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"If you put another decorative gourd on this counter, I am going to throw it into the snow," Aaron said, not looking up from the potatoes he was peeling.
"It's festive, Aaron. It's for the ambience," Katelyn replied, sliding a ceramic bowl of cranberries into the one square inch of free space remaining near the sink. She bumped his hip with hers, a practiced, non-verbal demand for room that he yielded to instinctively. "And stop scowling at the potatoes. You'll make them taste bitter."
"I'm not scowling. I'm focusing."
"You have your 'I'm diagnosing a fatal arrhythmia' face on. It's Christmas Eve. Try to look like you aren't waiting for a code blue."
Aaron dropped a peeled potato into the pot of water with a wet plunk. He wiped his hands on a towel, leaning back against the counter to survey the disaster zone that was his kitchen. At thirty-five, Aaron Minyard had achieved a level of stability that his teenage self would have categorized as a hallucination. He was an attending physician at a Tier 1 trauma center, he owned a house in Lincoln Park that was rapidly appreciating in value, and he was married to the beautiful woman who still, somehow, found his chronic pessimism charming.
But the house, usually a sanctuary of order and high-end botanical maintenance, was currently operating at max capacity, and Aaron's own control issues were prickling under his skin.
It had been a week. Seven days of four extra adults cramming themselves into a three-bedroom footprint. Nicky and Erik had flown in from Germany on the 18th, bringing with them two massive suitcases exclusively filled with gifts and an energy level that defied jet lag. Andrew and Neil had driven up from Minneapolis three days later, utilizing the break in the professional Exy schedule to remind Aaron that his guest room mattress was, quote, "inferior."
Aaron pushed off the counter and walked into the living room, weaving past Neil who was heading into the kitchen, intending to check the thermostat. Instead, he stopped dead in the center of the rug.
There, draped casually over the spine of his first-edition anatomy textbook on the coffee table, was a single, neon-green sock.
"Nicky!" Aaron yelled.
The answer came from the second-floor landing, followed by the thudding of footsteps. Nicky appeared on the stairs, wearing a sweater that lit up with battery-operated fairy lights. He looked older now, the lines around his eyes were deeper, and there was just a touch of grey at his temples that he claimed gave him 'distinguished gravitas', but his expression of feigned innocence hadn't changed since 2007.
"Why are you shouting?" Nicky asked, leaning over the banister. "It's a holiday. We should be whispering tidings of comfort and joy."
Aaron pointed a finger at the coffee table. "You're a grown ass adult. We're not in a dorm room in South Carolina. If I find one more piece of your clothing colonized on my furniture, I am evicting you. You can sleep on the sidewalk."
"It's cozy!" Nicky defended, coming down the rest of the stairs. "I was looking for my phone, took off the sock so I wouldn't slide on the hardwood, and forgot it. You used to be fun, Aaron. What happened to fun?"
"I was never fun," Aaron grumbled. "I was in college. Pick it up."
"I got it," Erik said, emerging from the hallway bathroom. He looked unbothered by the shouting, a trait he had perfected over a decade of marriage to Nicky. He scooped up the offending sock and tossed it at his husband, who caught it with a dramatic yelp. Erik smiled at Aaron, a genuine, calm expression that instantly lowered Aaron's blood pressure. "Sorry, Aaron."
"It's fine," Aaron sighed. He moved past them toward the bay window, needing a moment of visual space. The Chicago winter was grey and biting outside, the wind rattling the panes in their frames. Standing near the window, ignoring the commotion of Nicky now trying to convince Erik to wear a matching light-up sweater, was Andrew.
Andrew was dressed in black, a total opposition against the aggressive cheerfulness of Katelyn's decorations. He held a mug of hot chocolate with both hands, the steam curling up to obscure his face. He didn't look at Aaron as he approached, but he shifted his weight to the left, opening a gap in the blockade of his personal space. Aaron took the spot without asking.
"Crowded," Andrew stated.
"You could have stayed at a hotel," Aaron pointed out, looking at the street where snowplows were fighting a losing battle against the drift.
"And listen to you complain about the cost?" Andrew took a sip of his cocoa. "Pass."
"I don't complain about money. I have money."
"You complain about the principle of the money."
Aaron huffed, a short exhalation of smoke-less breath. He looked at his twin. Andrew’s stillness was a heavy, anchored thing, while Aaron carried his tension in his shoulders, a perpetual brace against the next impact. They weren't the same person, and they weren't attached at the hip, but standing here, shoulder-to-shoulder in the quiet corner of a loud room, the old, frantic need to define himself against Andrew was gone. They just... were.
"Neil is going to eat all the cranberries," Andrew said, nodding toward the kitchen.
Aaron stiffened. "They're raw."
"He doesn't know that."
Aaron turned on his heel and marched back into the kitchen. Sure enough, Neil Josten, striker for the US National Team, a man whose face was plastered on billboards Aaron had to drive past on his commute, was standing by the sink, chewing on a raw cranberry with the same expression he wore when calculating ricochet angles.
Neil looked exactly the same as he had at twenty. It was annoying. He was wearing a hoodie that was definitely Andrew's, and he was leaning against the counter like he was waiting for a fight or a pass.
"It's sour," Neil observed, swallowing the berry without wincing.
"It's a garnish, you fucking idiot," Aaron said, grabbing the bowl and moving it to the top of the fridge. "Stop eating the ingredients. Katelyn, control your guest."
"He's not my guest," Katelyn said from the oven, where she was basting a roast. "He came with the package deal."
"The brother-in-law curse," Aaron said, the title dripping with a specific, curated sarcasm. He used it mostly because he knew it annoyed Andrew, who viewed legal definitions as optional suggestions, and Neil, who viewed family trees as threats. "Which means he's a mandatory obligation I apparently can't get away from. Stop eating my prep work, Josten. Go bother Nicky. He has a light-up sweater he wants to show you."
"I saw it," Neil said, hopping up to sit on the counter where the cranberries had been, ignoring Aaron's glare. "It's a fire hazard."
"Get down," Aaron snapped. "My counters are sanitary surfaces. You have Exy germs."
"That's not a thing."
"It is. You sweat for a living. Go away."
Neil smirked but he slid off the counter. "Fine. But the cranberry thing is stupid. Just add sugar next time."
He wandered off toward the living room, presumably to go stand next to Andrew and stare at him until Andrew acknowledged his existence.
Aaron leaned against the island, exhaling a long breath. There were socks on the tables, cranberries in the striker, and enough noise to violate several HOA regulations. It was a far cry from the silence he had grown up craving, the safety of a locked door and an empty room.
But looking at Katelyn, who was humming to herself as she adjusted the temperature on the oven, the tightness between Aaron's shoulder blades, a permanent fixture since med school, finally slacked. It wasn't happiness, because that often felt flighty and cheap, but it was satisfaction. He had built this. He had survived the Foxes, survived medical school, survived residency, and he had built a life that could sustain this much noise without collapsing.
