Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Waking in the mornings always feels like a chore for some people. There is work they have to prepare for; children they need to wake, dress, feed, and pack their bags for school; or simply the exhausting task of pulling themselves out of bed and forcing productivity no matter what has happened — or continues to happen — in their lives. For most, the morning struggle is external, tied to responsibilities and schedules. That wasn’t the case for them.

Their mornings were defined by something far more disorienting. Sore muscles and aching bones that have explanations fleeting into their memories before they fully process. The persistent ache of exhaustion, even though one of them was always resting. And, worst of all, the uncertainty of their next location. They are still having trouble communicating, as they rarely did before, and it seemed to work fine for a while, until the awareness of each other became hard to ignore. Never knowing if they would wake up in their own bed, on a couch, or somewhere unfamiliar entirely, dictated by where the previous front had left the body. Each morning carried the quiet fear of discovery, of piecing together hours they did not own.

Steven Grant is thirty-four years old and lives with the sleep schedule of a father of a rebellious teenager who's constantly sneaking out at night. He is, by nature, cautious and routine-driven. He rarely goes out after dark unless it’s for a quiet, grounding walk through familiar streets or because he’s coming home late from his job at the museum. Even then, he prefers predictability. Despite this, nights are rarely his to control. Someone else always seems to take over, undoing his careful structure and leaving him to deal with the consequences during the day. It disrupts his focus, his energy, and his already fragile sense of stability.

Marc Spector is thirty-eight. He is far more accustomed to the night, often the one who goes out when the sun goes down. Occasionally, he fronts during the day and lives a life close to normal — running errands, interacting with others, and handling responsibilities with practiced efficiency. For the longest time, Marc fronted almost exclusively. It was simply how things were until they attempted to determine which division of control would best serve their survival. Even now, that arrangement barely functions, constantly shifting under pressure.

Jake Lockley lives with them, too, though he exists on the edges of awareness. He only fronts when disaster calls — when danger is imminent, and hesitation could cost them everything. He never really offers up his age, at least not from the moment he first appeared, but Steven and Marc have come to agree that he’s around thirty-eight, the same age as Marc. It makes sense to them. Jake manifested when someone harder, colder, and more resilient was needed — someone capable of enduring what the others couldn’t.

Biologically, they are all the same age. But Steven prefers not to think of it that way. Instead, he measures time by when each of them entered Marc’s life. By that metric, Steven considers himself around twenty-nine, while Jake is closer to twenty-three. It’s a distinction that feels more honest, tied to lived experience rather than the body they share.

Jake was the first to truly understand both Marc and Steven — and his own role among them. His purpose was protection, specifically from Marc's mother. Because of that, he learned how to control and suppress memories, walling off the worst parts of their childhood before they could overwhelm the mind. He became adept at carrying what the others couldn’t bear to see, let alone remember. When the body is threatened — physically or psychologically — Jake is the one pulled to the front without hesitation.

Marc didn’t realize he had created Jake as an alter until the fight against Harrow in Cairo, when they nearly killed him. In the aftermath, shaken and searching for answers, it became impossible to ignore that something — or someone else -- had taken control. Steven couldn’t have done it, and Marc knew that. The realization sent them spiraling, forcing Marc to confront the existence of another alter he hadn’t known about. Unlike Jake, Marc had always been aware of Steven’s presence, calling on him to front during moments of extreme stress or when Marc needed distance from his own life.

They stopped switching regularly after Marc turned fifteen. That was when Jake largely assumed Steven’s role as protector, allowing Steven to exist without constantly bracing for impact. Marc believed there was no longer a need to retreat inward, no reason to cower from the world. Especially since Steven hadn’t manifested at the age of nine, as Marc once assumed. Steven had first appeared as a five-year-old, slowly aging over time as if he were a real child rather than a static manifestation of trauma.

Steven never knew about either of them — not until he woke up in some random town hours away from his flat in London, disoriented and aching, with dirt under his nails and a sickening sense that time had been stolen from him. At first, he thought it was exhaustion. Stress. Another sleepless night bleeding into the next day. But as the questions piled up — receipts he didn’t remember, bruises he couldn’t explain, people who seemed to recognize him when he had never seen their faces before — it became impossible to ignore the truth.

Once he discovered where he had come from, much of his life began to make a lot more sense.

The gaps in memory.

The fuzziness when trying to recall specific events in what was supposedly a happy childhood.

