Chapter 2: The Perfect Aunt

"It's yellow."

My voice sounded small, trapped in the stagnant air of the bedroom. I stared at the pill in my palm, a tiny, sulfur-colored disc that looked nothing like the relief I had been swallowing for four days.

Chloe didn't blink. She didn't check the bottle or furrow her brow in concern. She just kept that tight, patient smile plastered on her face.

"The pharmacy switched suppliers, Elara. It’s the generic. Same active ingredient, different coating." She nudged the water cup closer to my lips. "Dr. Thorne called it in himself. You trust him, don't you?"

The question was a trap. *Do you trust your doctor? Or are you hysterical?*

My hand trembled. The pain in my incision was a living thing now, a hot wire tightening with every heartbeat. I needed the meds. I needed the fog to come back and wrap me in cotton wool.

"Drink," she whispered.

I put the pill in my mouth. It tasted bitter, metallic, dissolving too fast on my tongue. I swallowed the water greedily, choking slightly as it went down. Chloe watched my throat work, her eyes tracking the swallow like a hawk watching a mouse.

"Good girl," she said.

The front door slammed downstairs, vibrating through the floorboards.

"Honey? I'm home!"

Mark's voice boomed, full of an energy that felt aggressive in the quiet house. I heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs, taking them two at a time. The door pushed open, and he filled the room, smelling of rain, expensive cologne, and the outside world I couldn't reach.

He didn't look at me first. He looked at her.

"Hey," he said, breathless. "How was she?"

"We had a little breakthrough," Chloe said, turning to him. She smoothed the front of her tracksuit, a gesture that drew his eyes down her body. "She finally took her meds without a fight."

Mark let out a long exhale, his shoulders dropping. "Thank God. You're a saint, Chlo. Seriously."

He walked over to the bed then, finally seeing me. He looked tired, his tie loosened, but there was a sheen of vitality on him that made me feel gray and withered. He sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle me, but the mattress dipped, pulling on my stitches. I winced.

"Hey, babe," he said softly, brushing a stray hair from my forehead. His hand felt cold. "Chloe says you've been having a rough day."

"I want to see Lily," I said. The words felt thick, my tongue heavy. The yellow pill was hitting me faster than the white ones. Heavier. "Please, Mark. bring her in here."

Mark looked at Chloe. He didn't answer me; he checked with her. The shift in power was subtle, unspoken, and absolute.

"She just went down, Mark," Chloe said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "It took me forty minutes to get her to latch on the bottle. If we move her now, she'll scream for hours."

"She needs her mother," I mumbled, trying to push myself up. My arms felt like they were filled with sand. "I need to hold her."

"You can barely hold your head up, Elara," Mark said. His tone wasn't unkind, but it was dismissive. "Look at you. You're shaking."

"I'm fine. I just... I miss her."

"You need to rest," Chloe interjected. She stepped up beside Mark, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Recovery is your job right now. Being a mom can wait until you can walk to the nursery."

*Being a mom can wait.*

The words hit me harder than the drugs.

"She's right, babe," Mark said, covering Chloe's hand with his own. He gave it a squeeze—a gesture of solidarity. Us against the invalid. "We're just trying to protect you. What would we do without Chloe? I'd be lost. We both would."

"I'm just doing what family does," Chloe said.

"Get some sleep," Mark said, patting my leg through the duvet. "We'll handle the night shift. Don't worry about anything."

They turned to leave. The room was already starting to spin, the corners of my vision darkening as the yellow pill dragged me down. I tried to stay awake, tried to keep my eyes on them.

Mark reached the door first. He held it open, waiting for her.

As Chloe passed him, she paused. It was only for a second. Mark leaned in, murmuring something I couldn't hear, a low rumble of intimacy. And then I saw it.

Mark's hand drifted to her back.

It didn't land on her shoulder, or between her shoulder blades, the way you guide a sister or a friend. His hand slid down to the curve of her waist, his fingers splaying wide over the small of her back, his thumb hooking slightly into the fabric of her waistband. It was a possessive, familiar weight. It was a touch that knew exactly where it was going.

It was a touch too low for a brother.