Chapter One
Baby Bird, the Nest

𝔗he Huang residence was built for appearances—two stories of beige stucco and pale stone with shutters painted an uninspired gray, the kind of house that sat comfortably in its cul-de-sac, nodding politely to the others around it. The driveway sloped cleanly into the garage, which was perpetually open, revealing the interior like an exposed ribcage—bicycles leaning against unfinished drywall, bins of Christmas decorations stacked haphazardly, and Truey's car half-dismantled, the floor scattered with oil-stained rags and tools that looked borrowed from a mechanic's ghost.

Inside, the kitchen was the heart of the house but also its battlefield. The cabinets were a honeyed wood that had gone slightly out of style, their handles brass, smudged by years of use. The counters were quartz, mottled gray and white, strewn with the detritus of domestic life: unopened mail shoved into a corner, a vase of wilted daisies, Truey's spare car keys forgotten beside a bowl of mandarins. Overhead, recessed lighting hummed faintly, too clinical against the warmer morning sun that spilled through the sliding glass doors leading to the patio.

Vanna stood at the stovetop, her tortoise oval glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, a loose linen blouse soft against her shoulders. She was frying up a traditional dish from her childhood, the air heavy with garlic, soy, ginger, and sesame oil. She hummed under her breath, off-key but cheery, wielding her spatula as though it were both a wand and a shield.

Parker sat at the kitchen island, hunched over his favorite mug, which bore the bleak words in bold Helvetica: "Mondays: Hell's Dress Rehearsal." He sipped with a grim expression, flipping through the latest issue of Front Lawn Digest, the corners of the pages already bent from his ritualistic reading. His hair was slightly mussed, and his robe—a faded navy—clung to his shoulders like it had given up.

Waverly walked in, her jet-black hair parted and pushed behind her ears, tiny gold hoops catching the morning light. She leaned against the island with a practiced sigh. Both parents glanced up, like actors hitting their cues.

Vanna's smile bloomed instantly.
"Good morning, baby. Want some breakfast? I'm making your favorite—" she paused dramatically, like a TV host unveiling a prize—"congee with scallions and egg. Comfort food."

"If I'm not late, maybe I'll eat," Waverly muttered, tapping her nails against the countertop.

Vanna tilted her head, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, hand lifted to shield her mouth though the gesture was unnecessary.
"You know... I've noticed you aren't eating much lately. I hope you aren't trying to starve yourself. I think you're beautiful exactly as you are."

"God, Mom, I'm not starving myself." Waverly groaned, rolling her eyes, her cheeks coloring.

Parker sipped his coffee loudly, set the mug down with a thud, and gave his daughter a look over the rim of his glasses.
"You know what I think? I think I ought to drag you outside to help me with the front yard. Teach you some humility." His voice was grouchy, gravelly, the words clipped like broken nails.

"Why can't Truey do it?" Waverly shot back.

"Why can't Truey—" Parker repeated, scoffing. "Feels like Truey does everything around here. Washes the car. Mows the lawn. Fixes under the sink. Drives you around all day long. Repairs that heap of junk in the garage. Meanwhile, you—" he jabbed his finger theatrically at her "—haven't lifted a finger. And once your brother leaves for college, you're gonna be expected to pitch in."

Waverly groaned, leaning back on the island stool. "So what's the point of having a son then?"

Parker blinked at her audacity, let out a dry scoff, and raised that same foolish scolding finger again.
"You're on thin ice. Learn some responsibility before you crack through it."

Vanna sighed softly, still stirring the pan. "I can already feel a headache orbiting me. My energy's being drained."

"Honey, not this again," Parker muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Spare me the spiritual mumbo-jumbo. Mercury retro-whatever."

Waverly stared at them both, incredulous. These were the people who'd raised her? The house felt smaller in their presence, suffocating in its absurdity.

Just then, Truey shuffled in from the garage, brown curly waves a disheveled halo, grease smudged across his forearm. He smelled faintly of motor oil and sweat, his t-shirt clinging to his frame. He stretched, sniffed.
"Smells good in here." He glanced at Parker. "Car's almost repaired. Just need one more part."

Parker loudly cleared his throat, eyes darting to Waverly, as if to say: See? Proof.

Truey plopped into a chair, reaching for a piece of toast without asking. "So, Wav, guess what? The engineering program at the college I'm applying to—it's insane. Full labs, robotics teams, the works."

