Most people don’t believe we’re related.
Maybe it’s because my sister looks like she belongs in a luxury perfume ad, not raising a broke college nerd who still thinks Naruto was peak philosophy.
Naomi Tanaka. Twenty-eight. Works in finance. Lives in a high-rise apartment with plants that don’t die and furniture that costs more than my tuition. She’s got the kind of face that makes waiters ask her if she’s the one paying — even when I’m holding the damn check.
She also brought food.
Actual food. In a cooler. Cooked it herself, too. Not poisoned. Not suspiciously heart-shaped or blood-colored. Just... rice, chicken, soup. Comfort.
"You live like a war refugee," she muttered, already unpacking. "This place smells like caffeine and loneliness."
"Thanks," I said. "I’ve worked hard to cultivate that."
She raised a brow. "Why is your shirt in the sink?"
I blinked. "Uhm. Laundry?"
} "That’s not how laundry works, Kai."
She didn’t stop there.
The next hour was a blur of nagging and judgment. She cleaned. She scolded. She wiped a plate and asked if I’d ever heard of dish soap.
Then — finally — peace.
She curled up on my couch in my hoodie and old gym shorts she found, flipping through Netflix like she owned the place. Which, in fairness, she probably did — emotionally.
I was in the kitchenette, pretending not to exist.
And then came the knock, a soft, casual, dangerous knock.
"Oh, you’ve got company?" Naomi asked, standing to answer before I could stop her.
She opened the door and there she stood.
Celestia Valentina Moreau.
Thigh-high socks. Oversized black sweater. Hair curled to perfection. Lip gloss that sparkled like it was plotting a felony. And a look in her eyes that said Who. The actual. F*.
Naomi tilted her head, one hand on the door. "Looking for someone?"
Celestia’s smile didn’t move. It was the kind of smile you wear to funerals. Or war.
"Yes," she said sweetly. "Is this Kai’s place?"
Naomi smiled back. "It is."
Celestia’s eyes dropped. Naomi was barefoot, wearing shorts and a hoodie, my hoodie.
I didn’t even see her move. One second she was at the door, the next she was inside, eyes locked on me like a missile.
"Hey, Val," I started.
> "Who’s this?" she asked.
Her tone was light. Too light.
Naomi looked amused. "I could ask the same."
"She’s my sister," I said quickly. "Naomi. My biological sister. Born from the same parents. Shared a bathroom. Grew up in the same house. Sister."
Celestia stared at me then at Naomi, then at the hoodie.
"Your sister," she repeated.
Naomi crossed her arms. "Should I be worried? Is this your girlfriend?"
Celestia turned to her. "I am."
Naomi smirked. "He didn’t mention you."
Celestia’s lip twitched. "He’ll be punished for that."
I let out a strangled noise while they stared at each other.
No words, no blinking.
I was watching a hostage negotiation between two queens who didn’t need guns to kill.
Finally, Naomi stepped back, nodding toward the couch. "You want a seat? Or are you going to keep standing like you’re about to stab someone?"
Celestia smiled. "Oh, I’m sitting."
She plopped down beside me, crossed her legs, and leaned in way too close. "I missed you," she whispered. "And I’m so glad to see you safe."
My soul left my body.
Naomi sat across from us, eyes still studying her like a lion tracking another predator.
I tried to breathe normally.
Tried not to think about how I almost died because my sister wears shorts indoors.
Eventually, Naomi stood. "Well. I’ll leave you two alone. Thanks for the existential tension."
She winked at me, grabbed her keys, and paused at the door. "If she murders you, call me from the afterlife."
"I’m fine," I croaked.
Celestia didn’t speak, neither did I.
Then she looked at me. Really looked. Her face softened.
"I’m sorry," she said.
I blinked. "Wait—what?"
"I panicked," she murmured. "I saw someone else in your hoodie and I thought—" She stopped. Then shook her head. "Forget it."
I reached for her hand. "She’s just my sister. I promise."
She nodded but her fingers gripped mine tighter than they should’ve.
"I don’t share," she whispered. "Even with family."
She kissed me then pulled back. She rested her forehead against mine, eyes half-lidded, voice low:
> "I don’t like competing, Kai. So don’t ever make me."
Then she smiled — sweetly.
Like she hadn’t just threatened to emotionally decapitate me with love.
And all I could do was nod.
Because I knew she meant it.