An entire stretch of time that felt like a lost dream more than a static-filled memory.

Especially during his adolescent years. Marc had shoved him so far down into their shared consciousness, desperate to keep Steven hidden, hoping he would never surface at the wrong moment — never appear as a terrified child trapped in the body of a fully trained mercenary. Steven had been too soft, too fragile for the life Marc was forced to live.

Jake never manifested young the way Steven did. There was no childhood innocence stretched thin over years of quiet growth. The circumstances that caused Jake to exist demanded someone fully formed — someone hard, capable, and already the same age as Marc. There was no time for him to grow up.

Their life together has been strange, strained, and has housed many overwhelmingly traumatic events to tie it all together. Every day feels like a compromise stitched together from survival instincts and learned restraint. Slowly, though, they’ve begun to communicate better, learning how to coexist without tearing each other apart. They’ve even managed to establish a system — not perfect, but functional.

Steven takes control when no superhero shenanigans are involved, anchoring them in routine and normalcy. Marc handles those shenanigans when they arise, slipping back into old instincts with practiced ease. Jake deals with them when things go south, when restraint is no longer an option. They do switch — it isn’t purely Steven handling the mundane — but they each fall into familiar roles.
Steven cleans obsessively, making sure their body is pristine, orderly, untouched by the chaos that lurks just beneath the surface. Marc takes control in the kitchen, focused on nutrition and balance, ensuring healthy food goes into their system like it might fix something deeper.
Jake disrupts both efforts, dragging them out for smoke breaks or pushing them toward indulgent, sugary distractions. Steven and Marc only ever protest the smoking. Some battles aren’t worth fighting.

The suit helps them heal from the power Khonshu gave them — not that it was ever really “taken,” not in the way Marc and Steven once believed. Jake had been the sole possessor of the suit long before they understood what was happening, long before they learned how to reach him in their shared headspace. That realization alone nearly broke them. The rest of that story is still buried, waiting for a time when they’re ready to face it.

Jake is also the only one with an actual driver’s license — one that comes with far more uses than Steven or Marc are comfortable acknowledging. Still, it helps tremendously when at least one of your alters knows what they’re doing behind the wheel. Steven never learned to drive; London made it unnecessary, with walking and buses carrying him everywhere he needed to go. Marc, meanwhile, spent most of his time as a passenger, especially during his marriage to Layla, content to let someone else take control for once.

After staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours, trapped in the liminal space between sleep and awareness, they finally force themselves out of bed. The routine follows automatically — food, shower, teeth — movements practiced enough that it barely matters who’s fronting. Then it’s off to work, another day layered on top of the last.

It’s a painfully mundane process, but the routine keeps Steven sane. And as long as Steven is sane, the other two remain stable enough to function. When one alter sleeps, the others drift into their own rhythms, leaving Marc and Jake to do whatever suits them once darkness settles over the city.

Marc uses the night to walk, to lose himself in motion, or to punish his body at the gym when the tension becomes unbearable. It’s the closest thing he has to peace.

Jake uses the night to carry out their duty as Moon Knight.

The other two don’t know.

Jake has grown frighteningly good at pushing Steven and Marc deep into their subconscious whenever he goes out as Moon Knight, sealing them away before they can ask questions or see too much. He doesn’t want them to know they are still — technically — working for Khonshu. All Jake wants is to protect them. Mind, body, and soul. Especially from the moon god’s hands.

That — and the fear of how they would react once the truth finally surfaced — sat heavy in Jake’s chest. He could imagine it too clearly. Marc, appalled that Jake had never thought to mention it, furious that decisions were still being made without him. Steven, sickened at the thought of still being tethered to Khonshu after all these years of believing they had escaped the old bird’s grasp, only to learn that the chain had never really been broken. Or worse, Steven might try to smile through it, relieved — delighted, even — that Jake had taken the burden onto himself. That thought alone made Jake’s stomach twist. Steven would be hurt that it had been kept from him, that trust had been quietly set aside “for his own good.” And Marc… Marc would be livid. Jake knew that kind of anger well. He lived in it.

Even though Jake had grown adept at forcing the others down when he needed to, there were moments — small, dangerous cracks — where his control slipped. Blackouts would hit him after long nights, usually once he was back in their flat, the adrenaline burned off, and exhaustion settled deep into their bones. He always blamed it on fatigue. Told himself Steven had simply taken the reins early to enjoy the quiet mornings, the soft routine of normalcy Jake pretended not to envy. It was easier to believe that than to question himself.

