Mark Santos steps out onto the sidewalk, the sharp scent of city air filling his lungs. His boots click softly against the pavement as he slows to a stop. Slinging his bag higher onto his shoulder, he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sun's glare and turns to look at the towering structure behind him. Its facade is an imposing mix of reflective glass and cold, gray steel.

Who would've guessed... he thinks, his gaze lingering on the structure's sleek, unyielding lines. That everything would lead back to this place.

His eyes shift slightly to the left, where the distant silhouette of Nurikabe looms. Its dark outline seems different...

"How far will they go?" he murmurs under his breath, the thought unbidden, tugging his smile downward.

Before he can sink further into his thoughts, the blaring honk of a car snaps him back to reality. His head jerks toward the noise, and his brows shoot up in surprise.

A small tan sedan idles at the curb, and through the windshield, he sees her—Angela. Her dark curls frame her face, and her wide smile practically lights up the street. Mark's heart skips, his face breaking into an unrestrained grin.

"Angela!" he calls out, jogging toward the car, his excitement barely contained.

Before he can reach her, she throws open the driver's side door and rushes toward him, her arms outstretched. He barely has time to drop his bag before she collides with him, wrapping him in a tight hug.

Mark laughs, the sound rich and warm. "I missed you," he says, his voice muffled against her hair.

Angela pulls back just enough to look at him, tears glistening in her eyes. "I missed you more," she says with a watery chuckle. She punches his arm lightly.

He cups her face gently, brushing away a stray tear with his thumb. "Hey, no crying," he teases softly. "I'm here now."

She smiles through her tears, standing on her toes to kiss him. The world around them blurs for a moment, their laughter mingling as another car horn blares behind them.

Angela groans, rolling her eyes. "Oh, for the love of—" She turns toward the sedan, waving apologetically at the irritated driver. "Come on," she says, tugging at his arm. "Let's get out of here before they honk again."

Mark climbs into the passenger seat, dropping his bag at his feet. The car smells faintly of vanilla, and a small air freshener swings from the rearview mirror. Angela slides into the driver's seat, adjusting her seatbelt as she glances over at him.

"So," she starts, her voice brimming with curiosity. "How'd you get leave so quickly? They never let you go this easy."

Mark shrugs, smirking. "Guess I charmed them."

Angela snorts, shooting him a side-eye. "Sure you did." Her smile falters slightly. "I wasn't ready, you know. I barely had time to prepare anything."

Mark reaches over, resting a hand on her knee. "I couldn't wait," he says simply.

She glances at him, her expression softening. "Yeah, I figured."

They fall into a comfortable silence as the cityscape gives way to tree-lined streets and quiet, suburban charm. When they turn onto a familiar road, Mark sits up straighter, the sight of home...

...his home...

Angela pulls into the driveway, cutting the engine as Mark steps out of the car. The house stands before him, a modest, single-story with pale blue siding and white shutters. A neatly trimmed hedge lines the front, and hanging flower baskets add splashes of color to the porch.

Mark slings his bag over his shoulder, taking slow steps up the driveway. Something catches his eye, halting him mid-step. His gaze drops to the lawn, its vibrant green stretching out like a carpet.

"You fixed it," he says aloud, more to himself than anyone else.

Angela pauses at the front door, keys in hand. "Fixed what?"

"The grass," Mark replies, turning to her with a look of surprise. "You fixed the discoloration problem."

Angela chuckles, slipping the key into the lock. "Yeah, a couple of videos and Carlos helped me out."

Mark's smile fades slightly, his brow furrowing. "Carlos?" he repeats, his tone laced with skepticism.

Angela pushes the door open, stepping inside. She glances back at him, feigning innocence. "What?"

Mark sighs, following her inside and setting his bag down by the door. "Are you sure about him?" he asks, his voice low.

Angela heads toward the kitchen with a shrug, tossing over her shoulder, "He's harmless, Mark. Don't overthink it."

Mark follows her, his boots thudding softly against the hardwood floor. The house feels almost frozen in time. The layout is familiar: the open-concept living room spilling into the dining area, with the kitchen tucked neatly at the far end. The couch is draped with rumpled blankets, and a few toys are scattered across the floor—plastic dinosaurs, a doll missing one shoe, and a coloring book lying open on the coffee table.

