CHAPTER 103

CHAPTER 103
POV: Dominic

The house is louder now, even when no one speaks. 

It’s the kind of noise that lives under the skin, the scrape of dishes handled too roughly, the slam of doors that aren’t meant to sound angry but do, the short, clipped breaths of three people pretending they don’t see each other falling apart.

Dominic sits at the dining table, laptop open, eyes on numbers that refuse to make sense. He’s been at it for hours, but concentration keeps slipping through his fingers. Every few minutes, he hears a laugh Tyler’s, it was  sharp and careless from the kitchen.

Ethan is in there, too. He can tell by the sound of shuffling feet and the faint clatter of a spoon hitting ceramic. Their voices move like heat, too quiet to catch, too familiar to ignore.

Tyler says something, and Ethan mumbles a reply. Then there’s that laugh again,  the one that feels like it’s meant to cut.

Dominic tries to focus on the spreadsheet, but the numbers blur. He exhales, shuts the laptop, and finally walks toward the sound.

Tyler’s leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, a smirk twisting his mouth. Ethan stands near the stove, shoulders stiff, eyes down on the coffee he’s stirring though the mug’s already full.

The moment Dominic steps into the doorway, Tyler’s smirk widens, like he’s been waiting for an audience.

“Morning, boss,” Tyler drawls, voice dripping casual malice. “You’re up early. Or maybe you just never slept?”

Ethan glances up, uneasy. “Tyler….”

“It’s fine,” Dominic says evenly. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded. “Just making sure you’re not burning the place down.”

“Don’t worry.” Tyler lifts his cup, mock salute. “If we do, I’ll make sure the insurance papers are signed first.”

Ethan looks between them, tension thick enough to taste. “Can we not do this?”

Dominic almost answers, but Tyler gets there first. “Do what? Talk? Or pretend we don’t all know exactly what’s going on?”

Ethan flinches. Dominic’s jaw tightens. “You’ve got something to say, Tyler. Say it.”

Tyler shrugs, pushes off the counter. “Just that I admire your patience. Really. Takes a lot of restraint to stay this calm while everything around you crumbles.”

He says it lightly, but the words land heavy. Ethan’s voice is small. “Enough.”

Dominic’s expression doesn’t change, but his heartbeat quickens. He watches Tyler closely,  the way his eyes flash when he speaks, the deliberate choice of words meant to bruise. It isn’t spontaneous anymore. It’s calculated.

When Tyler leaves the room, brushing past him without so much as a glance, Dominic realizes something he doesn’t want to admit: the cruelty isn’t carelessness anymore. It’s intent.

The day drags. Dominic tries to work from his room, but the tension gnaws through the walls. He hears Ethan knocking on Tyler’s door once, voice low and apologetic, and Tyler’s cold reply  “Don’t bother.”

The sound of the door closing after that feels final. By evening, the rain starts again,  a steady familiar rhythm that used to calm him. Not anymore. He sits at the table with his notes spread out, but his eyes keep drifting toward the hallway.

He hears footsteps, then Ethan’s voice. “Dom?”

He looks up. Ethan stands there, barefoot, sweater hanging loose, exhaustion written in every line of his face. “Can we talk?”

Dominic gestures to the chair across from him. “Sure.”

Ethan sits. His hands twist together nervously. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he says quietly. “Any of it.”

Dominic’s reply comes slowly. “You can’t fix something that the other person’s still trying to break.”

Ethan looks at him sharply. “You think I’m trying to break it?”

Dominic shakes his head. “Not you.”

He doesn’t say the name, but they both know it. Ethan’s eyes drop. “He’s different lately.”

“Different,” Dominic repeats. “That’s one word for it.”

Ethan presses his palms to his face. “He keeps saying things. Little things. About us. About me. Sometimes it feels like he’s daring me to hate him.”

Dominic watches him quietly, feeling something old and bitter twist inside. “Maybe he already hates himself enough for both of you.”

Ethan drops his hands, blinking back tears he refuses to show. “I deserve it.”

“No one deserves this,” Dominic says, softer now. “Not even you.”

The silence that follows isn’t comfortable, but it’s honest. They sit there for a long time, two people who have already lost too much, holding on to whatever scraps are left.

Tyler doesn’t come home until late. The door opens with a gust of cold air, and he steps inside like he owns the place hair wet, jacket dripping, smile thin and sharp. 

He doesn’t acknowledge Dominic or Ethan sitting on the couch. He just tosses his keys on the counter and heads to the fridge.

Ethan stands. “Where were you?”

“Out,” Tyler answers flatly.

“Out where?” Ethan presses, desperate. “You didn’t say anything.”

Tyler takes a drink from the carton, looks over his shoulder. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”

Dominic’s voice cuts through the air. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

Tyler turns fully then, eyes meeting Dominic’s. For a heartbeat, something flickers behind his gaze hurt, maybe, or regret. But it vanishes as fast as it comes.

“Or what?” he says quietly.

Dominic doesn’t answer. He just looks at him, and sees it clearly for the first time. The cruel smile, the practiced jabs, the empty confidence. Every barb is a wall, every joke a shield. Tyler’s trying to make them hate him because it’s easier than being hated for real.

“Nothing,” Dominic says finally. “You’ll do it yourself.”

Tyler’s jaw tightens. “You think you’ve got me figured out.”

“I think,” Dominic says, “you want someone else to blame.”

Tyler stares at him for a long moment, and then, without another word, turns and walks down the hall. The door to his room slams. The sound echoes through the house.

Much later, when the lights are out and Dominic lies awake listening to the storm outside, he realizes the pattern’s changed. It used to be Ethan’s quiet crying behind a closed door that kept him up; now it’s the absence of sound from Tyler’s room that unsettles him most.

He’s not sure which is worse, the chaos that comes with confrontation, or the silence that follows when someone’s already decided to stop trying.

He turns on his side, staring into the dark, and whispers into the emptiness of the room:

“We’re all just waiting for someone to leave first.”

But the house doesn’t answer, it only creaks, patient, as if holding its breath for the inevitable.