He checked his watch. 2:28 PM.
"The misfits are going to be here in two minutes," Aaron announced, straightening his own sweater. "Remember, we are normal people. We do not talk about knife collections. We do not talk about court cases. We do not talk about the fucking mafia."
"You're the only one worried about it," Katelyn said, wiping her hands on her apron. She walked over and fixed his collar, her fingers lingering against his neck for a second. "They know you, Aaron. Meeting your family isn't going to change that."
"They don't know this family," Aaron said quietly. "They think I'm a normal person who grew up in the suburbs or something."
"They think you're a terrifying competency machine," Katelyn corrected gently. "This could humanize you, too, you know. It'll be good for them to see that you have people who can tell you to shut up."
"Nobody tells me to shut up," Aaron argued, but he leaned into her touch.
"Andrew told you to shut up three times at breakfast."
"Andrew doesn't count."
The doorbell rang, cutting through the sound of Nicky laughing in the other room.
"I'll get it," Aaron said, but Nicky was already booming from the hallway.
"Fresh meat! I'll get it!"
Aaron closed his eyes for a brief, painful second. "God help us."
"Go," Katelyn said, giving him a gentle shove toward the archway. "Be a mentor."
Aaron opened his eyes, smoothed his face into his best 'Attending Physician' mask, and walked toward the door to stop his cousin from terrifying his residents.
The hallway leading to the front door was a narrow channel of hardwood and framed photos, a transitional space Aaron usually moved through with the unconscious autopilot of a man coming home from a twelve-hour shift. Today, however, it felt like a bottleneck.
Aaron reached the foyer just as the cold draft hit him, the winter air biting through the warmth of the house. He expected to find Nicky assaulting his residents with aggressive hospitality, or perhaps trying to take their coats before they had fully stepped inside. Instead, he found a blockade.
Andrew was leaning against the open doorframe. He hadn't invited them in. He was simply occupying the space, one hand buried in the pocket of his trousers, the other holding his coffee mug with a loose, careless grip that belied the tension in his forearm. He was watching the three people on the porch with the flat, unblinking scrutiny he usually reserved for law enforcement or opposing Exy teams.
Aaron stopped in the shadow of the hallway, just out of sight, and watched the train wreck in slow motion.
His residents were clustered on the mat, huddled against the wind. Dr. Arjun Patel stood in the front, clutching a foil-wrapped poinsettia like a riot shield. The plant was absurdly large, the red leaves trembling slightly with the force of Patel’s shivering. Dr. Sarah O'Malley stood just behind his shoulder, her chin tucked deep into a wool scarf, her eyes narrowed as she tried to assess the threat level of the man blocking their entry. Dr. David Wei was in the back, leaning against the brickwork and staring at the salt crystals on the porch railing, looking like he was currently buffering.
They were looking at Andrew, and in their exhausted, over-caffeinated brains, they were seeing Aaron. But it was an Aaron who had been stripped of his frantic energy, an Aaron who stood with a stillness that was unnatural to them.
"Dr. Minyard?" Patel asked, his voice cracking on the second syllable. He shifted the heavy plant, his knuckles white against the foil. "We—I know the time. It’s 2:31. I didn't want to be early, so we waited in the car, but then I worried about the plant freezing, because tropical flora have a very low tolerance for—"
Patel cut himself off because Andrew hadn't blinked. Andrew just took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze dropping to the poinsettia as if it were a biological hazard.
"I can put it back," Patel whispered, the anxiety in his voice ratcheting up a notch. "Is it the pollen? I didn't check for allergies. I should have checked for allergies."
"He's not allergic, Patel," O'Malley muttered, though she didn't take her eyes off Andrew. She stepped slightly to the side, positioning herself so she wasn't trapped behind the plant. Her posture was tight, weight shifted to her back foot. "Sir? You look... different. Are you feeling okay?"
Andrew didn't answer. He tilted his head, watching O'Malley with the detached interest of a cat watching a bird fly into a window.
"He's high," Wei observed from the back. He didn't look up from the railing. "Look at his pupils. Or lack thereof. He finally snapped. It’s the serotonin syndrome we learned about last week."
"I do not have serotonin syndrome," Aaron said, stepping out of the shadows.
The reaction was visceral. Patel jumped, the leaves of the poinsettia rustling violently. O'Malley spun around, her boot skidding on the wet mat, her hand flying out to brace against the doorframe. Wei finally looked up, blinking slowly as his brain tried to process the visual data.
Aaron stepped up beside his brother and crossed his arms over the maroon sweater Katelyn had forced him into. He looked at his residents, taking in their terrified expressions, their red noses, and the sheer exhaustion radiating off them in waves.
He didn't feel the urge to snap at them. Instead, he felt a familiar, weary responsibility settle in his chest. They looked exactly like he used to feel every time he walked into a room full of uncertainty.
"Get inside," Aaron said, his voice dropping into the lower, calmer register he used for family meetings in the ICU. "It’s ten degrees out here. Patel, bring the plant before it dies. O'Malley, stop looking at my brother like you're going to tackle him."
"Brother?" O'Malley repeated. She looked from Aaron to Andrew, and then back to Aaron. Her gaze tracked the differences rapidly, the sweater versus the black long-sleeves, the restless energy in Aaron’s shoulders versus Andrew’s absolute stillness. "You... you have a twin."
"Mitosis," Wei said softly. He walked past them, stepping over the threshold as if the duplication of his attending physician was a mundane occurrence he didn't have the energy to question. "I knew it. The stress split him down the middle."
"It's not mitosis," Aaron huffed, reaching out to grab Patel’s coat sleeve to pull him inside before the resident froze on the porch. "Move, Andrew. You're blocking the heat."
Andrew didn't move immediately. He looked at the shivering residents, then at the puddles forming on the mat, and finally at Aaron.
Aaron didn't blink. "I'm not asking."
Andrew held the stare for one second longer, then stepped back, clearing the path with a bored shrug.
The residents tumbled into the foyer, bringing the smell of snow and cold wool with them. Aaron closed the door firmly, locking out the wind. The silence of the hallway returned, but it was darker now, charged with the confusion of three people trying to recalibrate their reality.
"I didn't know," Patel breathed, carefully setting the poinsettia on the entry table next to Katelyn’s keys. He looked at Andrew with wide, alarmed eyes. "I thought... when you didn't answer about the plant... I thought I was being fired. Implicitly."
"He doesn't work at the hospital, Patel," Aaron said, moving to take O'Malley’s coat as she struggled with the zipper. "This is Andrew. He is my brother. He does not care about your case presentations, and he definitely doesn't care about the plant."
