Son.
I inhale sharply, then clear my throat awkwardly. “Right.”
Wynter is still openly laughing at me as she takes my hand and pulls me inside.
The house immediately smells like fresh bread, washing powder and tea. It’s warm and welcoming. There are framed photographs lining the hallway walls. Two pairs of shoes kicked off near the radiator and a cardigan tossed over the banister.
Nothing matches perfectly. And somehow it feels more luxurious than every place I own.
Music drifts faintly from the kitchen alongside the sound of cupboards opening and closing.
Lucy appears moments later wiping her hands down her apron.
“Well,” she says, eyeing me carefully, “you still came.”
“I considered turning around.”
She smirks. “Points for being brave.”
Wynter rolls her eyes affectionately and we head into the kitchen.
Alec claps me once on the shoulder. “Ignore her. She’s getting worse with age.”
“I heard that,” Lucy says.
The kitchen is chaos in the best possible way.
Something simmers on the stove. A pie cools beside the window. There’s a half-finished crossword puzzle on the table and a knitted blanket draped over the back of a chair. It screams real life. Messy and comfortable. The exact opposite of the controlled silence I’ve become used to.
And standing here, watching Wynter move around the kitchen like she belongs here—laughing softly while Lucy complains about local roadworks, and Alec asks a hundred questions about the drive—I realise something unsettling.
I want this feeling. This ease.
This normal kind of family.
Wynter catches me watching her from across the kitchen and smiles, like she senses it too. And just like that, I relax.
“Don’t judge me,” Wynter says, lingering by the bedroom door with her hand still wrapped around the handle.
There’s genuine nervousness in her voice now, which only makes me more curious.
I smirk. “I can’t promise that.”
She rolls her eyes before pushing the door open dramatically. “Fine. Enter my teenage trauma.”
I step inside and immediately stop.Pink.An aggressive amount of pink. Pink bedding. Pink cushions. Pink curtains. Even the lampshade looks like it belongs in a Barbie dream house.
I slowly turn my head towards her. “Jesus Christ.”
She bursts out laughing. “I told you not to judge.”
“This explains a lot, actually.”
“Oh, shut up.”
The room itself is small but warm, tucked beneath the sloped roof of the house. Fairy lights hang unevenly above the bed, and when she reaches over to switch them on, the soft glow instantly changes the atmosphere to cosy.
“That made all the difference,” I tease dryly.