"Do you even want to be an engineer?" Waverly asked, disgust curling her lip. "That's, like... manual labor with extra math."

"You're crazy," Truey said with a laugh. "That job's everything. You should learn a trick or two, get some muscle mass. What's old man Johnson teaching in PE these days? You even doing fitness anymore?" He grinned, nostalgic. "Man, when I was in high school, Coach Douglass used to whip us into shape. Guy blew his last whistle and keeled over from a heart attack. Stone liver, loved KFC. Legend."

"Activity hour's important," Vanna chimed in dreamily. "I used to play hopscotch at recess. So much fun."

Parker raised a brow at Truey. "Physical activity isn't everything. You should worry about academics. Your future. Don't slack."

Truey shrugged. "I'm not gonna flunk out. But burnout? That's a no-go. High school was easy."

"High school was easy because they held your hand," Parker snapped, finger wagging again. "You'll be on the same thin ice as your sister if you fail."

Truey groaned. "But school's hard! I'm just a guy!"

Parker muttered into his mug, "Why couldn't I have two smart children instead of one?"

Waverly snorted quietly, stifling her laugh.

Truey's head whipped around. "What?! What did he say?"

"I grunted," Parker deadpanned. "Didn't say a word."

Vanna slid a plate toward Truey, her smile unfaltering. "Want some breakfast? It's full of nutrients and voltage energy. Very spiritual."

Truey blinked. "Why couldn't you just make pancakes and bacon? Like a normal mom?"

"This is better," Vanna chirped. "I read about it on a blog."

"I'm putting restrictions on that computer," Parker muttered.

Waverly checked her phone, screen lighting up her face. "I'm gonna be late. Time to go."

"And I suppose you want Truey to drive you," Parker said, voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Would very much appreciate it," she shot back through clenched teeth.

Truey shrugged, stuffing food into his mouth. "Fine. But I need calories first. Cut six pounds last week, gotta gain ten to hit my weight class."

Waverly groaned. "Don't let me stop you." She slumped against the island, glaring.

Truey grinned, shoveling in another bite. "Damn, this is actually good."

Vanna placed a plate before Parker.

"I'm fine," he said, waving it off. "Coffee's enough. Don't want my stomach extending."

Waverly stood, bag slung over her shoulder. "Not hungry. I'll eat later. If I'm not late already."

The kitchen buzzed with the hum of the fridge, the clink of forks against porcelain, the muted chaos of a family whose conversations were all collisions, never resolutions.

Truey's car smelled faintly of gasoline, leather, and the faint sweetness of the air freshener clipped to the vent—black ice, a scent that felt both overbearing and hollow, like a cologne sample rubbed into a magazine. Waverly sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her backpack balanced against her knees, eyes flicking toward her brother as the early light bled through the windshield. His curls were still messy, sun catching in the brown waves, grease smudged faintly across his knuckles from the morning's work.

She blinked once, then asked, awkwardly, "So... what's on your agenda today?"

Truey, keeping his hands loose on the steering wheel, shrugged. "Uh, get that part for the car. Fix it. Probably hit the fridge, rack up some more pounds for my weight class. Then, honestly? Crash."

Waverly tilted her head at him, her lips twitching into something caught between a smirk and pity. "Wow. What an exciting life."

He grinned—bright, almost boyish. "Right? Pretty damn exciting."

Her chest pinched. She wished she'd never turn out like him. When she was younger, she thought popularity was everything—but popularity with nothing else behind it was just a slow death, the kind of loser who peaked too early and lived in the shadow of a teenage glow. And she promised herself, no matter what, she would not end like that.

The school loomed soon, its pale concrete walls already littered with students leaning against brick and metal, the morning buzzing with laughter and nicotine clouds. Truey pulled up to the front and stopped.

"Thanks," Waverly muttered, unbuckling.

"No problem." He waved at her, smiling too wide, the kind of grin that looked plastered on with duct tape. Then he drove off, his taillights shrinking into the distance.

The second she stepped toward the school steps, Enzo and Rowan cut her off like vultures descending.

Enzo, still twitchy, leaned in with his silver star tooth glinting, voice slurred with leftover edge. "Waverly, wanna buy some product?"

Rowan, blond buzzcut sharp under the sun, smirked. "Got the good shit. Pills."

Waverly narrowed her eyes. "No."

Enzo chuckled, licking his teeth. "Aw, c'mon, Waverly. You gotta have some fun sometime."