"Now he probably is," Mark says, his tone low. He steps into the kitchen, leaning against the doorway. "But your brother caused a lot of damage. You remember how it was before."

Angela sighs as she pulls ingredients from the fridge. "Yeah, I remember," she says quietly, setting a cutting board on the counter. "But he's in therapy now. He finished his hours at rehab."

Mark watches her for a moment, his eyes narrowing. She chops vegetables with precision, the rhythmic sound of the knife hitting the cutting board filling the air. He glances around the kitchen—the same honey-colored cabinets, the same small magnet collection on the fridge. Everything feels so familiar, yet slightly off, like a picture just slightly out of frame.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"Angela," he begins, his voice tight. "He almost ruined my life. Our lives. The ki—"

Angela spins around, her knife clattering onto the counter as she interrupts sharply. "I know, Mark," she snaps, her voice trembling slightly. "I know. But... I needed someone, okay? With you gone, and my damn mother breathing down my neck…" She exhales sharply, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. "I needed someone who wouldn't judge me. Carlos is the last person who can judge anyone."

Her words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of them speaks.

Mark rubs the back of his neck, guilt creeping into his expression. "I'm sorry," he says finally, his voice softer. "I'm just... concerned, that's all."

Angela turns back to the counter, resuming her work in silence. The steady rhythm of the knife returns, but her movements lack the earlier precision. "It's fine," she says after a moment, her tone clipped but not unkind.

Mark sits at the small kitchen table, watching her as she works. The faint aroma of garlic and onions begins to fill the air, and his stomach growls despite the tension lingering between them.

A short while later, Angela places a plate in front of him. Mark digs in hungrily, the warmth of the meal grounding him. Angela leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching him as he eats.

Through a full mouth, Mark mumbles, "When are the girls getting here?"

Angela's lips curve into a small smile. "They should be here right about now," she says, her tone lighter. "Carlos picked them up and—"

Mark freezes mid-chew, his eyes widening. He coughs, grabbing a napkin to wipe his mouth as he asks, "What?"

Before Angela can respond, the door swings open with a creak, and he hears the tail end of a conversation. "Cici, that's stupid, there's no way—"

Cici walks in first, her face lighting up when she sees her dad sitting there, wiping food off his chin. Her jaw drops as her eyes flit between him and Angela. Without a word, she drops her bag and runs straight into Mark's arms, throwing herself around his neck. "Daddy!" she sobs, her small frame shaking as tears spill down her cheeks. "I missed you so much!"

Mark's arms tighten around her, his voice thick with emotion. "Yeah, I missed you too, peanut," he murmurs, his eyes wet with unshed tears. He holds on tighter as Cici buries her face in his shoulder, her sobs muffled by his shirt.

Angela stands behind them, her hands pressed against her mouth as tears roll down her cheeks.

"Who's there?" comes a voice, barely above a whisper.

Lydia steps into the room next, her gaze darting between her dad and Cici. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight, and then she's running forward, too. "No way," she says, her voice shaky. "Dad?"

Mark sets Cici down gently and opens his arms just in time for Lydia to dive into the hug as well. "Dad," she whispers, holding on tight. "I thought you were never coming back."

"No no...I'm so sorry for taking so long to see you guys," Mark murmurs as he holds his daughters tightly. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Sounds like a party in here," comes a voice from the doorway, smooth and familiar...unwanted. Mark looks up, and his breath catches when he sees Carlos leaning against the frame. Carlos is slightly taller than Mark, with skinny, inked arms visible beneath a faded band t-shirt. His dark hair is cut close to his head, and a tattoo curls around his bicep. Bandages wrap his wrist.

Mark's eyes narrow, and his grip on his daughters tightens instinctively. "Carlos," he says gruffly, his voice tight. "Long time no see."

Carlos pushes away from the doorframe and takes a step into the room, his eyes meeting Mark's for a beat before drifting over to Angela. "Seems like I've been missing all the fun," he says, his tone relaxed but his gaze unserious. "Good to see you, Santos."

"Good to see you too, Carlos," Mark replies, his tone cooler now as he glances back at his daughters, still holding onto him tightly. Cici's tears have slowed to sniffles, and Lydia is just staring at Carlos, disbelief written across her face.

