Four Of A Kind

"Harlow makes waffles at six in the morning?"

"Harlow doesn’t sleep. I’m fairly certain she runs on enthusiasm and sugar."

Isaiah snorted, and the sound loosened something in Sabrina’s chest. He was still here. Still looking at her like she was something worth looking at. Still touching her like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to.

"Fine. Breakfast. But then I really have to go."

"I know."

She kissed him then, soft and unhurried, morning breath be damned. His hand came up to cup her jaw, thumb stroking across her cheekbone in a gesture that felt more intimate than anything they’d done in the dark.

When they finally pulled apart, Isaiah was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just." He paused, seemed to struggle with the words. "You’re different in the morning."

"Different how?"

"Softer. Less like you’re three moves ahead of everyone else in the room."

Sabrina considered this. He wasn’t wrong. The masks she wore for the world took effort to maintain, and she hadn’t bothered putting them back on yet. Here, in the golden light of her bedroom with Isaiah’s hands on her skin, she’d let herself just be.

"Is that a problem?"

"No." His voice was quiet. "I like this version of you. I like all the versions. But this one." He pressed his forehead against hers. "This one feels like a secret."

Her throat tightened. How did he always know exactly what to say? How did this exhausted, overworked, emotionally unavailable boy manage to find the precise words that made her feel seen in a way nobody else ever had?

"You’re the only one who gets to see it."

"Good." He kissed the tip of her nose. "I’m greedy like that."

They lay tangled together for another few minutes, neither of them willing to break the spell. Sabrina traced patterns across Isaiah’s chest, mapping the topography of muscle and bone and the occasional scar he refused to explain. His fingers played with her hair, separating the strands and letting them slip through his grip like water.

The peace couldn’t last. She knew that. But she let herself have it anyway.

Eventually, inevitably, reality intruded in the form of Sabrina’s bladder making its needs known. She extricated herself from Isaiah’s arms with a reluctance that bordered on pathetic and padded barefoot across the cold floor toward her en suite bathroom.

She looked like a disaster in the mirror. Hair a tangled mess, mascara smudged beneath her eyes, lips swollen and red from kissing. Marks on her neck and collarbone that would need concealer if she wanted to face her sisters without dying of embarrassment.

She didn’t bother with concealer.

Let them see. Let them know that something had happened in this room last night, something that mattered, something that had changed the fundamental shape of Sabrina’s existence. She’d spent her whole life hiding, observing from the shadows, keeping herself separate and safe and untouchable.

Isaiah had touched her. Isaiah had seen her. And instead of running, he’d said he was falling too.

She splashed water on her face, ran her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt at taming it, and decided that was good enough. Proper grooming could wait until after breakfast.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Isaiah was sitting on the edge of her bed, fully dressed except for his shoes. He’d found his shirt somewhere in the tangle of blankets and put it on wrong-side-out, a detail that made her chest ache with fondness.

"Your shirt’s inside out."

He looked down. Sighed. "Figures."

"Do you want me to wait while you fix it?"

"Nah. Adds character." He stood, stretching his arms above his head in a way that made the muscles of his stomach visible beneath the thin fabric. Sabrina tracked the movement with her eyes and didn’t bother pretending otherwise. "Where’s this breakfast happening?"

"Kitchen. Probably. Unless Harlow’s decided to set up a picnic on the lawn, which honestly wouldn’t surprise me."

They walked together through the silent hallways of the manor, passing portraits of Valentines long dead and furniture that had been in the family for generations. The house felt different with Isaiah beside her. Less like a mausoleum and more like somewhere people actually lived.

Voices drifted from the kitchen as they approached. Harlow’s excited chatter, Vivienne’s measured responses, and underneath it all the clatter of dishes and the sizzle of something cooking.

Sabrina paused at the threshold, suddenly aware of what she was about to walk into. Her sisters, all three of them, assembled for breakfast. Isaiah at her side with his inside-out shirt and his sleep-mussed hair and the marks she’d left on his neck visible above his collar.

This was going to be interesting.

"Ready?"

Isaiah glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. "Are you asking me or yourself?"

"Both."

"Then yes. Let’s get this over with."

They stepped into the kitchen together.

Harlow spotted them first, because Harlow always spotted everything first when it came to Isaiah. Her whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch, eyes going wide and bright as she abandoned the waffle iron and practically bounced across the room.

"You stayed! I knew you’d stay! Brina never lets anyone stay, not ever, but I told Vivi that you were different and I was right and oh my gosh, are those hickeys? Those are totally hickeys. I’m so proud of you, Brina, you’re finally learning how to mark your territory!"

Sabrina felt her face heat. Behind her, Isaiah made a sound that might have been a laugh or a prayer for death.

"Harlow. Please stop talking."

"But I’m so happy! This is the best morning! I made waffles and bacon and there’s fresh-squeezed orange juice because Mrs. Tanaka said Isaiah needs vitamins and look, I even found the fancy syrup that Dad used to get from that place in Vermont!"

The mention of their father sent a small ripple through the room. Vivienne, seated at the breakfast table with her tablet and a cup of tea, looked up with an unreadable expression. Cassidy, sprawled in a chair with her feet on the table and a plate of bacon in her lap, went very still.

"Harlow." Vivienne’s voice carried that particular tone that meant she was three seconds from intervening. "Perhaps we could let our guests actually enter the room before overwhelming them with enthusiasm."