It wasn’t until months later that the illusion began to fray — when Steven, puzzled and hesitant, asked why there was a child’s book hidden under the bed.

The question came after an ill-fated attempt at “spring cleaning.” Steven had found a bug —harmless, really, but enough to send him spiraling so hard into their subconscious that Marc was shoved forward without warning just to deal with it. The aftermath of that incident ended in a rare, unanimous decision: the flat needed to be cleaned properly. All of it. Every corner. Every hidden space. They took turns, swapping out whenever one of them got tired or simply didn’t know what to tackle next.

And that was how they ended up back at the children’s books.

“Marc?” Steven’s voice carried from the bedroom floor. He had pulled The Rainbow Fish from beneath the bed, sitting back on his legs as he turned it over in his hands. The book was worn, its edges softened with age and use — something that definitely didn’t fit with the rest of his carefully curated collection.

“What’s up, bud?” Marc appeared in the tall mirror leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he observed from a slight distance.

“Is this…” Steven angled the book so Marc could see the cover clearly in the reflection, “…familiar to you?”

Marc leaned closer, brow furrowing as he studied the bright, glittering scales on the cover. He shook his head slowly. “No, sorry, Steven. Maybe Jake knows?”

Almost immediately, Jake appeared behind Marc in the reflection, taller, looming slightly as he peered over Marc’s shoulder. One hand settled on his hip while the other scratched absently at the faint scar along their shared jaw.

“Mm, nah, amigos,” Jake said after a moment. “That libro infantil is not mine.” He lifted both hands in a casual show of innocence.

Steven snorted softly. “No, mate. We’re not accusing you of buying a children’s book.” His gaze dropped back to the book, fingers tightening around its spine as something resolute settled into his expression. “But we do need to find out where this came from. And if there are any more.”

Marc nodded once, serious now. Jake followed suit, though unease flickered behind his eyes.

And so they began searching — methodically, carefully — turning their flat upside down in quiet agreement, unaware that what they were really digging through wasn’t just their living space, but the carefully buried edges of their own mind.

During their search, they uncovered more than just one misplaced book. Children’s paperbacks were tucked behind the sofa cushions, wedged between shelves that Steven swore he’d dusted only days ago. Small toys appeared next — plastic figurines hidden in drawers, a worn plush shoved to the back of a closet, its fabric softened by repeated handling. Each discovery only added to their confusion. And, slowly, a creeping concern began to take root: the fear that there might be an actual child somewhere in the flat.

They searched the physical space with urgency, checking corners and cupboards, peering beneath furniture and behind doors that barely ever closed properly. Their focus stayed firmly on the idea of a real child — someone flesh and blood, frightened and hiding — because that thought was easier to confront than the alternative. Easier than accepting that the child might not be in the flat at all.

Easier than considering he might be inside them.

Deep in their subconscious, buried beneath layers of repressed memories and trauma that Jake and Steven had deliberately pushed down to keep Marc functional, there was a little boy. He existed among fractured thoughts and emotional barricades, tucked away where the pain softened just enough to be survivable. Maybe he would have been found sooner if they had worked through their trauma together instead of surviving it in pieces. Maybe if they had spoken more honestly, rested more deeply, trusted more fully.

Instead, they moved carefully and slowly, letting wounds scar over without probing too deeply. The little boy surfaced only in quiet moments — brief, unnoticed appearances while the others slept, while the mind rested just enough to let him breathe.

He was never discovered.

He was never seen.

The little boy came into existence seven years ago, during one of Marc’s worst episodes — one so severe that he couldn’t bear to let Steven take over. Steven was too gentle then, too fragile for what needed to be endured. Jake, for all his strength, had never handled that kind of emotional fallout. There was no one suited for the moment.

So the mind adapted.

Adam was created.

Adam doesn’t age the way the others do. He stays suspended, flexible rather than fixed. He can regress when necessary, slipping backward to survive, but the oldest he’s ever been is nine. Those memories come from before the accident with their brother, Randall — before everything shattered. Adam doesn’t remember Randall himself. He only carries the sensation of loss without its shape, the instinctive knowledge that being older than nine is dangerous, that it brings pain too heavy to hold.

The youngest Adam has ever been is five. At that age, everything is raw — fear without context, hurt without language. Because of this, when Adam reaches nine, he prepares. He gathers what he can, hides comforts where they’ll be found later, sets safeguards in place in case something terrible happens and forces him to slip back to five again.