"You never mentioned a twin," O'Malley accused, though the fight was draining out of her, replaced by simple bewilderment. She handed Aaron her coat, revealing a festive sweater that was ugly on purpose, clearly a defense mechanism against dressing up. "We've been on your service for eight months. You talked about your wife. You never said, 'By the way, there's another version of me walking around.'"
"It wasn't relevant," Aaron said, hanging her coat on the rack. "And he lives in Minneapolis."
"Minneapolis?" Nicky’s voice erupted from the living room, followed by the heavy thud of footsteps. "Is that the excuse we’re going with? That we’re geographic anomalies?"
Nicky rounded the corner, and the hallway suddenly felt very small. He was beaming, his light-up sweater flashing in a rhythmic, seizure-inducing pattern of red and green. He looked between the terrified residents and the twins, his grin widening as he took in the scene.
"Oh, look at their faces!" Nicky crowed, clapping his hands together. "They’re traumatized! Aaron, you didn't tell them? You let them walk in blind? That is so mean. I love it."
"I didn't 'let' anything happen," Aaron said, steering Patel away from Andrew. "They made assumptions. Hello, Nicky. This is Dr. Patel, Dr. O'Malley, and Dr. Wei. Residents, this is my cousin, Nicky. He is a lot. Ignore him."
"Don't ignore me, I have the alcohol," Nicky corrected, winking at O'Malley. "And I’m the fun one. Ask anyone. Ask Andrew. Actually, don't ask Andrew, he’s a liar."
"I am honest," Andrew said.
"Most of the time." Aaron said. He looked at his residents. They were still tense, standing in a tight cluster near the door, unsure of the rules of engagement in this strange new environment. He needed to bridge the gap. He needed to show them that this wasn't a test.
"Shoes off," Aaron instructed gently. "There are slippers in the basket if you want them. The food is in the kitchen. There is no shop talk allowed. If Wei tries to quiz anyone on electrolyte imbalances, throw a pillow at him."
"I don't quiz people," Wei mumbled, kicking off his boots. "I just observe."
"Come on," Aaron said. He didn't herd them; he just led the way, trusting them to follow.
The living room had transformed since the morning. The afternoon light was fading, replaced by the warm, amber glow of the lamps and the Christmas tree. Katelyn was by the fireplace, adjusting a stocking. Erik was pouring wine at the sidebar. And Neil was sitting on the floor near the tree, unwrapping a candy cane with the focus of a bomb disposal technician.
The residents stopped at the edge of the rug. It was a lot to take in. The fish tank bubbled in the corner. The smell of roasting meat was thick in the air.
"Yay!" Katelyn called out, abandoning the stocking to come greet them. She was the calm center of the storm, her smile genuine and warm. "You made it! Sarah, I love the sweater. It’s hideous."
"Thank you," O'Malley said, a small, genuine smile cracking her defensive mask. "I got it at a thrift store. It smells like mothballs."
"Perfect," Katelyn said. "Arjun, you look like you need a drink. Erik, white wine for Arjun, please. David, hi."
"Hi," Wei offered.
Aaron watched them disperse slightly, the tension in their shoulders dropping an inch. It was working. Katelyn was working her magic, and the house was doing the rest.
But then O'Malley stopped.
She hadn't moved toward the food or the wine. She was looking at the floor. Specifically, she was looking at Neil.
Neil hadn't stood up, but he had stopped unwrapping the candy cane. He was watching O'Malley with eyes that were too sharp, too blue, and completely devoid of the social niceties that usually glazed over a stranger's gaze.
Aaron saw her posture shift, subtly, instinctively. Her feet widened. Her hands came out of her pockets. It wasn't aggression, exactly; it was recognition. She was a girl who had grown up watching for the sudden shift in atmosphere that preceded a fight, and she was looking at a man who carried the aftermath of a dozen of them on his face.
"Hi," O'Malley said. It wasn't a greeting; it was a check.
Neil tilted his head. He didn't smile. "Hi."
O'Malley frowned. She was a doctor, but before that, she was from the South Side, and her filter had never quite recovered from the transition. She gestured vaguely at Neil’s face, where the scars ran thick and visible against his jawline.
"Jesus," O'Malley said. "Did you fall into a meat grinder? Or did you just owe the wrong people money?"
The kitchen went quiet. Katelyn froze mid-pour.
Neil didn't blink. He just cracked the curve of the candy cane with a sharp snap.
Behind them, Andrew pushed off the doorframe. He didn't rush, but the sudden lack of slouching was a loud enough warning signal for anyone paying attention.
Aaron moved.
He stepped smoothly into the line of sight between O'Malley and the hallway, effectively shielding his resident from his brother's impending retaliation. He grabbed O'Malley’s shoulder firmly, enough to snap her attention away from Neil.
"O'Malley," Aaron said, his voice laced with the specific 'Attending Authority' tone that made interns freeze. "Stand down. We do not diagnose the guests."
"I wasn't diagnosing," O'Malley defended, blinking as she looked up at Aaron. "I was just asking. You don't get scars like that from a bicycle accident. What is he, a cage fighter?"
"He's family," Aaron said, steering her physically toward the kitchen. "Unfortunately."
"Family?" O'Malley looked back at Neil, who had gone back to unwrapping his candy cane as if nothing had happened, though his eyes were still tracking Andrew in the doorway. "Since when do you have family that looks like... that?"
"Since college," Aaron said. "That is Neil. He is my brother-in-law. Sort of. Legally, he’s a nightmare."
"Brother-in-law?" Patel piped up from the sofa, looking terrified again. "Wait. You have a twin. And a brother-in-law? How many people are in this house? Is there a chart? I feel like I need a flowchart."
"No flowcharts," Aaron said. "Just wine. Drink."
He looked over O'Malley’s head toward the doorway. Andrew was still standing there, his eyes cold, fixed on the back of O'Malley’s neck. Aaron caught his twin's gaze and gave a microscopic shake of his head. She didn't know. Let it go.
Andrew held the stare for another second, then exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders just enough to pass for relaxation. He walked into the room, moving past O'Malley without looking at her, and went to stand next to Neil.
Neil held up the unwrapped candy cane. Andrew took it without a word.
"Okay!" Nicky’s voice boomed, shattering the lingering tension with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "Drinks! Toasts! To the Ducklings! To the fact that nobody has died yet! Cheers!"
"Cheers," Wei murmured, clinking his glass against the fish tank. "To mitosis."
The transition from the living room to the dining area was a logistical operation that required the coordination of a small army, or at least one highly motivated pediatric intensivist. Katelyn had taken command of the island, directing the flow of hot dishes with the same calm authority she used to run a code, while Aaron found himself relegated to the role of sous-chef and primary complainant.
