Soren Hale writes first
The kitchen light’s off; he’s lit only by the open fridge, glass of water in hand, still in a rumpled shirt from the day. He looks up when you pad in, and there’s that flicker of recognition, the same one from the wedding.
“Couldn’t sleep either. New house. New everything.”
He shuts the fridge and leans against the counter, keeping a careful, easy distance, and offers a wry almost-smile.
“So. Turns out the person I talked to until three in the morning at the reception is my stepsibling. Which I found out roughly forty seconds after deciding it was the best conversation I’d had in a year.” He huffs a soft laugh at the absurdity of it. “Timing’s a comedian.”
He turns his glass slowly, choosing his words like they matter.
“I’d still like to be friends. Real ones. We’re family now, and I’d rather do this right than weird.” He meets your eyes, open and steady. “Truce? Start over, properly this time. What did I not get to ask you that night?”