Seven is where he stays.

Seven is safe. Old enough to understand danger, young enough to avoid it. Old enough to protect himself without carrying responsibility he shouldn’t have. For seven years, Adam has existed in that narrow space between vulnerability and awareness, quietly maintaining balance while the three adults noticed nothing at all.

He slips into their routines unnoticed. Sometimes he co-pilots during grocery trips, nudging hands toward brightly colored boxes or familiar sweets. He plants the thought gently — we used to like these, we haven’t had this in years. Marc or Steven accepts the excuse without question, chalking it up to nostalgia or stress. They never realize someone else is making sure the kid gets fed.

The system has worked for a long time.

But systems built on silence always crack eventually. Just as Steven was discovered. Just as Jake was uncovered.

It was only a matter of time before the little one was found, too.

Chapter Text

“How do you think we should go about this?”

Marc stared at his reflection, tracing the outline of his own eyes in the mirror as if hoping for an answer to appear there. Jake leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed but alert, his posture loose yet deliberate, like a predator studying the room. Steven sat cross-legged on the bed, the children’s book now resting in Marc’s hands, still staring at it as though it might suddenly explain itself. The quiet hum of the flat pressed in around them, only broken by the faint creaks of the floorboards under Jake’s shifting weight.

“Well,” Steven cleared his throat, the sound far louder in the otherwise quiet room. “We’ve looked everywhere, and there is definitely not a child in here.” He looked down at his hands, nervously twisting his fingers together. Despite sharing a head, the loudest thinker of the three was careful to keep his thoughts contained. “So maybe…” His voice faltered slightly, and he shifted again, moving from twisting his fingers to fidgeting with the sleeve of his jumper. Each small movement seemed to mirror his internal hesitation, the uncertainty bubbling just beneath the surface.

“¿Tal vez?” Jake’s voice cut through, his deeper accent carrying a weight that made Steven pause. He stared intently at Steven’s back, his eyes narrowing slightly, probing. “What is it, paloma? ¿En qué estás pensando?” There was patience in his tone, but also the gentle nudge that promised he wouldn’t let Steven hide his thoughts this time.

Steven swallowed, his throat dry. “What if it’s another alter?” The words slipped out softly, but they hung in the air like a challenge.

Marc’s gaze stayed fixed on his own reflection in the mirror. The unbroken eye contact between Jake and Steven was starting to feel suffocating, too intense to endure. He turned his back to them for a moment, trying to gather his own thoughts, his shoulders tightening. “That’s not possible. How would we have another alter?” He turned back, just in time to see Jake stepping closer, moving with that quiet, deliberate ease that always made Marc pause. Jake’s eyes scanned the small pile of children’s items scattered across the floor, lingering as though trying to make sense of the evidence before them.

“Think about it,” Jake said, his voice low but firm, drawing Marc’s attention fully back to him. He pushed off the wall and walked over to the pile of toys and books, his steps measured. “There’s no kid—but we’ve got all of this stuff. And last I checked, none of us has anything resembling a love life, let alone a hidden, stable family. Am I right?” His eyes swept across Marc and Steven, challenging them to argue — but there was no argument to be had.

Marc and Jake exchanged a glance, subtle but telling. Defeat was etched into their expressions, but so was understanding. When they turned back to Steven, they both gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod, the weight of shared realization settling across the room.

Steven’s gaze lingered on the items on the floor, then back to Marc and Jake. “So we do have another alter,” he said quietly, the certainty in his voice growing with each word. “But… how long have they been here?” His fingers drummed lightly against his knees, betraying the anxiety he tried so hard to keep contained.

Marc looked down and away, pacing the length of the room as he dug deeper into their subconscious, each step deliberate. He focused on the faint echoes, the small impressions left behind like footprints in sand. He could feel the presence, subtle and almost hidden, a shadow of familiarity buried among the cluttered memories of their shared mind.

And then he found it.

A small shift in the air, almost imperceptible, told him the truth. There was someone else. Someone who had been there all along, quietly existing in the spaces between them, waiting to be discovered. The weight of that realization settled over him like a stone, sharp but undeniable, as the three of them prepared — consciously or not — for a discovery that would change the balance of their world.

