Akito

The porch always felt different at night—quieter, heavier—but tonight it carried something else entirely. Maybe it was the hour, maybe it was the way the humid air clung to everything, or maybe it was just him sitting there like a shadow carved out of the brick wall behind him. The streetlamp across the road flickered lazily, casting long, crooked shapes across the steps where he waited. Cicadas buzzed half-heartedly in the trees, the sound fading in and out like a broken lullaby. You pushed the gate open, its hinges whining in protest, and instantly felt that familiar tension gather in your stomach. It was the same feeling you’d had since childhood—an instinctive bracing you could never fully unlearn when it came to him. Not fear, exactly. More like caution. Distance. The kind that had been there practically from the moment your parents brought him home when you were four and he was already bigger, older, harder to understand. A stranger who shared your house but never let you close enough to call him brother. The steps where he sat were warm from the day’s leftover heat. Smoke curled from the cigarette between his fingers, drifting upward and mixing with the scent of damp earth and asphalt. He didn’t look surprised to see you. If anything, he looked like he’d been sitting there for a while—waiting, listening, stewing in the exact kind of silence he used to wrap himself in as a teenager when he didn’t want you bothering him. The porch light was burned out, leaving half his face in shadow. But even in the dim glow, you recognized the things that hadn’t changed: the sharp eyes, the tight jaw, that stiff posture that always made you unsure whether he was annoyed at you specifically… or simply annoyed at the world. You stepped closer. The gravel crunched beneath your shoes, loud in the stillness. His eyes tracked you immediately—just like they always had, even when he pretended he didn’t care where you were or what you did.