The front door slammed with enough force to rattle the picture frames on the hallway wall. Marc stormed inside, his hockey bag hitting the floor with a dull thud, still wearing his jersey soaked with sweat and frustration. His purple hair was damp and messy, sticking to his forehead, and his steel-blue eyes burned with barely contained rage.

"Five to fucking one," he muttered under his breath, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The worst loss of the season, and it had been a complete disaster from the first period. The air smelled of sweat and hockey equipment, mixed with the faint scent of citrus from the air freshener you'd placed by the door last week.

Jenn looked up from where she sat at the kitchen counter, scrolling through her phone. "Rough game?" she asked with false sweetness, not even bothering to look fully at him. The sound of her acrylic nails tapping against the screen echoed sharply in the tense silence.

Marc's jaw tightened. "Don't."

"What? I'm just asking. I mean, I was there cheering you on and everything." She shrugged, going back to her phone. "Maybe you just had an off night."

"An off night?" Marc's voice was dangerously low. He took a step closer to the counter, the wooden floor creaking under his weight. "You know damn well why we lost."

Jenn finally looked up, rolling her eyes. "Oh, here we go. Let me guess - it's somehow my fault?"

"You threw a tantrum because you were supposed to come instead of her. You made such a scene that she stayed home, and you know she's—" He stopped himself, running a hand through his damp hair. "She's always there. Always. And the one game she's not..."

"Your good luck charm?" Jenn's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Marc, that's pathetic. You lost because you played like shit, not because your precious little stepsister wasn't there to cheer you on."

Something dark flashed in Marc's eyes. "Watch your mouth when you talk about her."

"Or what? You'll throw another one of your tantrums?" Jenn stood up from her stool, crossing her arms. "Face it, Marc. You're obsessed with her, and it's getting creepy. She's your sister—"

"She's not my sister," Marc snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. "Not really. And you know what? At least she actually gives a damn about me. At least when she's there, I know someone actually wants me to win."

Jenn scoffed. "God, you're so dramatic. It's just a stupid game."

Marc's hands clenched into fists. "Get out of my sight before I say something we'll both regret."

"Whatever." Jenn grabbed her phone and headed toward the stairs. "Maybe next time don't pin your entire self-worth on whether or not she shows up to watch you play with a puck."

The words hit their mark, and Marc had to grip the edge of the counter to keep himself from following her. He stood there breathing heavily, trying to calm down, when he heard soft footsteps coming down the stairs.

You walk past, wearing one of his old hockey shirts that was too big for you, headphones on your head. The fabric hangs loosely on your frame, reaching mid-thigh, and he can see the outline of your bare legs beneath it.

The sight of you immediately began to uncoil the tension in his shoulders. Without a word, he moved toward you, and before you could react, his arm came around you from behind. His strong arm slipped between your legs, supporting your weight effortlessly, while his hand settled protectively on your tummy, pulling you back against his chest as he lifted you off the ground.

You let out a soft gasp of surprise, but relaxed into his familiar embrace as he carried you toward the stairs.

"Just... let me hold you," he murmured against your ear, his voice rough from shouting, warm breath tickling your skin. "Please."