“Marines.” Marc lifted his gaze back to his reflection, the faint fluorescent light bouncing off the mirror catching the dark circles under his eyes. “I blacked out in the house the military gave me to rest in. I woke up later snuggling some kind of stuffed animal.” His jaw tightened as he tried to remember the details, digging deeper into the fragments of memory that clawed at the edges of his mind. “At first, I thought Steven had accidentally resurfaced, and I freaked out.”

Steven’s eyes narrowed, a mixture of disapproval and something softer crossing his face. He didn’t speak at first, letting the silence stretch, but he understood. He had been needed then, whether Marc wanted to admit it or not. And Marc — Marc hadn’t been ready to accept that. Especially not during that turbulent time in his life, when vulnerability felt like a liability and any sign of weakness could be fatal.

“But you were a teenager,” Steven finally said, his voice measured. “You couldn’t have slept with a stuffed animal.”

Marc blinked, looking for confirmation, some acknowledgment from the other side, but he received only a blank, calm stare.

“I don’t know,” Steven admitted after a pause, almost wistful, almost bitter. “I didn’t get to live out my adolescent years, so I suppose we’ll never know if I would’ve.”

Marc flinched. The words hit harder than he expected. There was truth there, a jagged edge to it that stung — but he couldn’t deny it. The honesty, even in its bluntness, was justifiable.

“Anyways,” Steven continued, shifting his weight on the bed, hands fiddling nervously with the edge of the book he’d been holding earlier. “We should try to find the kid. Or at least lure them out.”

Jake, who had been leaning silently against the wall, nodded once, slow and deliberate. He had remained quiet throughout the conversation, knowing when to step back. Marc and Steven still had their own tangled feelings to unpack — emotional knots that had nothing to do with him — and whenever these moments arose, he usually let them take center stage.

“Maybe we should get an iPad?” Steven suggested, tilting his head as if imagining the little one tapping at a glowing screen. “Kids like those nowadays, right?”

“No,” Marc countered immediately, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Maybe a PS5. I saw they started playing COD III.” He leaned against the edge of the bed, crossing his arms, as if daring Steven to argue.

“Marc, we are not doing that!” Steven snapped, throwing his hands up. His frustration was barely contained, a mix of exasperation and the instinct to protect the unknown child.

“Why not? That game’s fun.” Marc’s grin widened, sly, teasing. He almost seemed to enjoy pushing Steven’s buttons.

“No,” Steven said firmly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation, “because you just want an excuse to get a PS5.”

“Might as well—you won’t let—” Marc started, only to be cut off.

“—because you don’t—” Steven interjected, equally stubborn, voices overlapping in their characteristic dance of bickering and compromise.

Jake, exasperated, stepped forward, hands rubbing his temples. “Pendejos.” His deep voice cut through the tension, laced with equal parts irritation and amusement. “Just get a Game Boy for the kid.”

There was a pause, a momentary truce in the room. The suggestion, simple as it was, felt grounded, practical — and it made sense. The three of them exchanged glances, each processing their own thoughts about the child hidden somewhere within their subconscious. For once, the noise of disagreement quieted, replaced by a rare sense of agreement and the small, tentative hope that maybe, just maybe, they were one step closer to finding the little one.

They looked at Jake, who had effortlessly taken over the body while the other two argued, the quiet center of calm in the midst of chaos. He plopped onto the bed with a sort of practiced ease and grabbed the book, flipping through the pages as if they were precious treasures. He had never had the chance to read children’s books before — appearing in Marc’s teenage years to replace Steven as protector meant his life had been far more about survival than simple pleasures. He was attuned to danger, accustomed to the raw edges of violence, whereas the softer, slower rhythms of high school life had always seemed foreign, even absurd.

Steven watched Jake carefully, taking in the deliberate way he handled the book, the focus in his eyes, and the subtle tension still lingering in his posture. “A Game Boy should work better, actually…” Steven said after a pause, almost to himself. He nodded and pushed to the front, and Jake, as always, stepped back without protest. Immediately, Steven’s analytical mind kicked in. He began researching the best Game Boys available, scanning listings, comparing prices, reading descriptions, and checking reviews — all while striving to find the most affordable options. Jake and Marc, seated quietly beside him, exchanged glances. They watched, silently impressed, at the intensity and precision with which their Steven approached the task, so unlike the distracted, carefree child he sometimes seemed to be.