The kitchen was a riot of steam and noise. The smell of roasted garlic and rosemary had permeated the drywall, heavy and rich. He was currently wrestling a massive ceramic bowl of mashed potatoes, trying to find a gap on the table that wasn't already occupied by a wine bottle or one of Nicky’s elbows.
"I’m just saying," Aaron said, his voice pitched low to cut under the sound of cutlery clattering, "that if the administration thinks we can maintain a Wean-to-Extubate protocol with ventilators that were manufactured when I was in middle school, they are delusional. They cut the capital budget again, Katelyn. They want me to run a neuro-critical care unit with equipment that belongs in a museum."
"I know," Katelyn soothed, handing him a ladle without looking up from the gravy boat. "It’s frustrating. Put this by the turkey."
"It’s not frustrating, it’s negligent," Aaron corrected, jamming the ladle into the gravy with more force than necessary. "I have three residents who are barely keeping their heads above water, and now I have to teach them how to troubleshoot hardware failures instead of focusing on physiology. Wei is going to try to fix a ventilator with a paperclip and void the warranty, I guarantee it."
"Sounds like you're just bad at delegating," Neil’s voice drifted from the other side of the island.
Aaron didn't look up. He knew exactly what Neil looked like right now—leaning against the counter, picking at the roast beef before it was served, looking bored and sharp-edged. "Shut up, Josten. Don't you have a ball to chase somewhere?"
"Season's over," Neil replied, popping a piece of stolen carrot into his mouth. "Besides, if the machines break, just have the patients breathe harder. Isn't that what you tell your runners? 'Push through the pain'?"
"That is not how lung compliance works, you illiterate jock," Aaron snapped, finally looking up to glare at him. "Go sit down. You are useless in a kitchen. You survive on protein shakes and spite."
"And yet, I'm thriving at my career," Neil pointed out, a smirk pulling at the scars on his cheek. "Maybe you should have listened to Kevin."
Aaron opened his mouth to tell Neil exactly where he could shove his contract and Kevin’s opinions, but he was beaten to the punch.
"Hey."
The voice was sharp, loud, and came from the doorway.
Sarah O'Malley was standing there, holding a stack of napkins she had been instructed to carry. She wasn't looking at the napkins. She was looking at Neil, her dark brows drawn down into a V of genuine, unadulterated aggression. Her posture had shifted back into that wide-legged, defensive stance she adopted whenever Dr. Sterling tried to intimidate her in the hallway.
"Excuse me?" O'Malley said, taking a step into the kitchen. "He’s a attending physician at a Tier 1 trauma center. He saves lives. You're eating his food and standing in his kitchen."
Neil stopped chewing. He looked at O'Malley, his interest piqued. "And?"
"And show some respect," O'Malley snapped. The Bridgeport accent she usually tried to suppress was bleeding through, thick and flat. "Dr. Minyard has been working eighty-hour weeks keeping people from dying. What do you even do? Besides look like you steal catalytic converters for a living?"
Patel, who was carrying the water pitcher, froze mid-step, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. Wei, who had been drifting toward the table, actually stopped and looked up, blinking. Even Nicky stopped mid-laugh, his mouth hanging open.
Aaron closed his eyes. He felt a migraine blooming behind his left temple, bracing himself for the inevitable homicide. He waited for Neil to say something cruel that would send O'Malley spiraling back into her imposter syndrome.
Instead, Neil laughed.
It wasn't a nice laugh, it was a dry, rasping sound, but it was genuine. He looked at O'Malley with a sudden, sharp approval, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Catalytic converters," Neil repeated, grinning. He looked at Aaron. "I see why you kept her. She bites."
Aaron sighed, opening his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "O'Malley, stand down. He’s annoying, but he’s not a threat. And he doesn't steal car parts. He just looks like a felon because he refuses to buy a hairbrush."
He walked over to O'Malley and gently took the napkins from her hands, which were shaking slightly from the adrenaline dump. "Thank you for the defense, Sarah. But Neil and I communicate exclusively through insults. If we were nice to each other, the universe would implode. Go sit."
O'Malley looked from Aaron to Neil, her confusion evident. She was still keyed up, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the retaliation that usually came when she spoke out of turn. But Neil just saluted her with a piece of carrot and turned back to the counter.
"He started it," O'Malley muttered, but she allowed Aaron to steer her toward the table.
"He always starts it," Nicky chimed in, squeezing past them with a salad bowl. "It’s their love language. It’s toxic and deeply concerning to psychological professionals, but we’ve learned to live with it. Just ignore them. If they start throwing knives, duck."
"Knives?" Patel whispered to Wei. "Why would they throw knives?"
"Metaphorical knives," Aaron said loudly. "Sit. Everyone sit."
The dining table was a tight squeeze. Katelyn had added a leaf to the center, but with nine adults, it was intimate. Aaron found himself at the head of the table, with Katelyn to his right and Andrew to his left. The residents were clustered on the opposite side, creating a clear "Us vs. Them" demographic that Aaron hadn't intended but couldn't fix now.
Patel was staring at the silverware arrangement. O'Malley was eyeing the wine glass as if debating whether to down it in one gulp. Wei was looking under the table, where Popo the pug used to wheeze rhythmically against his foot before he'd passed away earlier that month.
"So," Nicky said, clapping his hands together once everyone had food. "Let’s break the ice! Tell us about yourselves! We know you’re residents, which sounds terrible, by the way. Do you sleep? You look like you don't sleep."
"We sleep in shifts," Wei said, taking a massive scoop of mashed potatoes. "Sometimes standing up."
"I sleep," Patel lied immediately. "I get a solid six hours. Usually."
"He's lying," O'Malley said, buttering a roll aggressively. "He stays up all night rewriting his notes because he’s afraid he used the wrong font."
"Formatting is important!" Patel defended. "If the chart is messy, the care is messy. It’s a reflection of cognitive discipline."
"See?" O'Malley pointed her knife at him. "Neurotic."
"And you?" Neil asked, looking at O'Malley from across the table. "What's your excuse?"
"I don't have an excuse," O'Malley said, meeting his gaze. She didn't flinch this time. The wine was helping. "I just like the work. It’s quiet. The patients don't talk back."
"She gets it," Andrew murmured into his glass.
"Ignore him," Aaron said, kicking Andrew’s shin under the table. Andrew didn't react. "So, Josten. Since O'Malley thinks you're a petty thief, maybe you should explain what you actually do."
Aaron said it with a smirk, expecting the moment of realization. He expected the residents to finally put two and two together. Neil Josten. Andrew Minyard. Exy. It was everywhere. It was inescapable.
Neil shrugged. "I travel. I run around a court. I hit people with sticks."
"He’s in sports," Nicky clarified, beaming. "Professional sports!"
The three residents stared at Neil. Then they looked at each other.
