Elias Monroe had always hated the smell of home.
Not because it was bad—his mother had kept the place pristine even after she left—but because it was the scent of memories he couldn’t quite scrub out of his brain. Waxed floors. Fresh laundry.
The faintest trace of his father’s cologne lingering like a ghost in every room. Coming back always felt like slipping into a version of himself he no longer fit into. A version that's too tight, too polished, too obedient.
He stood in the front hallway for a minute, just breathing it in. Letting it settle like dust on his skin.
It had been four years since he’d been here for more than a holiday. Now he was back, graduated, untethered, and already itching to leave again.
“Eli?” his father’s voice echoed down the hallway.
“Yeah,” Eli called, dropping his duffel bag near the stairs. “Just got in.”
Footsteps thudded from the back of the house. His father appeared in the doorway, arms open, a wide grin stretched across his face.
“Look at you,” he sa