Meanwhile, in the dark corner behind the chair stacked with blankets, Adam peered out with wide, curious eyes. He watched the adult alters fumble and discuss, trying to figure out how to lure him into communicating. A small, mischievous smile spread across his face — he’d been wanting a Game Boy for a long time. He made a mental note to thank Jake when they finally met. Which could happen right now, theoretically, but Adam preferred to observe a little longer, to see which Game Boy they would ultimately choose for him. Satisfied for the moment, he retreated back into the subconscious, curling up comfortably in the tiny corner of the mind he had carefully carved out as his own. It was cozy, safe, and perfectly his, a secret haven where he could watch the world of the adults without being directly involved.

The adults — or more specifically, Steven — were starting to feel the strain of the process. Prices had become a source of mounting stress.

“What do you actually mean this is $1,200?!” Steven exclaimed, gripping the phone tightly. “Oh my… bloody hell… are you kidding me?” He scrolled frantically through eBay listings, disbelief and frustration coiling in his chest. Did people really sell these for that much? When he was a child, they had been in stores for around forty dollars, maybe fifty at most. The sheer absurdity of the current market made him feel both nostalgic and exasperated.

“Steven, mi hermosa y estresada luna,” Jake called softly, his voice calm and soothing. It reached Steven like a lifeline, briefly pulling him out of his spiraling panic. “You need to know that todo estará bien. Marc y yo will figure this out, ok?”

Steven glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. There was an ease in Jake’s eyes, a quiet certainty that grounded him. He let out a shaky breath and allowed himself to relax onto the bed, the phone still clutched loosely in one hand. “Y-yeah… okay. Yeah.”

He closed his eyes, letting the body sink into the mattress, letting the tension drain slowly from his limbs, and slipped fully into their shared headspace.

It was easier there. In the headspace, the barriers that existed in the physical world melted away. They could actually talk to one another, touch lightly on sensitive topics, comfort each other in ways that mirrored and words could never reach. It was a space of understanding and quiet, a place to work through thoughts and fears without interruption. Most important matters — decisions, strategies, worries — were discussed there, in a shared mental clarity. Yet the physical world remained a useful mirror. Seeing one another, watching reactions, understanding the problem in real space rather than through the haze of separate perspectives, helped bridge the gap between thought and action. It gave them context, a way to test reality against the calm of the headspace, and slowly, they began to move forward together — one careful step at a time.

Chapter Text

When Steven opened his eyes, the first thing that struck him was the blinding brightness of the white ceiling above. The lights were so intense that he instinctively squinted, shielding his face with one hand as he tried to adjust. Slowly, he sat up, rubbing his eyes and yawning, letting the sensations of the headspace settle around him. It was much the same as it had been when they had first entered the Duat — a familiar, almost comforting landscape — but subtly different now, shaped by their repeated visits and growing understanding of themselves. Some rooms shifted unpredictably, rearranging themselves according to the dreams or nightmares that had been dredged up from the past. It was as though the space itself breathed alongside them, responding to their inner states.

They had deliberately avoided making the entire headspace comfortable. Not every room needed to feel inviting; it was a place for necessity, for clarity, and occasionally, for protection. The entry room, for example, was stark and minimal — a single bed in a room of pure white light, almost clinical in its emptiness. They kept it that way intentionally, a buffer to prevent any unwanted confrontations or clashes with another alter should someone arrive uninvited.

Each of them had claimed a space of their own. Marc’s room reflected his personality: sparse, military-inspired, and utilitarian. There was nothing there except the tools and objects he deemed necessary to function comfortably, and even that was stripped down to a bare minimum.
Steven’s room was the opposite — warm, cozy, and entirely comforting. It carried the ambiance of a rainy fall day, the kind where the soft patter of rain outside the window mingled with the warm scent of tea. A comfortable armchair, soft rugs, and gentle lighting made it the perfect sanctuary.
Jake, however, was still figuring himself out. His room was an eclectic chaos of colors and patterns, resembling a telenovela set more than a personal space—but it was uniquely his.

Steven stepped out of the entry room and moved toward his own sanctuary, his footsteps soft on the smooth floor. He could hear the low murmur of voices ahead and quickened his pace, curiosity piqued. Entering, he found Jake and Marc sprawled on his bed, relaxed and at ease. Their presence was comforting, and without a second thought, he smiled and dropped himself between them, sinking into the warmth of shared familiarity.

“Why, hello there,” Marc said, leaning down to lightly pet Steven’s head. The gesture was gentle but grounding. Steven leaned into it, letting out a soft, contented sigh as though he’d been holding his breath for hours.