"Like... coaching?" Patel asked politely.
"No," Neil said. "Playing."
"Oh," O'Malley said, her interest evaporating instantly. "Like... minor league? Is that why you have the scars? Hockey?"
The silence returned. This time, it was the Foxes who were stunned.
Nicky dropped his fork. "Minor league? Minor league? Honey, sweetie, no. He’s... you don't know who he is?"
"Should we?" Wei asked, looking genuinely confused. "I don't watch TV. I only watch documentaries about fungi."
"I don't have time for sports," O'Malley said defensively. "I work eighty hours a week. When would I watch sports? Between the lumbar puncture and the death pronouncement?"
"I know of sports," Patel offered, trying to be helpful. "I know the... the Bears? And the... the one with the basket? But I don't follow the... stick... hitting... one."
Aaron started to laugh. He couldn't help it. He watched Neil’s face, the face that was on magazine covers, the face that had launched a thousand fan blogs, register the absolute, total indifference of his residents.
Neil didn't grin. He frowned, the expression cutting deep lines into his scarred cheeks. He lowered his fork slowly to the table, looking at O'Malley with the genuine confusion of a religious zealot meeting an atheist for the first time.
"It's not hockey," Neil said, his voice tight. "It's nothing like hockey. Hockey is played on ice. Exy is played on a court. The dynamics are completely different. The rebound speed of the ball is—"
"It involves a stick and aggression," O'Malley interrupted, unimpressed. She dipped a piece of bread into the gravy, not looking up. "It’s the same genus of 'Men Hitting Things.' You can dress it up with fancy rules, but it's just cardio with a weapon."
"It is not just cardio," Neil snapped. He shifted forward in his chair, the hoodie bunching around his shoulders. "It’s the fastest field sport in the world. The court is the size of a soccer pitch but enclosed in plexiglass. You have to calculate trajectories while moving at full sprint. It requires spatial awareness that hockey players can't even comprehend."
"Sounds dangerous," Patel offered weakly, shrinking slightly under the intensity of Neil’s glare. "And... loud? I don't like loud environments. The decibel level must be damaging to the cochlea."
"It's the most evolved sport in existence," Neil insisted, ignoring Patel. He looked at Wei, desperate for an ally. "You. You're the smart one. You have to understand the geometry of it. The angles. The strategy."
Wei blinked slowly, swallowing a mouthful of potatoes. He looked at Neil with dead, shark-like eyes.
"Does the ball have a soul?" Wei asked.
"What?" Neil asked.
"If the ball doesn't have a soul, I don't care," Wei said, and went back to eating.
Neil looked like he was about to flip the table. He turned back to Aaron, his hands gripping the edge of the wood. "They don't know the rules. Aaron, they don't even know the rules. How do they treat patients? How do they function in society?"
"They’re doctors, Josten," Aaron said, taking a sip of his wine to hide his smirk. "They don't need to know offside rules for a made-up sport."
"It was invented decades ago!" Neil argued, his voice rising. "It’s not made up! It’s—"
"Neil," Andrew said.
Neil’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. He looked at Andrew, his jaw tight, his eyes still burning with the injustice of being unrecognized.
Andrew didn't look back. He was meticulously cutting a piece of roast beef, his expression bored. "You are being loud. If I wanted to hear statistics, I would turn on the radio."
"They called it hockey," Neil muttered, slumping back in his chair. He stabbed a carrot with unnecessary violence. "It’s insulting."
"You making a big deal about it is insulting," Andrew replied calmly. "Eat your food."
Neil grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "I hate this," but he picked up his fork and aggressively shoved food into his mouth, effectively silencing himself.
"Okay, since Mr. Grumpy and Mr. Grumpier are incapable of normal human interaction," Nicky announced, leaning over the table with a conspiratorial grin, "allow me to educate the youth."
He pointed a manicured finger at Neil, who was currently sulking into his potatoes.
"That," Nicky declared, "is Neil Josten. Striker for the US National Exy Team. The 'False Prophet.' The guy on the Wheaties box."
He swung his finger to point at Andrew.
"And that," Nicky continued, "is Andrew Minyard. Goalie for the same team. The highest-paid defensive player in the league. You haven't seen them on TV because you live in a hole, apparently, but trust me—people pay hundreds of dollars just to watch them stand in a room."
The information landed with a wet thud.
Patel’s fork clattered onto his plate. He looked from Nicky to Andrew, his brain seemingly short-circuiting as he tried to reconcile the silent, terrifying man in black with the concept of a national celebrity.
"The... US Team?" Patel whispered. "Like... the Olympics?"
"Basically," Nicky beamed, waiting for the adoration. "They are very big deals. Very rich deals. Aaron is the underachiever of the family."
Aaron bristled. He opened his mouth to defend his career choices, to explain the years of medical school and fellowship, but he didn't get the chance.
"Underachiever?" O'Malley repeated. Her voice wasn't impressed; it was offended. She looked at Nicky as if he had just insulted her mother. "Are you kidding? Dr. Minyard is a Neuro-Intensivist."
"I know," Nicky said, waving a hand. "But compared to a gold medal—"
"Gold medals don't fix basilar artery occlusions," O'Malley snapped. She gestured at Aaron with her knife. "Dr. Minyard literally reached inside a guy's skull last week and stopped him from dying. He memorizes metabolic pathways that would make your brain melt. He saves lives."
She turned her glare on Neil.
"You run in circles," O'Malley stated. "For entertainment."
Neil paused, a forkful of potato halfway to his mouth. He looked at O'Malley. For the first time, he didn't look arrogant. He looked surprised.
"It's a very fast circle," Neil defended, but his voice lacked its usual bite.
"It's a game," Wei interjected, his voice monotone and brutal. "It serves no biological imperative. It is the expenditure of calories for the sake of dopamine. Dr. Minyard fights entropy. He reverses death. That is statistically more significant than... catching a ball."
"It is," Patel agreed, nodding frantically. He looked at Aaron with wide, soulful eyes full of reverence. "Dr. Minyard is the Encyclopedia. He knows everything. He stays late to check our notes. He bought me coffee when I was... crashing. Who cares if they play sports? Anyone can run. Not everyone can calculate osmotic gradients."
The table went silent.
Aaron stared at his residents. He felt a hot, uncomfortable flush creeping up his neck. He was used to them fearing him. He was used to them tolerating him. He was not used to them defending him against his own family with the ferocity of a pack of wild dogs.
He looked at Andrew.
Andrew was watching the residents. He wasn't bored anymore. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, amusement, perhaps, or a grudging acknowledgment. He looked at Aaron, raised an eyebrow, and took a sip of his wine.
Yours, the look said.
"They have a point," Katelyn said softly, squeezing Aaron’s hand under the table. She looked at Nicky. "Aaron isn't the underachiever, Nicky. He's the only one of them doing something that matters when the cameras are off."
