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The rain had stopped falling about an hour ago, but the air was heavy with wet earth and ozone. Tiptoeing, I grabbed the window and closed the shutters. Droplets clung to the window, glistening like silver tears, but the smell of vanilla was more interesting than gazing at nature’s perfect view of pitch-dark starless skies.

Alone and busy, I stood in the kitchen after what seemed like long-stretched minutes of deciding whether or not to bake Jay’s cake. It was his big 17th, and I wanted to make something special for him, something he’d really enjoy. And since I enjoyed baking, and he preferred eating, a cake was going to have to do. It was either that or a 75-inch Ultra flat screen and an Xbox.

Nibbling on my lip, I tugged on the sleeve of my pajama shirt, staring at all the ingredients laid out on the counter: flour, sugar, eggs, butter, vanilla extract, baking powder, and milk. I put on my apron, tied my hair back, and took a deep breath, ready to get started.

Before our family quaked and things got rough, my father taught me how to bake. Well, in reality, he tried to teach us, but Jay preferred the court to the kitchen. So, that left me with Daddy.

Moving around the kitchen, I felt a pull back into the good old days, the processes stirring a reminisce. I used to love watching him from the kitchen island and taking notes on my kitty-customized notepad.

He'd start by preheating the oven to 350°F, and while it warmed up, he’d guide me to measure out the flour and sift it into a large mixing bowl, adding in the baking powder and a pinch of salt. Next, we’d move on to the butter and sugar, laughing over something silly as we creamed them together in a separate bowl until the mixture was light and fluffy. I’d call his attention to the vibrations rippling over my skin as the hand mixer whirred, making a satisfying hum as it blended everything perfectly.

Smiling, I cracked the eggs. Cracking the eggs was always a bit tricky for me, but I managed to do it without any shells getting into the mix. I added them one at a time, beating well after each addition. Then, just as Dad taught me, I mirrored his fluid dance, pouring in a splash of vanilla extract, the aroma filling the kitchen with its sweet scent. Carefully, I began folding the dry ingredients into the wet mixture, alternating with the milk, until the batter was smooth and glossy.

Once everything was mixed to perfection, I poured the batter into a greased cake pan, using a spatula to spread it evenly. I gave the pan a little tap on the counter to get rid of any air bubbles, then slid it into the oven. I set the timer and waited, peeking through the oven door every now and then as the cake slowly rose and turned a golden brown.

The timer finally beeped, and I opened the oven and carefully pulled out the cake, setting it on a cooling rack. The sweet smell filled the kitchen, and I couldn’t help but smile at how well it had turned out. I let it cool completely before moving on to the fun part—decorating.

Jay loved basketball. Sometimes, I thought he loved it more than his own life. He was that passionate. So, I decided to go with dramatic basketball decorations. I whipped up a smooth batch of orange buttercream frosting, the kind my brother loved, and spread a generous layer over the top of the cake, making sure it was even and smooth. Then, I piped some decorative print around the edges. Finally, I added a few sprinkles and wrote “Happy 17 th Birthday!” in icing, making sure each letter was neat and clear.

Stepping back to admire my work, I felt a surge of pride. He was going to feel every bit of love I’d used to whip up that cake. And maybe he’d remember Daddy with fond memories, too. In all, I just wanted him to be as excited to see it as I’d been to make it.

Untying the apron, I chucked it into the washing machine and went to the living room to wait. I checked the time: 12:30 A.M. Earlier, he’d texted to let me know he’d be out late. Party with his friends, he said. I’d learned not to be overprotective after he turned fifteen and give him space sometimes. Though I learned it the hard way.

Jay hadn’t always been the macho young man he was now. His early teenage years were the toughest and roughest. He was bullied and teased a lot by those senior jerks because of his size. Being skinny, to them, was something to laugh about. One day, I stood up for him in the presence of everyone. I thought I was being a big sister.

Jay hadn’t liked it.