“Hullo,” Steven murmured, his voice soft and sleepy.

Jake chuckled, placing a hand on Steven’s back and rubbing slow, comforting circles. “So, cariño, ¿cómo estás? Have you calmed down enough?”

Steven arched lazily, stretching his back as he relaxed, and tilted his head to peer at Jake. A small, lazy smile tugged at his lips in response, warm and genuine. The moment was simple, almost mundane, but deeply reassuring.

Marc and Jake exchanged a glance, both silently acknowledging the same thought: Steven was acting like a big, fluffy dog receiving affection. Both men allowed themselves a small smile at the image, the thought lightening the mood in the quiet room.

Then, without warning, Jake’s gaze snapped toward the door. His posture stiffened, muscles tense, senses alert.

Marc’s own instincts followed immediately. He noticed Jake’s subtle shift and felt it, the prickling of tension in the air. Something was approaching — or perhaps something had already arrived.

Steven remained blissfully unaware, still luxuriating in the attention, utterly content. He didn’t notice the faint movement of the bed beneath him until a slight shift caught his attention. Glancing up, he saw Jake’s focus fixed on the door, an unreadable intensity in his expression.

“Jake?” Steven called softly, a hint of curiosity threading through his tone.

But Jake did not respond. He moved away from the bed, silent and deliberate, drawn toward the perceived unknown with cautious purpose.

There shouldn’t be any unknowns, Steven thought, unease prickling at the edge of his comfort. He scooted up toward the head of the bed and noticed that Marc had shifted as well, sliding to the other side and effectively sandwiching Steven and Jake between himself and the door. Protection. Reassurance. Both at once.

No unknowns. 

Nothing could be out there… or could it? Steven’s mind raced, a flurry of possibilities spinning through him, until a sudden realization hit him like a spark:

The child!

The thought sent a jolt of excitement through him. Without hesitation, he sprang from the bed, moving toward the door with a buoyant, cheerful pace. His heart lifted with anticipation, the sense of finally discovering the hidden presence propelling him forward.

Jake reacted instantly, but this time he was slower than usual — a rare misstep. He lunged to intercept, but Steven was already too quick, determination carrying him past Jake’s reach.

For once, Steven was the first to the door. The chase, the anticipation, the unknown — it was exhilarating. And for the first time in a long while, he felt fully in control of this small adventure.

“Steven—wait—!”

Marc and Jake moved forward instinctively, concern etched on their faces, but stopped abruptly when they saw how low Steven had crouched to the ground. His body was tense but deliberate, every movement precise, as if he were preparing for something delicate. They exchanged glances, silently acknowledging the unspoken rule: let him handle this. Still, instinct drove them closer, their eyes scanning the surrounding space to make sure nothing would suddenly spring out and harm him.

Steven shot them a quick wave of his hand, a clear signal to back off. It wasn’t harsh or angry — more like a firm reminder than anything, but it carried enough weight to make them pause. Both Jake and Marc lowered their hands, momentarily unsettled by the authority in his gesture, though they weren’t entirely surprised. Steven had always had a way of commanding attention, even when crouched quietly on the floor.

“Hey there, would you mind coming out?” Steven’s voice was soft now, warm, coaxing. Every word carried a gentleness that invited trust, like he was speaking to someone who had been scared for far too long. He shifted slightly, leaning forward, holding out one hand as if to show there was no danger.

“Hermano, ¿qué eres—” Jake started, his tone a mix of curiosity and caution, stepping forward instinctively.

“Jake, no. Stay,” Steven barely spared him a glance, his eyes focused ahead. “I’m trying to lure him out.”

Marc, trailing slightly behind Jake, frowned in confusion, his brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the situation. “Who?” he asked quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

Steven’s eyes didn’t leave the spot in front of him. “The little boy that lives with us,” he said simply, his voice carrying an undertone of calm determination.

Marc and Jake froze in place, their eyes drawn to the back of Steven’s head, both trying to read the tension in his posture. The realization hit them slowly, then all at once. The kid? He's here? The thought rippled through them simultaneously, filling the space with a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and an odd sense of inevitability. For a moment, the room was silent except for the soft shuffle of Steven’s movements, the quiet hum of anticipation hanging in the air. Both of them felt it — the gravity of the moment, the delicate possibility that they were finally about to encounter someone who had been hidden for so long, right here in their shared reality.