"It won't be fun when my hair starts falling out and my teeth rot."

Rowan smirked. "That's only cheap shit. We don't push that."

"Beg to differ," she muttered.

Rowan tilted his head, grin widening. "Speaking of fun—heard Orion's been messing with Odessa. Swear to God, someone told me they tongue-fucked last night."

Enzo burst into laughter, clapping his hands.

Heat crawled up Waverly's neck. She forced a calm, dismissive smile. "That can't be true. And even if it was, that's his problem. He'll figure out soon enough what a nasty bitch Odessa is."

Rowan's brow lifted. "You must really hate her guts."

"I detest her."

"Whatever that means," Rowan muttered.

Enzo leaned back, smirking. "You should just punch her in that fake nose of hers. Didn't she get a job done this summer? Wanted to look like those New York models."

Waverly rolled her eyes. "This conversation is making my brain swell. Bye." She brushed past them.

Inside first period, she dropped into her desk with a sigh, already wishing for the day's end. But fate was cruel—Jett and Shannon appeared, leaning over her desk like vultures with matching smirks.

"Well, well," Jett sneered, one brow cocked, lips curling into a malicious smirk. "Look who dragged herself in."

Shannon chuckled. "Stop, man." Then, softer, "You look good, Waverly."

Her jaw locked. She refused to meet either of their eyes.

Jett leaned closer. "Heard about Orion and Odessa. Bet you loved that visual, huh?"

Shannon nudged him. "That's not true. He's just talking shit."

"Why does it concern me?" she said finally, her voice clipped.

Jett laughed, deep and biting. Shannon followed with his softer chuckle.

"Not your business anyway," Waverly muttered.

Before Jett could reply, the teacher walked in, greeting the class, mercifully pulling attention away.

After school, the golden haze of late afternoon painted the courtyard. Waverly walked with Piper and Wren. Piper's laugh was sharp and familiar, her arm swinging with easy rhythm. Wren slung her black Marc Jacobs tote with a practiced toss, her posture catwalk-casual.

Waverly let her grievances spill out: her mother rambling about crystals again, her father calling her lazy, Truey's endless talk about wrestling, Enzo and Rowan, and of course Jett and Shannon. "Maybe I do need to make the most of high school," she finished. "Maybe this is as interesting as it gets. Being popular, being at the parties, with the boys—that's where the fun is."

Wren twisted the cap of her lip gloss, smoothing it across her pout. "And what about college? Your future? A husband with something to offer instead of some high school idiot who'll fuck anything with tits?"

Piper cackled at the bluntness. "She's not wrong. You don't even like partying. Maybe if you let loose, you'd actually enjoy yourself."

Wren slid in again, sharp. "Or maybe it's that you're hung up on a guy who won't even close things off with you. You need to start talking to other people."

"Yeah? Like who?" Waverly challenged.

"Shannon," Wren said without hesitation.

Waverly snapped, disgusted. "Aht, aht. No way."

"What? Shannon's cute. He's nice. A little weird, sure."

"Shannon and Jett won't leave me alone!"

Piper wagged a finger. "Correction. Jett won't leave you alone. Shannon can't get you alone."

Waverly scoffed, but the words dug somewhere deeper than she'd admit. Maybe—just maybe—she could turn that into a weapon. Maybe Orion would care if someone else caught her interest.

They reached Piper's car, sunlight glaring off the windshield. Wren kept talking, telling Waverly she had to start putting herself out there more.

Waverly nodded, lips tight. She agreed. But not once did she ask how.

North Palm was quieter, darker, a stretch of Palmwater County where the houses sagged under the weight of years and bad luck. The Amaury residence sat crooked on its lot, a squat single–story place with peeling cream paint and shutters warped from hurricanes past. The front lawn was patchy, grass gone yellow in most places, scattered with lawn ornaments that looked like they'd been rescued from garage sales decades ago: a faded flamingo leaning at an angle, a rusted wind chime missing half its tubes, a ceramic frog with a chipped mouth sitting lopsided by the walkway. A chain-link fence boxed the property in, its gate screeching when moved, though no one bothered to fix it. Out back, the yard was little more than dirt and weeds with a cracked concrete slab where a grill used to stand, and a busted lawn chair slumped like an old man in the corner.