Nicky looked at the three residents, who were all glaring at him in unified defense of their attending. He held up his hands in surrender.
"Okay! Okay, point taken," Nicky laughed, though he looked delighted. "The Doctor wins. I stand corrected. Aaron is the favorite. Cancel the parade for the jocks."
"I hate your children," Neil told Aaron, though he sounded resigned. "They're defective."
"They're scientists," Aaron corrected, his voice rough. He cleared his throat, feeling overwhelmed by the sudden, fierce loyalty of his residents. "And O'Malley is right. Exy is just cardio. Eat your vegetables, Josten."
The bottle of Cabernet on the coffee table was empty, a casualty of three residents who had clearly been drinking cheap screw-top blends for the last six months and didn't know how to pace themselves with a vintage that actually had tannins.
The living room had settled into the kind of comfortable, drowsy noise that usually only happened in the Minyard-Mackenzie household when the guests had either left or passed out. Nobody had passed out yet, but Dr. Arjun Patel was getting close.
Aaron sat on the sofa, wedged into the corner cushion. Katelyn was pressed against his side, her head resting on his shoulder, her breathing even and slow. On his other side, separated by a distinct six inches of "don't touch me" airspace, was Andrew.
Andrew wasn't drinking. He was holding a glass of water, staring across the room with half-lidded boredom. But Aaron knew him well enough to see the micro-expressions, the tiny shifts in tension that meant Andrew was tracking every movement in the room.
Specifically, Andrew was watching Wei.
Dr. David Wei was sitting in the bay window, knees pulled up to his chest, staring out at the falling snow. He hadn't spoken in twenty minutes. He held his wine glass loosely, ignoring the room entirely.
"He's quiet," Andrew murmured, his voice barely audible over the ambient noise.
"He's conserving energy," Aaron replied, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Katelyn. "He thinks social interaction is biologically expensive. He's not wrong."
"He looks like a ghost," Andrew noted.
"He had a rough start," Aaron said, leaving it at that. He didn't share Wei's file—the dead mother, the foster homes—but he knew Andrew could see the shape of the trauma. It sat on Wei's shoulders the same way it sat on Andrew's.
Aaron looked toward the fireplace and felt a muscle in his jaw jump.
Neil Josten was sitting cross-legged on the rug. Facing him, mirroring the posture with an intensity that was frankly alarming, was Sarah O'Malley. Between them lay a butterfly knife.
"It's about the fulcrum," Neil was saying, his voice serious. He picked up the knife, flipping it open with a fluid, terrifying snap of his wrist that blurred in the firelight. "You don't use your arm. You use the momentum of the handle. If you use your arm, you telegraph the movement."
O'Malley watched him, her eyes wide not with fear, but with academic fascination. "It's pronation," she murmured, mimicking the motion with a spoon she had apparently stolen from the dinner table. "You're using the radial deviation to snap the latch. That's actually... really efficient biomechanics."
"Do it again," O'Malley demanded.
Neil grinned and snapped the knife closed. "Watch the thumb."
"I hate them," Aaron whispered to the ceiling. "They are bonding over weaponry. I am going to have an HR complaint by Monday."
"She has potential," Andrew said. It was the highest compliment he was capable of giving.
Aaron sighed, shifting his weight. He looked at the third group. Nicky had cornered Patel and Erik near the fish tank. Patel, emboldened by the wine and Nicky's relentless charisma, was gesturing wildly with a cracker.
"And then Dr. Minyard threw the pager!" Patel was saying, his voice rising in delight. "He threw it into the trash can! It made a clang! It was the most authoritative thing I've ever seen."
"He loves a dramatic exit," Nicky agreed, beaming at Patel like a proud parent. "One time, in college, Aaron got mad at us for playing video games too loud and he literally cut the power cord. With scissors. While it was plugged in."
"He did not!" Patel gasped, looking at Aaron with renewed worship.
"I did," Aaron muttered. "And I electrocuted myself. It wasn't my finest moment."
He looked over the room at the scattered mismatched family, the traumatized residents, the snow falling outside. It was a strange, disjointed mosaic. Fifteen years ago, the idea of sitting in a room with Neil Josten without wanting to strangle him was laughable. The idea of Andrew sitting calmly next to him, not high, not fighting, just existing, was a fantasy.
He thought about the cold dorm room at Palmetto, the way he used to barricade the door. Now, his house sounded like a cafeteria, and surprisingly, he didn't hate it. Now he had a mortgage. He had a wife who fell asleep on his shoulder. He had residents who defended him against Olympic athletes.
"I need wine," Aaron decided, gently shifting Katelyn until she tilted against the sofa cushion. She murmured something about "charts" and stayed asleep.
"Bring the bottle," Andrew said, not looking away from Wei.
Aaron stood up, his knees popping audibly. "You're not drinking."
"For the table," Andrew corrected. "The Nihilist looks empty."
Aaron rolled his eyes and headed for the kitchen.
The kitchen was cooler than the living room, the air still smelling faintly of sage and roasted meat. The dishwasher was humming its rhythmic cycle.
Aaron grabbed a bottle of Pinot Noir from the rack and began to work the corkscrew. He focused on the mechanics of it, the twist, the leverage, the pop. It was grounding.
"You know," a voice said from the doorway, "Patel is cute. In a 'nervous woodland creature' kind of way. I just want to feed him soup and tell him it's going to be okay."
Aaron didn't turn around. He poured himself a glass. "Don't, Nicky. Don't break him. He's fragile."
Nicky shuffled into the room. He was definitely tipsy. His light-up sweater was turned off, thank god, but his cheeks were flushed and his smile was loose. He leaned against the counter next to Aaron, picking up a stray piece of bread crust.
"I'm not hitting on him," Nicky said, sounding offended. "I'm happily married to the most patient man in Europe. I'm just... observing. He looks at you like you hung the moon, Aaron. It's adorable. And slightly terrifying."
"He looks at me like I hold the answer key to the board exams," Aaron corrected, taking a long sip of wine. "It's not affection. It's survival instinct."
"No," Nicky said softy. He turned, leaning his back against the counter so he could look at Aaron. "It's not just that. I heard them at dinner, Aaron. 'He stopped me from crashing.' 'He stays late to check notes.' You're... you're a good teacher."
Aaron shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "I just don't want them to kill anyone. Incompetence creates paperwork."
"Bullshit," Nicky said. He reached out and poked Aaron's arm. "You care. You pretend you don't, because you're a Minyard and feelings are allergic reactions to you people, but you care. You brought them home for Christmas, Aaron."
"Katelyn brought them home."
"You let them in."
Aaron looked down at his wine glass, watching the dark red liquid swirl. "They had nowhere else to go tonight.."
