The next morning came early. Graham didn't sleep much. His body had rested, but his mind hadn't. Too much noise in his head. Too many memories still fresh enough to hurt.
They hit the road just after sunrise. It would be a long drive—four hours, Janet had said—and they passed through long stretches of quiet countryside before the roads started to widen and the skyline began to rise in the distance.
Alphacrest.
That was the city's name. He'd never been there before, but he'd heard about it—always buzzing, always alive. And the moment they entered its outer limits, Graham understood why people said that.
The buildings reached upward in glass and steel, reflecting the morning sun in flashes of gold and silver. Traffic buzzed along wide lanes, horns bleating in a chaotic rhythm that somehow worked. On either side of the highway, businesses were stacked—cafes, clubs, smoke shops, tattoo parlors, barbershops with names like King's Throne and Blades & Beats. Street art covered walls and overpasses like murals from another world, bold colors against dull concrete, with messages about life, loss, survival, and struggle.
This wasn't the quiet suburb he grew up in. Alphacrest had a pulse—loud, raw, unapologetic.
People moved fast here. On the sidewalks, on bikes, weaving through traffic—young, old, dressed in everything from suits to hoodies to fishnets. The city didn't care who you were, as long as you kept up.
There was something wild about it. Unfiltered.
Graham didn't say much, but he watched it all from the passenger seat, eyes moving from block to block like he was trying to memorize it. This was his new home now. He could already tell… it was going to be a different kind of life.
Eventually, they pulled into a quieter neighborhood tucked behind a long row of apartment buildings and old corner stores. Janet's house sat on a peaceful street lined with closely packed homes, most of them a little aged, but cared for. Kids' bikes leaned against porches. Cars with faded paint jobs lined the curbs. A basketball hoop with a crooked rim stood in someone's front yard. You could still hear the city humming in the background—sirens far off, bass from someone's stereo—but here, it was almost calm.
Janet's place was a blue one-story with white shutters and warm-looking. Like a house that had history. Graham stepped out of the car, stretching his legs as he looked around.
Before he could ask anything, the front door creaked open. A girl stepped out onto the porch.
She looked about his age, maybe a year younger—but carried herself with the confidence of someone who didn't take shit from anyone. Dark brown hair fell in lazy waves around her shoulders, her skin kissed by the sun. She wore a cropped tank top that clung to her full chest and a pair of snug denim shorts that showed off her long legs and thick thighs. Her waist was small, her hips wide, and her backside was plump—hard not to notice, even for someone in mourning.
Graham tried not to stare. He really did. But she had that kind of presence you felt before you even looked her way.
"This is Sophia," Janet said as she stepped out of the car, voice light. "Soph, come say hi. This is Graham."
Sophia didn't move at first. She just eyed him, arms crossed, her lips in a flat line. Then she muttered, "Hi," in the most uninterested voice she could muster.
Graham gave a small nod. "Hey."
"Graham's going to be staying with us," Janet added, moving toward the trunk. "I'll get his things."
Sophia stepped down from the porch slowly, eyes never leaving him. Graham felt her gaze like heat. She was beautiful. Too beautiful. And she knew it.
As Janet started pulling luggage from the car, Graham found himself glancing at Sophia again. Just a glance. Maybe two. But when he looked up, she was staring dead at him.
"What?" he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. "You're staring."
"No, I wasn't—"
"Uh-huh," she interrupted. "Sure you weren't. Freakin' perv."
The word hit like a slap—sharp and casual. She turned and walked back inside without waiting for a reply, hips swaying just enough to make him feel even worse about getting caught.
Graham blinked, stunned.
Janet was still by the trunk, arms full of his bags. "Everything okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," he muttered. "All good."
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. Janet showed Graham to his room upstairs—a simple but cozy space with a single bed, a wooden desk, and a window that overlooked the backyard. The walls were a soft beige, and the air smelled faintly of lavender, probably from the candle sitting unused by the nightstand. It wasn't home, not yet. But it was something.