Inside, the air was heavy with smoke, mildew, and the sour trace of beer spilled too many nights ago. The walls were painted a once-bright beige, now dulled and scuffed with blackened fingerprints and stains no one cleaned. The living room opened wide from the front door, its furniture a mismatched collection: a sagging plaid couch, an armchair with stuffing poking from its arm, a low coffee table cluttered with empty cans, ashtrays, and a single pack of off-brand cigarettes. The TV, mounted crooked on the wall, buzzed faintly though the volume was turned down.

Harlem's father sat there, sunk into the couch cushions as though gravity had claimed him for good. His eyes were pale, greenish, clouded by years of medication, his face a hollowed echo of Harlem's own. He stared at the muted television without blinking, a cigarette smoldering too long between his fingers. He did not speak. He hardly ever did anymore. His mind was elsewhere, tethered only lightly to the room.

Harlem stormed down the narrow hallway, the slap of his cargo pants against his sneakers carrying him toward his bedroom door. His blond curls bounced against his forehead, his tank top clinging to the sweat already gathering on his back. His older brother followed, shirtless, tattoos crawling up his arms and across his chest like warnings inked into his skin. His voice boomed through the house, spit flying with every curse.

"Bitch! You're a fucking bitch! Worthless!"

"Fuck you, bitch!" Harlem whirled on him, his voice breaking into a snarl. "Lazy motherfucker—sits on your ass all day!" His words cut like knives as he added, "And your girl? Crackhead bum!"

From down the hall, her voice screeched back, shrill, "Say that again, you little shit!"

"I said it!" Harlem barked, eyes blazing.

The older brother lunged, the hallway vibrating with the clash of their rage. Harlem slammed his door in his face, but the impact rattled the hinges only for the door to burst back open as his brother shoved inside.

"Get the fuck out!" Harlem roared, standing in the doorway to block him.

"You think this shit's funny?" his brother bellowed. "You don't pay bills, you don't cover rent, you don't bring in shit. You're a leech."

"That's not my problem!" Harlem's voice cracked with fury. "You chose this, not me."

His brother's face twisted, veins pulsing in his neck. He spat insult after insult—about Harlem's future, about his weakness, about how he'd never amount to anything. Then, with a shove against the doorframe, he stormed out, slamming the door so hard the wall shook.

Harlem stood there, trembling, before collapsing back onto his bed.

His room was chaos: posters of skaters and bands plastered unevenly over walls, corners curled from humidity; piles of clothes spilling across the floor, half-clean, half-dirty; a cracked skateboard leaned against the dresser, stickers peeling. His desk was buried beneath rolling papers, lighters, broken earbuds, and notebooks full of scribbled nonsense. The carpet was worn thin in patches, and the mattress sagged beneath him as he lay back, staring up at the ceiling.

He groaned aloud, a low sound from the pit of his stomach. How the fuck did I end up here?

He hated his brother, hated the way the drugs had sunk teeth into him, transforming insecurity into cruelty. He hated him for threatening their mom, for forcing her out of the house, for throwing her into the night while she begged to stay for Harlem's sake. And most of all, he hated her for leaving without him.

She had promised—always promising. "I'll come get you," she'd whispered into the payphone receiver, her voice trembling with regret. He'd called from the corner store down the block, quarters jingling in his fist, looking over his shoulder in fear that his brother would find him out. Month after month, she repeated it: "I swear, I'm going to get you out of there."

But it had been two years, and she never came. Every month the promise rotted further until hope felt like a bad joke. His brother's voice echoed in his skull: She never cared. That's why she left you.

Harlem pressed his palms into his eyes, wishing he could vanish into the dark. The ceiling above him felt heavy, pressing down with everything he couldn't escape: the house, the yelling, the slums of Palmwater County, the silence of his father, the poison of his brother, the absence of his mother. If it weren't for the money he scraped together—selling, hustling, surviving—he might've run already. But for now, he was stuck.

And he hated it. Hated it all.

The Amaury house fell quiet after the fight, though Harlem's ears still rang with his brother's voice. He sat in his room with the window cracked, the night air heavy and damp, the smell of cut grass drifting in from somewhere down the block. His phone buzzed faintly in his palm, a glow cutting across the clutter of his desk. His thumb hesitated over the screen, then tapped out a short message:

harlem: you awake? doing anything rn?

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

waverly: yeah i'm up. not doing anything. why?

harlem: could i come over for a bit? just need a break.

There was a pause, then her reply blinked onto the screen:

waverly: yeah fine. but you'll have to sneak in. mom's "meditating" in the spare room.

harlem: haha. no problem. be there in a few.

