intrepidity

The hospital walls felt colder that morning.

Aurora sat curled up in the chair by Marcus's bedside, her fingers gently brushing over the back of his hand, careful not to disturb the wires and bandages. The beeping of the machines was steady, like a distant heartbeat, grounding her in the awful present.

But her mind had drifted elsewhere—to a memory so warm, it almost made her smile.

Almost.

It had only been a few months ago.

She had barely been with them for a few weeks—still skittish, barely speaking, always walking like she was afraid her feet might make too much noise. The boys had been kind, each in their own way, but everything had felt so big, so loud, so new. She hadn't laughed. Not once. Not really.

And then Marcus... well. Marcus had decided that was unacceptable.

-

A few months ago -

"I'm making breakfast," Marcus announced with all the misplaced confidence of a man who had never once cooked a day in his life. "Nobody touch anything. I got this."

Aurora sat at the edge of the kitchen island, feet dangling from the stool, her big brown eyes wide with quiet concern. She didn't say anything. She never did—not unless someone spoke to her first. And Marcus? Marcus was like a storm with fists. Loud, gruff, stomping around in his sweatpants and a shirt two sizes too small because he'd refused to do his laundry.

She watched as he cracked an egg directly onto the counter.

He paused. Stared at it.

"...That was on purpose," he muttered defensively, glancing over his shoulder at her like she might dare to laugh. She didn't. Her eyes only got wider.

Marcus grunted, grabbed another egg, and finally got it into the pan—shell and all.

"You like scrambled, right?" he asked, even though she hadn't said a word. "Yeah. I'm makin' scrambled."

He stirred the egg with a knife.

A butter knife.

Aurora blinked. The corner of her lips twitched.

Next came the toast—except Marcus shoved two slices of bread into the microwave.

Roman, walking past, opened his mouth to intervene, but Marcus growled, "Don't. I'm bonding with my little sister, so fuck off."

Roman slowly backed out of the kitchen.

The microwave beeped. The toast was soggy and somehow steaming.

Marcus frowned at it, then shrugged and plated it like it was gourmet. "There. Boom. Look at that. Beautiful, right?"

He brought it over to her, setting the plate down with a proud little smirk. The eggs were half-burned and half-raw. One of the shells was still sticking out. The toast looked like a sponge that had seen things.

Aurora stared at it in horror.

"...Eat it," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Or I'll be offended."

She looked up at him, startled. He was glaring, but not really. He was trying to look intimidating, but his lips were twitching.

And then, as he crossed his arms and muttered, "This is Michelin-star level, you don't even know," she laughed.

It bubbled up before she could stop it—quiet and unsure at first, like she didn't know if it was allowed. But then it just happened. Real and soft and hers.