"Like us," Nicky said.
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than the scent of wine.
Nicky wasn't smiling anymore. He was looking at Aaron with a glassy, intense expression that Nicky only got when the alcohol stripped away the manic cheerleader persona and left the older cousin underneath—the one who had flown from Germany to South Carolina to pick up two broken teenagers because nobody else would.
"I was watching you in there," Nicky said quietly. "Sitting on your couch. In your house. With your wife. Watching those kids look at you for answers."
Nicky shook his head, a small, incredulous movement.
"I remember when you were their age," Nicky said. "God, Aaron. You were so angry. You were so busy fighting the world I didn't think you'd ever have time to actually live in it."
Aaron went still. He remembered that anger. It had been a constant hum under his skin for a decade, a shield against everything he couldn't control. He remembered the cramped dorm room, the constant noise, the feeling that he was drowning in expectations and threats.
"I used to worry," Nicky admitted, his voice thick. "Back in Columbia. When you guys were starting out. I used to look at you and just... pray. I didn't know if you were going to make it here. I didn't know if you were going to let yourself be happy."
Aaron stared at his wine glass. The reflection of the recessed lighting danced on the surface. "I had a lot to figure out."
"You did," Nicky agreed. "And you did it. You did the work, Aaron. You went to med school. You survived residency. You built this." He gestured vaguely at the kitchen, at the house, at the life Aaron had constructed brick by painful brick. "And now you're the one pulling the strays out of the cold. You're the one they're looking at to tell them it's going to be okay."
Nicky sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
"It's just... it's really cool to see," Nicky whispered. "The kid I used to drive to practice is a mentor. You grew up good, Aaron. I know I'm just the cousin, but... I'm really proud of you."
Aaron felt a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with the wine. He wasn't good at this, at the soft moments, at the verbal acknowledgments of love. He was a creature of logic and action. But looking at Nicky, who had grey in his hair now, who had spent his twenties refereeing World War III just to keep the twins safe, he felt it.
"I had help," Aaron said, his voice rough. He finally looked up, meeting Nicky's watery eyes. "You didn't give up on me. Even when I was a nightmare."
"You were a nightmare," Nicky laughed, a wet, happy sound. "You were the worst. But you were family."
Nicky reached out and pulled Aaron into a hug.
It was an awkward hug. Aaron was holding a wine glass, and the counter was digging into his hip, but he didn't pull away. He leaned into it, smelling the expensive cologne and the faint scent of pine from the Christmas tree. He felt the solid, frantic heartbeat of the cousin who had loved them when they were unlovable.
"Thanks, Nicky," Aaron mumbled into the shoulder of the light-up sweater.
Nicky squeezed him tight, once, then pulled back. He kept his hands on Aaron's shoulders, grinning through his tears.
"Okay," Nicky said, taking a deep breath and shaking himself like a wet dog. "Okay. No more crying. It's Christmas. We're supposed to be jolly. If I cry anymore, my eyes will puff up and I won't look good in the group photo."
"You never look good in the group photo," Aaron said, wiping his own eyes quickly, just in case. "You always blink."
"I'm going for candid!" Nicky defended, letting go of him. "Now come on. We have to go back. I think Neil is teaching your resident how to throw a knife, and if we don't intervene, O'Malley is going to accidentally depose a government."
"She's aiming for the spleen," Aaron said, picking up the wine bottle. "It bleeds more."
"That's my boy," Nicky beamed. "Come on. Let's go save the youth from the bad influences."
Aaron took a breath, centering himself. He felt lighter, somehow. The ghost of the angry kid he used to be felt a little further away, and the man he was (the doctor, the husband, the mentor) felt a little more real.
"Yeah," Aaron said. "Let's go."
He followed his cousin back out into the warmth of the living room, back to the noise. If O'Malley was learning knife tricks, someone was going to need stitches eventually, and Aaron was the only doctor sober enough to stitch them up.
The Uber driver looked concerned. This was a reasonable reaction to the sight of three individuals stumbling down the icy steps of a row house in Lincoln Park, one of whom (Dr. Arjun Patel) was bowing repeatedly to the house as if leaving a temple.
"Get in the car, Patel," Aaron said, standing at the top of the stairs with his arms crossed against the biting wind. "If you vomit in his backseat, you are paying the cleaning fee. I will garnish your wages."
"I have a stomach of steel," Patel declared, then immediately tripped over the curb. O'Malley caught him by the back of his coat, hauling him upright with practiced efficiency.
"We're good, boss," O'Malley called out, shoving Patel into the backseat. She looked back at Aaron, her cheeks flushed red from the wine and the cold. She raised a hand in a clumsy salute. "Thanks. For... the food. And the not-firing-us."
"Go home, O'Malley," Aaron said. "Sleep. Real sleep. Not a nap in the MRI suite."
"I make no promises," she grinned, and dove into the car.
Wei was already inside, staring out the window, looking like a Victorian ghost haunting a Toyota Camry.
"They're adorable," Nicky said from the doorway behind Aaron. He was leaning against the frame, holding the door open. "And you paid for their ride. That's so paternal. Look at you, Papa Aaron. sending the kids off to bed."
"I paid for the ride because I don't want to fill out the paperwork if they wrap their car around a telephone pole," Aaron corrected, turning to glare at his cousin. "It's risk management."
"Sure, Dad," Nicky teased, dodging the swat Aaron aimed at his arm. "I'm going back inside where the alcohol lives. Don't freeze."
Nicky retreated, closing the door but leaving it unlatched. Aaron stood on the porch for a moment longer, watching the taillights of the Uber fade down the snow-covered street.
He felt a hand slide into his. Katelyn moved up beside him, wrapping her other arm around his waist and leaning her head against his shoulder.
"They didn't break anything," Katelyn observed, her breath puffing out in a white cloud.
"Wei almost tipped the fish tank," Aaron noted. "And Patel definitely judged my spice rack. But physically, the house is intact."
"Was it terrible?" Katelyn asked quietly.
Aaron looked down at her. She was looking up at him with that soft, knowing expression that always made him feel exposed and safe all at once. She knew what this night was. She knew it wasn't just a dinner.
He thought about O'Malley stepping in front of Neil to defend him. He thought about Patel asking Andrew about the poinsettia. He thought about Nicky crying in the kitchen.
"No," Aaron admitted, the tension in his shoulders finally unspooling completely. "It wasn't terrible."
Katelyn smiled, squeezing his hand.
"However," Aaron added, narrowing his eyes at the empty street, "if Josten tries to seriously befriend O'Malley, I might have to punch him. She already has bad survival instincts. She doesn't need to learn how to weaponize cutlery from a sociopath."
Katelyn laughed, a bright, clear sound that warmed the air between them. "I think it's sweet. They're kindred spirits."