He changed into a loose white tee, tugged his board out from under the bed, and swung one leg out the window. The wheels clattered softly against pavement as he pushed off, gliding into the night. The streets were empty, lined with dim pools of light from streetlamps and the occasional barking dog. His curls blew back against the sticky Florida air, the sound of his wheels the only rhythm as he carved his way toward South Palm.

"Sup," he muttered.

Truey rolled out, face smeared with grease, grin wide when he recognized him. "Harlem?? No shit. How's your brother? Rodney! The Rodman!"

Harlem's eyes widened, then rolled with a tired smirk. "Worse." He didn't bother elaborating.

"Cool, cool," Truey said, oblivious, tossing his wrench onto a rag. "So what're you doing here this late?"

"Here to see Waverly."

"Ah." Truey smirked knowingly, too dense to press further. "Well, parents just crashed. Head up, room's to the left down the hall. Keep it quiet."

"Thanks, man."

He shot Waverly a quick text:

harlem: truey let me in. coming up now. don't scream or shoot haha

waverly: dry laugh.

Their humor was brittle, sarcastic, a private little code that worked between them.

Harlem crept inside, sneakers soft against the tile, and let his eyes wander the hallway. Family photos lined the wall: Parker in a crisp polo, Vanna smiling too wide, Truey flexing in his graduation gown, Waverly beaming in braces. A perfect American collage. He thought about his own house—frames knocked off the wall, smiles faded years ago.

He stopped at her door and knocked softly.

It opened, and she stood there in her tank top and fitted shorts, her expression sharp but softening when she saw him.

"Don't shoot," he said, hands raised in mock surrender, grin crooked.

She let out a short laugh. "Get in."

Inside, her room felt almost foreign to him—tidy in comparison to his. Pink curtains glowed faint in the streetlight outside, fairy lights snaked across the walls, her desk piled with notebooks, sketchpads, and jewelry tangled in a dish. Posters and prints gave it texture, but the air smelled faintly of vanilla and rose spray, almost too clean.

"Cool room," he said, scanning.

"Could be better," she shrugged, dropping onto her bed.

A little later, they both lay stretched on their backs, the ceiling fan whirring above them.

"Thanks for letting me come," Harlem muttered, arms folded behind his head. "Shit's just tough at home. You wouldn't understand."

"Oh, I definitely understand." Her voice was wry.

He glanced at her. "Oh really?"

She turned her head toward him. "Things aren't much different here. My parents aren't... hell, but they're strange. I can't talk to them. It's not that they don't listen. They just don't understand me."

He nodded slowly, then began talking—his voice low, flat, recounting the fights, his brother's screaming, the strangers drifting in and out, the bills, the endless cycle of drugs and money. She listened, sighing, unable to relate fully but recognizing the same weight.

"What's stopping you from leaving?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Money."

"Do you even care about school?"

"Not really. After high school, I'm not going anywhere." His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling.

"Why do you think that?" she pressed.

He told her—about his brother, about his mom's promises that never came true. How she swore she'd get him out of there but never showed. How hope rotted when it sat too long.

"Do you even wanna go back home?" she asked quietly.

There was a pause before he muttered, "No."

She stared upward, lips pressed together. "Maybe you don't have to."

"Yeah? And go where?"

"Here. Just for tonight. By tomorrow your brother will be fried or gone or whatever."

He laughed, short and bitter. "I'll crash on the floor or some shit."

"You don't have to," she said, sitting up.

"I should," he countered.

They agreed to disagree, both stubborn in their small ways.

By midnight, the house was silent. Parker and Vanna slept, Truey snored faintly in the garage on an old couch. Upstairs, Harlem was knocked out, curled slightly on top of the bedspread, chest rising slow. Waverly lay beside him, facing the opposite way, her body curled too, though her eyes were wide open.

The blue light of the night seeped through her curtains, painting the walls in quiet glow. She watched the ceiling, the corners of her mouth tugging toward a smirk she couldn't suppress. Her newest objective bloomed in her head, sharp and sure: sneak him out before dawn, before anyone knew he had ever been there.

