21

21
Halo

I peeked out. “They probably are. Especially James. He didn’t dare argue. The Johansons were my original legal guardians, remember?”

“Until Marilyn’s will and your stubborn agreement got in the way,” she muttered.

“I am twenty-three… I thought I could handle it.”

She gave me a long look. “You can barely handle breakfast without spiraling, sweetheart. You’re not weak, just…” She paused, brushing my cheek again, “too soft for the kind of world you've been thrown into.”

I smiled sadly. “Too problematic for my good.”

She kissed my forehead like I was still a child. “Maybe. But you’re our problem.”

Later that evening, I sat curled on the Johansons’ couch, legs tucked under me like a kid. Mrs. Sandra came in with a bowl of warm soup — thick, spicy, rich with ginger. I winced when I smelled it.

“I’m not really—”

“Hush,” she said, setting it in my lap and sitting beside me. “You don’t have to be hungry. Just try.”

I looked at it. Then at her.

“I’m scared I’ll throw up.”

“If you do, we’ll clean it up together.”

Her hand found mine, squeezing gently. “You’ve been surviving on shadows, Halo. You need real things now. Warm things. Soft things. Food is one of them.”

I dipped the spoon in and took a slow bite. It stung my tongue just right. Comforted and scolded at the same time.

I managed five spoonfuls before setting it down.

“That’s enough,” she said. No guilt. No pushing. Just pride in her eyes like I’d finished the whole damn bowl.

I think I fell asleep leaning against her shoulder.

Mrs. Sandra made me fall in love with Chinese cuisine. The way she cooked — every spice intentional, every dish like a warm hug — was something I’d never experienced before. No one would believe I could understand Cantonese now, but after living with her for so long, it came naturally. She never taught me formally. I just… absorbed it. The language, the comfort, the care.

Mr. Rob — her husband — was full American, quiet as a cloud, and possibly the kindest man I’ve ever met. He found it hard at first, accepting Panda when she began her transition. I could tell he was scared, unsure. But in time, he came around completely. Now, he never says much, but you can feel his love in everything he does — the way he carries her shopping bags, the way he keeps her childhood art in his wallet. He’s not the loud, emotional type, but he shows up. That’s what matters.

He’s a businessman — always traveling, always chasing contracts — but when he’s home, he makes it count.

Sometimes, I wonder what kind of person I’d be if I had grown up entirely in this house.

If I’d grown up here… in this house with warmth, soft voices, and meals that didn’t come with screaming or silence… maybe I wouldn’t be this version of myself. This broken, jagged thing. Maybe I wouldn’t have seen half the shit I’ve lived through. But oh well — I wasn’t one of God’s favorites. That much was clear.

I spent the rest of the day away from my phone, curled up on the couch watching a drama with Mrs. Sandra. Panda had gone to visit her boyfriend, but I didn’t feel lonely. For once, I felt... relaxed. Maybe it was a good thing I was forced to stay here longer than I planned.

The days that followed, I did my assignments — they were due, and without them, I would have failed. Despite everything, I wasn’t just some struggling art student. I was gifted. That’s what they said, anyway. “Department god,” some of them called me — because my art, no matter the style or subject, looked so real it made people pause. Like it breathed.

But lately… I had no creative juice. If it wasn’t something I had to do, something assigned, I couldn’t think of anything on my own. My mind was dry. And it had been that way since Kattie passed.

She was my muse. My light. The first person who ever looked at my work like it meant something, like I meant something. She bought so much of my art, I swear she could open her own gallery. And not with cheap prints either — she paid real money. Too much, honestly.

But she made a rule. Said I couldn’t access the full funds until a certain year.

“You’re still too reckless,” she used to tease. “Too dramatic. You’d burn all this money on pills or pleasure and hate yourself for it.”

She wasn’t wrong.

She feared I’d relapse. She knew me well.

And that’s why I looked at Lucian like he’d lost his mind when he sent me money.

It wasn’t arrogance — it wasn’t even a brag — but I was already worth millions. Quietly. Privately. Kattie made sure of that. I didn’t need his money… I just needed his heart.

But I guess that was the one thing I could never have.

Kattie believed in me more than anyone ever had. Even after she passed, she still found a way to protect me. She’d set everything up — the funds, the gallery space, the right connections — all of it written into her will. But there was one condition: I had to finish school. Only then would everything become mine.

She said she wanted me to “grow into it,” to earn it with both talent and discipline. I used to roll my eyes and say she was being dramatic. Now? I know she was just trying to save me from myself.

The gallery had already been built. It was waiting. She was gone, but she still believed I had a future.

The thought alone brought tears to my eyes.

I wiped my tears in silence, careful not to alarm Maa. She was still beside me, her warmth grounding me more than she probably realized. I didn’t want to explain why I was crying. Not now. Not while she was trying so hard to keep me afloat.

Then my phone chimed.

I frowned. How had that slipped through? I was sure I’d turned on Do Not Disturb. But of course — it never worked quite right, not when I needed it to.

I lazily reached for the device, expecting spam or some random meme from Panda. Instead, what I saw made my chest tighten.

Instagram. Message request.

From a verified account. Millions of followers.

Johan Wolfe.

Lucian’s brother.

Just one word.

“Hi.”