaos—lockers slamming, chatter echoing, sneakers squeaking against linoleum. Tyler adjusted his glasses with one hand as he juggled a stack of books in the other, mumbling to himself a running list of assignments. "Chem… history… physics, ugh…"
He finally reached his locker, pulled it open with a squeak, and began shoving books into his backpack. Nestled among the mess was a shiny red apple, the kind Evelyn always packed for him when he skipped breakfast. He grabbed it with a half-smile. "Breakfast of nerds," he muttered under his breath.
But the apple slipped from his hand.
It bounced once, then rolled with infuriating precision across the hall, weaving between the shuffle of feet until it came to a stop against the black leather boot of one of the "cool clique."
The hallway seemed to freeze.
The boy bent down slowly, his tanned skin catching the fluorescent lights. He picked up the apple, turning it over once in his hand like he was considering whether to eat it… or crush it. Then, with a smirk, he whipped it back across the hallway.
Thud!
It smacked Tyler square on the side of the head. His glasses slipped down his nose, his ears burned red, and the echo of the impact rang louder than it should have.
"Watch it, nerd," the boy said, his voice low, smooth, and cutting. His friends behind him snickered, their black jackets creaking as they shifted like a pack of wolves waiting for blood.
The hallway erupted.
Laughter. Whispers. A few kids pointing.
Tyler's chest tightened. He pushed his glasses back up and bent quickly to retrieve the apple. "S-sorry," he stammered, his voice too thin, too small. He half expected fists or worse to follow, but they only brushed past him, shoving him with shoulders as they went. Their cologne and arrogance lingered in the air even after they were gone.
For a moment, Tyler stood frozen in the hallway, clutching the apple like it was a scarlet letter. His heart pounded, not from anger—though maybe a little—but from humiliation.
The laughter still rang in his ears. His classmates weren't cruel exactly, just entertained. He was the punchline, the one who always tripped, always fumbled, always took the hit.
Why can't I be like them?
He thought it before he could stop himself. Those guys—the black jackets, the easy swagger, the way people seemed to move out of their path without them even asking. They didn't need to try. They didn't need to worry about being laughed at, or if their shirt was wrinkled, or if the girl they liked thought they were invisible. They were untouchable.
And him? He was Tyler. Book-carrying, assignment-finishing, shoe-untied Tyler. No girlfriend. No popularity. Just brains no one respected unless they needed homework answers.
His stomach twisted as he imagined Grace's teasing voice later if she found out. Or worse, June's cool, sharp gaze. She was new, yes, but she was different—sharp, observant. The kind of girl who noticed everything. Did she notice this? Did she see him get humiliated in front of everyone?
Tyler shoved the apple back into his bag, its skin now bruised and dented. He told himself it didn't matter. It was just an apple. Just another moment. Just another reminder.
But deep down, the thought lingered bitter as iron:
If I could just be like them… maybe I wouldn't feel like such a loser.
The bell rang, snapping him back. Kids scattered, laughter dying into background noise. Tyler exhaled, long and shaky, before slamming his locker shut and slinging his backpack over one shoulder.
And though he walked toward his next class like nothing had happened, his ears still burned, and his thoughts kept repeating one cruel truth—no matter how much he laughed, or joked, or pretended, no girl was ever going to look at him the way they looked at guys in black jackets.
The laughter in the hallway was still echoing when Damien shut his locker with a sharp clang. He didn't need enhanced hearing to catch every snicker, every muttered "nerd" tossed Tyler's way. The apple incident wasn't exactly subtle.
From where he leaned against Logan's locker, arms folded, he'd seen the whole thing play out. The apple. The clique. The hit. The look on Tyler's face after.
Pathetic. Predictable. High school at its finest.