He hadn’t liked it when I stood up for him or fished him out of parties when it got late, or called him out for getting recklessly drunk at beer pong parties, or….

He preferred being the one to do the bossing around.

After years of navigating through turbulent puberty waves of emotions with my brother, we both grew to understand our preferences and dislikes and ended up co-existing with love. That love was elastic, and oftentimes, it stretched. Even now, as I glanced at the time, the hands of the clock had moved from half past midnight to 2:00 A.M.

Sighing, I kicked my feet off the couch and got up. Jayden Skye had made it clear that he was a grown man now. He could handle his affairs without having to entertain my intrusion. And as much as I wanted to snatch that phone and dial his number, I wasn’t going to.

Tomorrow was going to be a long day with the kids. David’s mom had already sent a text. A friendly warning, to be more like it. Incoming: ten boxes of chocolate cupcakes to celebrate his new muse.

With a smug smile and satisfaction in my chest, I started making my way to the room when the doorbell rang.

Jayden.

He must have forgotten his keys or returned home tipsy. It wouldn’t have been the first time. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but some days, he just… he just let go. We’d both had it rough growing up. But I adjusted better to the circumstances of things than Jay ever had, and unlike me, who’d learned how to bottle up disappointment and hurt and only cried after my heart couldn’t hold the tears anymore, Jay was an emotional cannon. He shot his discontent and pain in whatever direction he wanted.

Sometimes, I had to admit, he acted irrationally.

None of those things mattered now; today was his birthday, and I wished for nothing more than to put a smile on his face.

My excitement suddenly springing alive and skyrocketing to its peak, I ran into the kitchen, carefully grabbed the cake from the counter, and rushed to the door. My heart hummed in my chest, and the song rose to my lips as I twisted the knob and pulled the door open.

“ Happy Birthday to—”

Like a poorly done wax job, the smile slid off my face when I realized that the man standing on our doorstep was not my brother.

My fingers curled around the edges of the cake board, and a gust of chilly wind stirred gooseflesh on my skin. I wasn’t sure which direction it came from, but it was a lot cooler than the breeze that settled after the rain.

“Won’t you let us in?”

I swallowed. This broad man with a heavy presence, the thickness of his shoulders, his black-on-black designer clothes, and his expensive cologne almost swallowed the entire frame of the door. One man stood behind him, and two others lurked further back.

But none were as intimidating as the broad man.

“I don’t allow strangers into my house.”

Soft but firm, my voice reached my ears before I realized I’d spoken. It was shocking that I didn’t tremble or lean on a frame for support.

My heart skipped in my chest, and the man behind him grinned. “Feisty.”

Sharp brown eyes, the color of mountains and soil, narrowed in displeasure, and the chiseled slope of his jaw flexed. “We aren’t strangers.”

My brows crinkled. The low growl in his voice, like a rumble of thunder in dark grey skies…the accent that rolled on his tongue, mingling and fusing with his words like a smooth cake mix—none of those sounded natural or familiar. Definitely not native American.

With more boldness, I squared my shoulders, looking him in the eye. “Then, who are you?”

“Let’s say friends of your father’s.”

Foreigners, friends of father’s, showing up on our doorstep at two in the morning? It was highly unlikely and almost laughable if it didn’t look scary. Although they looked far from common thieves, I could tell these men were dangerous and didn’t look like men who’d show up at such an ungodly hour if they had no reason to.

“Won’t you let us in?” he repeated.

This time, however, I heard the subtle irritation at the back of his throat.

This man of midnight and ice looked ready to wipe me out of his path if I didn’t move immediately. I didn’t want to move, but the only thing standing between me and him was the threshold and Jay’s birthday cake. I didn’t want anything or anyone ruining what I’d worked so hard to create, not the cake or the peaceful home I’d managed to build with and for my brother.

So, I did the one thing that I didn’t know would change the course of both our lives forever.

I let him in.