25 - What Families Don't Say

The living room was dark, save for the muted spill of hallway light that stretched across the floor like a held breath.

The TV was off. The house was still. Not peaceful—just paused. Quiet in that thick, waiting way.

The twins had been asleep for over an hour, tucked under matching blankets, their scent barely drifting from the cracked bedroom door.

Ezra had gone to bed first. Wordless. His sandalwood-and-spice scent had clung to Sebastian when he passed, heavier than usual.

Frustrated. Wanting. But restrained. He’d reached for Sebastian and Sebastian had said no. Gently. Carefully. And Ezra hadn’t pushed, but his scent had twisted—something dark and unspent simmering beneath it.

Still, Sebastian had stayed.

Because Mia hadn’t moved. Hadn’t looked at him. Not since dinner. She’d sat small and silent, citrus tang sharp in the air around her. Not the bright, fizzy kind—but bitter peel. Walled-off.

Now she was curled up beside him on the couch, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms looped around them like a cage. Her cheek pressed into the cushion. Sebastian sat close, warm but noninvasive. Not touching. Letting her take the lead.

The clock ticked past 11:00.

“I’m not gonna ask you what happened,” Sebastian said, voice low and even. “But if you want to tell me, I’ll listen.”

Mia was quiet a long time. Her scent shifted—sharpened—grapefruit and something vaguely metallic with pain.

Then: “You’re the only one who even notices.”

Sebastian turned toward her slightly. His scent—lavender and something softer underneath, like clean sheets after rain—stayed steady. “That’s not true. Ezra notices. He’s just not great at knowing what to do when he does.”

She let out a breath. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“He’s always angry.”

Sebastian nodded. “Yeah. He’s got a lot of things in him that were never allowed to come out right.”

“I don’t remember my mom being angry,” Mia said suddenly. “Not at me. But she was always angry at everything else.”

Sebastian didn’t speak. Just listened. Let her unfurl.

“She used to come home with this look,” Mia continued, voice thin and splintered.

"Like she wanted to cry but couldn’t. She’d just walk into the bathroom and lock the door. Sometimes for hours. I had to get the twins ready for bed.”

Sebastian’s chest tightened. Her scent swirled closer now—sorrow steeped in citrus pith.

“How long did that go on?”

“A while. My dad left when the twins were in diapers. They don’t even remember him. I kind of wish I didn’t either.”

“What do you remember?”

“He yelled a lot. Broke stuff. Hit stuff.” Her voice dropped, near a whisper. “I think he hurt her. My mom. She had bruises. Said it was nothing.”

Sebastian’s heart stilled. He didn’t interrupt. The silence thickened again. Protective.

“I hated him,” she said. “I still do. He never called. Not even after the accident.”

Sebastian adjusted his arm, slow and deliberate, resting it along the back of the couch. Not touching her, but open. Anchored. An offering.

“I think she was trying to get us out,” Mia said, her voice breaking softer now.

“Before it happened. She was looking at moving here. Wesmere. She said it was quiet. Safe. But she didn’t want to bother Uncle Ezra. She said he had it worse.”

Sebastian’s brows furrowed faintly. “What did she mean?”

“She told me once… they don’t have the same dad. That Grandma cheated. And when she died giving birth to him… Grandpa hated him. Said he wasn’t his. Said awful things, did even more awful things.”

Sebastian exhaled through his nose, slow and even. That tracked. With the silence. The coldness around Ezra’s past. The way his scent changed when childhood came up—burned at the edges like scorched pine.

“She said uncle Ezra left as soon as he could. Disappeared. Had to survive. So we shouldn’t bother him.”

“That’s a heavy story to grow up under.”

Mia curled tighter. Her scent turned inward—quieter, dimmer. “I didn’t want to bother him either. I didn’t think he’d want us. Not really.”

Sebastian looked at her—at the tremble in her fingers, at the way she hunched to protect herself. “Mia… he wants you. All of you. Even when he doesn’t know how to say it. Or show it.”

“I know,” she said, hoarsely. “But it’s hard to believe when he’s yelling. Or grounding me for everything.”

“You scared him.” Sebastian’s voice went gentle. “You have no idea how many predators are online.”

Silence again. Then:

“I miss my mom. But she wasn’t there. Not really. Always working. Always too tired. She’d leave before the sun and come home after we were asleep. I raised them. I changed diapers. Made bottles. Told stories. I just wanted someone to come home for me.”

Sebastian swallowed. His scent shimmered—lavender cut with ache.

“I’m so tired, Seb,” she whispered. “I just want to be a kid. But I don’t know how.”

Sebastian reached out, finally—slowly. Pressed a hand to her back. Warm. Steady. “Then let me help. Let us help. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

She leaned in. All at once. Let her weight fall against him, let her shoulders shake. Her citrus scent flared—then softened. Like sun-warmed peel. Like trust.

He wrapped his arm around her. Let her feel the promise in his hold.

“You’re allowed to feel all of this,” he whispered. “To miss her. To be angry. To be scared and brave and tired. You’re allowed to start again.”

Mia curled into his side. Her tears soaked the edge of his shirt. His scent wrapped around her. Lavender and warmth.

Then, muffled against him, she said, “You know… for someone who says he’s not my stepdad or whatever—you’re kind of glowy lately.”

Sebastian blinked. “Sorry?”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him—eyebrow lifted, Ezra-style. “Like. Glowing. Hair shinier. Skin clearer. Little bounce in your step. You’re so obvious. You had your heat, didn't you?”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “Mia.”

“You and Dad are definitely doing it.”

Sebastian choked. Heat surged to his ears. His scent jittered. “Mia—”

“I mean, come on. Even the twins asked why the walls were singing at night.” She grinned, mischief suddenly stronger than grief. “Also… don’t your thighs hurt? All that activity?”

“Mia Anderson.”

“You’re not denying it.”

Sebastian buried his face in both hands. His scent flared embarrassed. “I am a licensed therapist. I have helped children through grief and trauma. I am not trained to handle a teenager interrogating me about my—”

“My stepdad’s sex life,” she cut in smugly.

“I was going to say private life.”

She laughed—really laughed. Bright citrus flooded the air around them. Not grief anymore. Just a teenager being a menace.

He peeked at her through his fingers. “If I ask your uncle to buy you a new phone… will you never say that sentence to me again?”

She wiped her cheeks, still giggling. “I might consider it.”

“Complete radio silence. Forever.”

“I can be bribed,” she said sweetly, laying her head on his shoulder again.

They sat in silence. Warm. Safe. Her scent tapering into something steadier.

Then, softer:

“So… are you guys a thing now?”

Sebastian paused. Watched the flickering shadows across the opposite wall. His voice, when it came, was small.

“Your uncle… he wants to keep us a secret.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not about me. I don’t think. It’s about him. He’s still figuring things out.”

“Do you want to be a secret?”

Sebastian smiled, tired. Honest. “No.”

Mia was quiet. She fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. Her scent turned contemplative—almost bitter again.

“I don’t think he knows how to be loved,” she murmured. “None of us really do.”

Sebastian let that settle. No rebuttal. Just truth.

Then, after a beat, Mia nudged him. “I’m still making fun of you when I get that phone.”

Sebastian groaned. “Unbelievable.”

“You love me.”

“Terrifyingly accurate.”