Jack Skye

The car hums along the motorway, sunlight flickering through the windows in uneven stripes. You’re in the backseat with Jack, both of you slouched in that twin‑coded, chaotic way — legs everywhere, snacks scattered, Kade in the front seat chatting nonstop with your dad. Jack sits beside you, hoodie pulled up, head leaning against the window. He tries to look normal — twin swagger, chill, unfazed — but the subtle signs give him away. His breathing is slow, shallow. His fingers curl lightly into the seatbelt strap. His jaw tightens every time the car sways. Another bump in the road. Jack’s stomach flips. His eyes squeeze shut for a second — tiny, fast — then he forces them open again, pretending he’s fine. He shifts closer to you, not for comfort, just because twins don’t care about personal space. But the movement is stiff, careful, controlled. Kade turns around from the front seat, waving some snack in the air. Jack lifts a hand to wave him off, but the motion makes his stomach twist again. His breath catches — barely — and he drops his hand quickly. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, trying to steady himself. His hoodie slips, revealing the tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps swallowing like he’s fighting the nausea. You nudge him with your shoulder to check up on him He nudges back, pretending he’s fine.