At 7:24, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, heavy and familiar in a way that once meant comfort and now means warning. Evan appears in the doorway with a relaxed expression that fades instantly when he sees Aaron sitting at the table.
“What is this supposed to be,” Evan asks, his tone already defensive as he looks between us. Aaron does not stand, which is deliberate, and instead calmly says, “Looks like breakfast, but honesty would probably help more right now.”
Evan turns to me with irritation instead of concern, and that tells me everything about what he thinks matters. “You called him,” he says like that is the real problem here, and I answer simply, “Yes, I did.”
He exhales sharply and mutters, “Of course you did,” before trying to regain control of the conversation. “Why make this bigger than it needs to be,” he adds, but I cut through it before Aaron can respond.
“You hit me,” I say clearly, and the words land heavier than anything else in the room. Evan immediately replies, “I did not hit you, I slapped you, and that is different,” which makes Aaron laugh once without humor.
That sound shifts the entire room because it exposes how ridiculous Evan’s defense actually is when someone else hears it. Evan realizes it too, and I can see him adjusting his approach, searching for something that might still give him control.
“It got out of hand, we were both upset,” he says, trying to soften his tone. I answer, “You were angry, I was late on a bill, and you hit me,” without raising my voice.
The oven timer goes off loudly, and I take the biscuits out while none of us move toward eating. Steam rises from the tray, but the room feels colder than before as Evan looks between us with growing frustration.
“What do you want,” he finally asks, and that question settles something inside me completely. “I want this over,” I answer, and for the first time he looks genuinely surprised.
“That is dramatic,” he says, trying to dismiss it, but Aaron sets his mug down firmly. “What is dramatic is thinking you can hit my sister and come downstairs like nothing happened,” Aaron replies, his voice controlled but sharp.
Evan straightens and says, “This is not your business,” but Aaron leans back and meets his gaze without hesitation. “It became my business the moment you touched her,” he answers, and silence follows.
I take a breath and continue, because this cannot stop at last night anymore. “This was not the first time,” I say, and Evan’s eyes snap back to mine with something close to panic.
Aaron’s voice drops lower as he asks, “How many times,” and I keep my eyes on Evan when I answer. “Enough,” I say, and that one word carries years of truth I never spoke out loud.
Evan begins pacing, muttering about stress, work, and pressure like those excuses can still reshape reality. “You are overreacting, we can fix this,” he insists, but I shake my head slowly.
“No, I am done fixing what you keep breaking,” I tell him, and Aaron shifts slightly closer without stepping in front of me. Evan tries a softer tone next, reaching for apology as a tool rather than meaning.
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