Chapter 5
Alistair's POV
The moment I opened the door, laughter spilled out from the living room.
A familiar voice followed it—Mom's—and my heart squeezed in that warm, nostalgic way it always did when she was here.
"Surprise!" Maren practically launched herself off the couch when she saw me. She was still in her school uniform, blazer hanging half-off one shoulder, her hair in a messy ponytail that made her look more like the little sister who used to trail after me than the high school sophomore she was now.
"You didn't tell me you were coming," I said, setting my bag down just in time for her to slam into me with a hug.
Mom appeared right after her, smiling in that proud, quiet way she had. "We thought we'd drop by to celebrate your big news." She held up a paper bag like it was a prize. "I brought food. Real food. Not the instant noodles you pretend are meals."
From the kitchen, Raman's voice floated out. "Aunty filled the fridge to last us for weeks!" He stepped into view, dish towel over his shoulder, and grinned at me.
"Aunty," Mom sighed, giving him a look. She'd tried for years to get him to call her Mom, but he'd stuck stubbornly to Aunty, and eventually, she'd let it go.
I smiled and stepped inside, letting the smell of Mom's cooking wrap around me. Raman studied me for a second—nothing intense, just a flicker of curiosity in his eyes—before going back to whatever he was doing.
We ended up around the dining table, Maren talking about a school trip while Mom unpacked container after container of food. I didn't even realize how much I'd missed this—the noise, the teasing, the way my mom's hand always found my shoulder as she passed by.
I needed this.
---
We sat around the dining table like we used to before college scattered us into our own lives.
Maren was busy piling food onto my plate like I hadn't eaten in weeks.
"Careful," I warned. "I need to fit into my work clothes tomorrow."
"This day deserves a feast," she said, grinning. "Besides, you can wash it down with more tea."
Raman shot her a look. "That's not how tea works, Maren."
Mom laughed softly as she set down the last bowl—a rich stew that smelled like my childhood. "Eat. Both of you. And you," she pointed her spoon at me, "don't you dare come home saying you're skipping meals because of work. A secretary needs his strength."
I smiled into my plate. "Yes, ma'am."
We clinked glasses—water for Maren, beer for Raman and me. Mom didn't drink, but she raised her tea like she was leading the charge.
"To Alistair," Raman said, a genuine smile softening his features. "For landing the job that actually pays rent on time."
"To Alistair," Mom and Maren echoed.
I took a sip, letting the warmth of the moment soak into me.
The laughter, the chatter, the smell of food—this was what home felt like.
And yet…
My mind flickered back to earlier, to the moment the office door opened and I'd found myself looking at him.
Those amber eyes. That smirk that felt like it could see through me.
Lumel Evans.
I swallowed hard and forced my attention back to my family.
Tonight was about them. Tomorrow… well, tomorrow I'd have to figure out what to do about him.
---
By the time I woke up, the apartment was quieter.
Mom and Maren had already left—probably caught an early bus back home. I'd slept right through their goodbye.
Raman was sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over his face, the TV playing some crime drama in the background.
"You're not going to work?" I asked, tugging at the buttons on my shirt as I walked toward the kitchen.
"It's a teacher in-service day," he mumbled. "Or a holiday. Or both. Honestly, I don't remember. I just know I'm not standing in front of teenagers today."
I downed the last of yesterday's coffee, grimaced, and glanced at the time.
"Keys," I said, holding out my hand.
He squinted at me like I'd just asked him to sign away his soul. "You mean Katrina?"
"Yes, your precious Katrina," I said, rolling my eyes. "I'll be gentle."
"You better be," he warned, digging the keys out from between the couch cushions. "She's got more personality than you, and I trust her more on the road."
"Funny," I muttered, snatching the keys.
I was already halfway out the door when I heard him call after me, "Don't scratch her, Grant!"
The drive to the Evans building felt shorter today—maybe because my stomach was twisted in anticipation. I told myself it was just nerves about making a good impression.
But if I was honest… it had a lot more to do with the possibility of running into him.