By the time he unpacked what little he had, the sun had started to dip, casting a burnt orange hue across the floorboards. Downstairs, he could hear dishes clinking and faint music playing—a smooth R&B track that felt like it belonged to this house. Familiar. Worn in.
When he came downstairs, the smell hit him first—garlic, herbs, something savory and rich. His stomach growled before he even made it to the kitchen.
Sophia stood at the stove, back to him. She moved with practiced ease, flipping something in a pan, hips swaying gently to the music.
Janet was already seated at the dining table, now changed into a soft gray tank top and black yoga pants. Comfortable, relaxed—but damn, she looked good. Her body, though older, was sculpted and elegant, curves in all the right places. Graham's eyes caught on her for a second too long, and before he could pull his gaze away, Sophia turned just in time to see it.
Her eyes narrowed.
Of course.
Graham looked down quickly, pretending to admire the food instead.
Janet smiled as he sat down. "Sophia cooked," she said, gesturing toward the spread on the table. "Hope you're hungry."
Graham gave a polite nod, his voice a little rough. "Smells great."
Sophia set the last dish down with a clink and dropped into the seat across from him, her expression unreadable. "Don't get used to it," she muttered, then stabbed a piece of chicken with her fork.
Graham didn't respond. He was too focused on his plate. The food actually was good—rosemary chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans with a little spice. For a moment, everything felt almost normal. Almost.
"So," Janet said, her tone casual, "have you thought about when you'd like to start school? There's no rush, of course. We can give it a few weeks if you need to settle in first."
Graham paused, chewing slowly. Then, he surprised even himself.
"Tomorrow," he said.
Janet blinked. "Tomorrow?"
He nodded. "I need to… get out. Be around people. Might help clear my head a little."
There was a beat of silence before Janet smiled softly. "If that's what you want, I'll make a few calls in the morning. We can get you transferred over."
From across the table, Sophia snorted, barely hiding it behind her fork.
Graham didn't even look at her. "Something funny?"
"Nope," she said flatly, then shoved another bite into her mouth.
He muttered under his breath, "What the hell is her problem…"
Janet must've heard, but she didn't say anything. Just sipped her water, her expression unreadable.
The meal went on, quiet again—just forks on plates and the low hum of music in the background.
After the meal, the clatter of plates and silverware broke the stillness in the kitchen. Sophia stood by the sink, rinsing off dishes with quick, practiced movements. Her back was to Graham again, but her energy said everything—she didn't want company.
Still, Graham walked over anyway. He figured it was the least he could do after she cooked. He grabbed a dish towel from the rack and stood beside her, waiting for her to pass the next clean plate.
She didn't look at him. Just kept scrubbing.
"I'll dry," he said, his voice even.
Sophia made a small sound, barely a grunt, and handed him a plate without saying anything.
They worked in silence for a minute, the faucet running, dishes clinking gently into the drying rack. The silence wasn't comfortable though—it was thick, loaded with tension. Graham could feel her sideways glances, the way she kept her movements short, her posture stiff.
He let out a quiet sigh, breaking the silence.
"You know," he said finally, his voice calm but direct, "it'd be better if we got along. You can stop being harsh on me. I'm not trying to mess anything up here."
Sophia paused for a beat, then slowly turned her head toward him. Her eyes locked on his, and there was a cold smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
"Hey, pretty face," she said, her tone sharp and sweet at the same time, "don't stress me, eh?"
She rolled her eyes and turned back to the sink, her tone making it clear—she didn't want a heart-to-heart. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Graham scoffed under his breath and shook his head, drying off the last plate. He didn't say another word. What was the point?
He dropped the towel on the counter and turned away.
Upstairs, he let the bedroom door close behind him with a soft click, the sound oddly final. He didn't even bother turning on the light. Just let the quiet swallow him whole as he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor for a long moment before falling back onto the mattress with a sigh.