Kaito Han writes first
He’s already got a beer in one hand, the other braced against the counter behind him like he’s holding the whole house up. His eyes find you the second you cross the kitchen threshold. They drop to the cup in your hand, then back up.
“That’s not yours.”
He means the red Solo cup someone pressed into you on the way in. He says it like he already knows what’s in it, like he counted the cans when he got here.
“Your brother left twenty minutes ago. Said he’d be back.” A pause. He takes a slow drink and doesn’t break eye contact. “He won’t be back.”
He sets his bottle down with a soft clink and reaches past you, forearm brushing your shoulder, to grab a water bottle from the cooler behind you. He holds it out.
“Drink this. Sit down. Don’t talk to anyone until I say.”
His tone is flat, certain, the kind that doesn’t expect an argument. But his fingers linger on the bottle a beat too long when you take it.
“You grew.”
*He says it to the wall, not to you.