Morning leaked into South Palm in pale gold streaks, the air thick with humidity already pressing down on the quiet cul-de-sac. The Huang house stood still, the walls holding secrets from the night before. From Waverly's second-floor window, Harlem slipped out carefully, skateboard tucked beneath his arm, his loose shirt hanging off his frame. The lattice panel, recently nailed up by Parker for climbing jasmine vines, creaked under his weight but held. He descended with the practiced clumsiness of someone used to sneaking out, sneakers scuffing as he landed lightly on the side lawn.

He walked down the narrow path lined with Vanna's ceramic planters—sunflowers, begonias, most of them half-wilted—and unlatched the side gate. The hinges squealed, betraying him, but the street was empty, and no voice called out.

In the driveway, Truey was already awake, stretched beneath the belly of his car, wrench clinking against metal. Oil stains spread beneath him like shadows. Harlem hesitated, rubbing his elbow in that sheepish way of his.

"Later, Truey," he muttered.

Truey rolled out, hair sticking in greasy curls, eyes bright despite the early hour. His crooked grin stretched wide. "Later," he answered, voice carrying an ease Harlem envied.

Harlem nodded once, got on his board, and with a sharp push rolled down the asphalt, wheels rattling against the cracks, carrying him back toward North Palm.

Moments later, Waverly padded out the front door, arms folded tight. She walked up near the driveway where her brother was still fiddling with bolts, her expression caught somewhere between annoyance and defense.

"You know nothing happened, right?" she said stiffly.

Truey smirked without looking up, his voice slipping into sing-song. "Whatever you say."

She scoffed, rolling her eyes, and stormed back inside.

By the time Harlem reached the Amaury residence, the sun was burning hotter, painting the house in merciless light. He let himself in through the warped front door, its paint chipped around the knob from years of being slammed. The living room reeked of stale smoke and last night's beer. The couch cushions sagged further, the coffee table cluttered with half-burnt cigarettes and a sticky ring from a bottle left too long.

His father wasn't there—probably tucked away in the back bedroom, sleeping heavy under the sedation of his prescriptions. But Rodney sat in the armchair, shirtless, tattoos stretched taut over his chest and arms. A cigarette dangled from his lips, smoke curling upward into the yellowed ceiling. His girlfriend was absent—likely passed out in his room or gone, another ghost in their revolving door of company.

Harlem froze in the doorway, his skateboard still under one arm, staring. Rodney turned slowly, eyes bloodshot but sharp, a predator even in his hangover.

"Where the fuck you been all night?" he demanded, voice low but dangerous.

"Don't worry about it," Harlem answered, flat, stepping forward like the words could shield him.

Rodney straightened, his bulk filling the chair. "Don't you fucking leave this house without telling me where you're going. You don't get to do that."

"I don't have to tell you shit," Harlem snapped, jaw set. "I went to see a friend."

Rodney's laugh was humorless, a rasp of smoke. "You don't have any friends."

"And you do?" Harlem shot back, eyes narrowing. His voice lowered, bitter. "Truey asked how you're doing. I told him you're worse. A sack of shit."

Rodney blinked, cigarette twitching at his lip. "Who the fuck is Truey? Truey Huang?"

Harlem nodded once, sharp, daring him.

Rodney sneered, inhaled, exhaled a stream of smoke, then turned away. Harlem didn't wait for another word.

"Bitch," he muttered under his breath, almost a growl, before slamming his bedroom door behind him.

Inside, he dropped onto the mattress, the springs groaning beneath the weight. His board clattered to the floor, rolling until it stopped against a pile of dirty clothes. He lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling where water stains spread like bruises. His thoughts spiraled, words echoing silently in his skull:

Where are you gonna be? Maybe I should just go. Maybe I could make something out of myself.

His hands curled into fists against the sheets, his jaw set. For the first time in months, the idea didn't feel like a fleeting fantasy—it felt like the start of something. Something sharp, fragile, and dangerous, like the first crack in glass before it shatters.

AUTHOR NOTES

the first chapter && i definitely enjoyed writing out the deeper dynamics of waverly of her family and harlem and his. harlem and waverly are each other's yin and yang, they come from similar backgrounds except not the same. both don't have abusive parents, but they are both absent in a way to their kids. waverly's mom, vanna is detached and eccentric whilst parker is more firm, focused on education and success and emotionally unavailable and her older brother truey is dense. harlem's dad is mentally impaired, suffers from depression and doesn't communicate, occasionally mute. his mom is currently not in his life as much (not by her choice) and his older brother is abusive and irate, and his other sister does not want anything to do with the family itself. they relate to each other than each other expects sometimes