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," Aaron grumbled. "Come on. I'm cold."
He steered her back inside, locking the door against the Chicago winter with a solid, definitive click.
The living room was warmer, dimmer, and significantly quieter without the nervous energy of the residents vibrating off the walls. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting a soft, orange light across the room.
Nicky was on the floor by the tree, on his knees in front of Erik, his hands clasped in prayer.
"Just one," Nicky was pleading. "One tiny, microscopic gift. It's technically Christmas in Germany right now! The time zones, Erik! Think of the time zones!"
"Nein," Erik said, looking amused but unyielding from his spot in the armchair. "You have no patience. Wait until morning."
"You're a tyrant," Nicky hissed, flopping dramatically onto his back. "I married a tyrant."
On the sofa, the dynamic was quieter.
Andrew was sitting in the corner, his legs stretched out. Neil was next to him. Not just next to him, but occupying the same gravitational well. Neil’s eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even. He was leaning heavily against Andrew’s side, his head resting just below Andrew’s shoulder, his hoodie bunched up against Andrew’s black sleeve.
Andrew wasn't looking at him. He was scrolling through something on his phone, his expression bored. But his free hand, the one not holding the phone, was resting on the back of Neil’s neck, his thumb tracing a slow, idle pattern against the scars there.
It was a casual, unthinking intimacy that still, after all these years, made Aaron feel a strange twinge of vertigo. It was proof that the world had changed, that Andrew Minyard could sit on a couch on Christmas Eve and just... exist.
Aaron walked over and reclaimed his spot on the other end of the sofa. Katelyn didn't hesitate; she sat down and immediately curled into him, tucking her feet up under her and resting her head on his chest. Aaron wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, anchoring her there.
For a long time, nobody spoke. The only sounds were the hum of the fish tank and Nicky’s theatrical sighing from the floor.
"The girl," Andrew said.
His voice was low, pitched to stay under the radar of the two sleeping partners. He didn't look up from his phone.
"O'Malley," Aaron clarified.
"She has an attitude problem," Andrew stated.
"She has a defense mechanism," Aaron corrected softly. "She grew up poor in Bridgeport. She thinks everyone is trying to hit her or fire her. She bites first."
Andrew finally looked up. He turned his head, glancing at Aaron. His eyes were dark, unreadable in the dim light, but there was a weight to the look.
"She stood between you and Neil," Andrew said.
"She didn't know who he was," Aaron dismissed.
"She knew he was a threat," Andrew countered. "She clocked the scars. She clocked the posture. She knew he was dangerous, and she stepped in front of you anyway."
Aaron went still. He hadn't thought about it like that. He had just seen O'Malley being O'Malley: loud, aggressive, insubordinate. But Andrew was right. She had recognized the violence in Neil, and her instinct hadn't been to run; it had been to shield her attending.
"She's loyal," Aaron said, his throat feeling tight again. "She's an idiot, but she's loyal."
"You kept them," Andrew said. It wasn't a question.
"Nobody else wanted them," Aaron said, repeating the line he had used a thousand times. "The program director wanted to fire Wei. Sterling wanted to transfer O'Malley. They were going to wash out."
"So you took the broken toys," Andrew murmured. He looked back down at Neil, his thumb still moving rhythmically against Neil’s neck. "Predictable."
"Someone had to teach them," Aaron defended. "They're good doctors. They just needed... time."
"You're doing more than time," Andrew said.
He locked his phone and set it on the arm of the couch. He looked at Aaron properly now, his gaze stripping away the excuses.
"I stop a ball," Andrew said flatly. "Neil runs in circles. Nicky... exists."
"Hey!" Nicky whispered from the floor.
"You stop the end," Andrew finished, ignoring Nicky. "You put your hands inside people and you make them stay. That is... significant."
Aaron stared at his brother. Andrew Minyard didn't do compliments. He didn't do validation. He viewed the world as a series of transactions and tolerated annoyances. But this... this acknowledgement that Aaron’s work, the work that kept him up at night, the work that Aaron poured himself into, had value? That Aaron had surpassed the survival mode of their youth and actually contributed something to the world?
It hit harder than the wine.
"I'm just a mechanic," Aaron deflected, his voice rough. "The brain is just a machine."
"Don't be an idiot," Andrew said. "Take the win."
Aaron let out a short, quiet breath. He tightened his arm around Katelyn. "Fine. I take the win."
Flash.
The sudden burst of white light blinded them both.
Aaron flinched, instinctively bringing a hand up to shield his eyes. Andrew's hand snapped out to cover Neil’s face, though Neil just grumbled and burrowed deeper into Andrew’s side.
Nicky was holding his phone up, grinning maniacally in the afterimage.
"Delete that," Aaron snapped, blinking away the spots in his vision.
"Absolutely not," Nicky whispered, scrolling through the photo. "Oh, this is art. This is going in the group chat. This is going on the fridge."
"Nicky," Andrew warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.
"Look!" Nicky turned the phone screen toward them.
The photo was candid and overexposed, but the composition was undeniable.
On the left, Andrew sat with his arm around Neil, a redhead with blue eyes, curled into his side. On the right, Aaron sat with his arm around Katelyn, a redhead with blue eyes, curled into his side.
The twins were sitting in the exact same posture: legs crossed the same way, heads tilted at the exact same angle, protective arms wrapped around their partners with identical possessiveness. Even their facial expressions, the glare at the camera, were mirror images.
"The DNA is strong," Nicky cackled softly. "You guys pretend you're so different. 'Oh, I'm the jock, I'm the doctor, we have nothing in common.' Please. You even picked the same color palette for your partners. It’s narcissistic, really."
Aaron looked at the photo. He looked at Andrew.
Andrew looked at the photo. He looked at Aaron.
For a second, the annoyance flared. The old urge to deny the connection, to push away the comparison, rose up in Aaron’s chest. I am not him. I am my own person.
But then he looked at Katelyn, asleep against his ribs. He looked at Neil, safe against Andrew’s side. He looked at the house he owned, the tree he had decorated, the cousin who was laughing on his floor.
He looked at Andrew, who wasn't drugged, wasn't fighting, wasn't waiting for the world to end.
They were thirty-five years old. They had survived the worst the world could throw at them. They had survived their childhoods, the mob, the court, and their own demons. And they had both found people who made the noise stop.
If that made them similar, Aaron decided, he could live with it.
"Shut up, Nicky," Andrew and Aaron said in perfect unison.
Nicky beamed. "Merry Christmas to you too."
The wind rattled the windowpanes, a reminder of the storm outside, but the house held heat. Aaron closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of the room. To Nicky’s quiet laughter, the hum of the fish tank, the steady breathing of the people he loved.
He didn't have to be on call tomorrow. The residents wouldn't kill anyone. The world wouldn't end.
He could live with that.