Angela steps in with a nervous smile on her lips. "C'mon, everyone, let's sit down. Dinner's almost ready, and we can all catch up."

Cici glances at her dad, giggling. "No fair! Dad's already started," she says. The laughter is infectious, and everyone joins in as they settle around the table.

Angela brings over a steaming pot of lasagna and garlic bread, the aroma filling the room. The food isn't just good—it's a feast: rich and comforting. Cici snatches up a slice of garlic bread and loads it with cheese before taking a big bite. "See, told you! Dad's got the best spot!" she says through a mouthful of food.

As everyone settles in, Carlos nods at Mark and asks, "How long are you gonna be, man?" His tone is casual.

Mark pauses, glancing around the table at Angela, then at the girls, before meeting Carlos's eyes. "Just the weekend," he replies, his voice steady but slightly guarded. Carlos nods, understanding without saying more, then looks back down at his plate, playing with his fork.

Angela gives Carlos a sharp look, a warning behind her eyes. "Just making a comment, Ange," he mutters, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Just making sure he's not gonna work himself into an early grave," he adds, softer this time.

Lydia, picking at her food, frowns slightly. "Yeah, what do you do, Dad?" Her tone is curious.

Mark hesitates for a moment, then gives a small chuckle, trying to brush it off. "Nothing special," he says, his voice a little flat as he looks at Angela, then back at the girls. "Just some contracting for, uh, some rich, fancy guys."

Cici, her eyes wide with excitement, claps her hands, food spilling over her plate. "Wow, that sounds cool!" she says. Angela shakes her head, a fond smile on her lips, while Carlos chuckles softly, his eyes still on his plate.

Lydia looks up from her plate, her brow furrowing as she glances between her dad and Angela. "It's okay, really," Mark adds, trying to make light of it. "Just helping out where I can. Not like it's rocket science."

"Rocket science or not," Carlos says, his tone teasing but serious, "it's still tough work. Must be exhausting doing what you do." Angela shoots Carlos another warning look, and he just shrugs, shaking his head.

Santos meets his daughter's eyes across the table, his own gaze softening. "So, how's everything been for you, Lydia?" he asks, his voice gentle.

Lydia shrugs, her gaze dropping back to her plate as she picks at her food. "Fine," she mumbles, her tone nonchalant. "A few bumps, but you know, it's… okay." She looks up at Angela, then Carlos, who both nod in silent support. Mark looks over at Angela again, a question in his eyes, but she just gives him a small, reassuring smile.

"Fine, she says," Carlos adds, his voice laced with concern. "I don't know, Ange, I think she's still holding something back." Angela glares at Carlos, warning him to back off, but he just raises an eyebrow at her, unfazed.

Mark leans forward, his brow furrowing as he reaches across the table to take Lydia's hand in his. "Anything you want to talk about?" he asks, his voice steady, patient.

Lydia's eyes meet his, and for a moment, it seems like she might say something. Then she just shakes her head, shrugging. "Nah, it's fine," she says again.

Angela, busying herself with dishing out seconds of lasagna, looks up with a sigh. "Lydia, really, if you need to talk…"

"I know, Mom," Lydia says quickly, her tone dismissive as she glances at the doorway, avoiding her dad's gaze. "I'm good."

Carlos gives a low, understanding chuckle, clearly not satisfied with the answer. "She'll open up when she's ready," he says, his voice soft. Angela nods, her expression turning thoughtful, and Mark lets out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair.

"Just… let us know when you're ready," Mark says quietly, his gaze still fixed on his daughter's face. "We're all here for you."

"Are you?" Lydia's voice cuts through the tension, sharp and guarded.

Angela clears her throat, "Cici, did you bring your soccer stuff?" she asks, her tone brighter, trying to lighten the mood. "Maybe we can play later."

Cici's eyes widen, her face lighting up with a broad, hopeful smile. "Yeah! Maybe we can go to the park after dinner!" she says, her enthusiasm contagious. "I can show you my new tricks, Dad!"

Mark's face relaxes into a grin, his relief palpable as he reaches across the table to ruffle Cici's hair. "Sounds like a plan, peanut," he says, his voice full of pride and love.

"Let's make it happen."