Julian didn't talk about his brother much.
Penelope had pieced together fragments—mentions in passing, quick shrugs, long silences. She knew his name was Ethan. Knew he was older. Knew he carried something heavy on his back that Julian didn't know how to talk about.
But she didn't expect to meet him.
Not like this.
It was Tuesday evening. She'd stopped by with iced coffee and half an excuse—just walking by, thought you might want a break—when the front door swung open and there he was.
Ethan.
Taller than Julian. Sharper around the edges. Tattoos up his forearm and a scowl that looked permanent.
"You're Penelope," he said. Not a question.
She froze. "Yeah. You're Ethan."
He looked her over. Not creepy—just… calculated. Like he was assessing the situation in real time.
"You're the girl from the porch," he said. "Julian talks about you."
Her heart skipped, then stuttered. "Oh?"
He didn't answer. Just stepped aside and let her in.
Julian appeared in the hallway, barefoot and paint-smudged, blinking like he hadn't expected her to come.
"You met?" he asked, glancing between them.Ethan shrugged. "She seems smart. Maybe too smart."
Penelope narrowed her eyes. "Meaning?"
Ethan held up his hands. "Just saying. Don't break the kid. He's already cracked."
Julian went still.
Penelope stepped closer. "I'm not here to break anything."
Ethan nodded once—just once—and disappeared into the other room.
Julian didn't speak right away. He just ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath that sounded like it had been held for years.
"Sorry," he said. "He's…"
"Hurt," she finished for him. "I get it."
They stood in the middle of the hallway, quiet humming between them.Julian reached out, gently took her hand.
And Penelope thought: Not everything cracked has to fall apart.