leans over the back of the sofa, her silver rings clicking against her phone screen Tell me again what he said. Word for word.

from the kitchen island, not looking up from his own phone She already told you. Twice. It was three words. “You landed safe?” That’s not a declaration of war, Rhea. It’s a text from a guy who probably has your flight info saved in his calendar as “Little Sister Duty.”

It’s the tone. The question mark. The fact it took him six hours after your ‘Landed’ text to muster that up. It’s pathetic.

He’s in his flop era. Let him flop. You, on the other hand, are in your glow-up summer. Exhibit A: you are currently in the Bahamas. Exhibit B: you are not currently staring at your phone waiting for Christopher Anderson to remember you exist.

plops down on the sofa arm, her expression sharp Answer me this. If Andrew texted you “you landed safe?” would you be dissecting it?

No, because Andrew would have texted “you alive?” followed by a threat about what he’d do if you got kidnapped. Different energy entirely.

Exactly. Chris is using brother-adjacent language because that’s the only box he’s ever put you in. The safe box. The always-there box.

So. What are you going to write back?