"What the hell," I was confusedly trudging through my living room which has been remodeled into a more modern, minimalistic design with mostly white walls and furniture, which is a direct contrast to the rest of my house, which is mostly the combination of rustic/bohemian design that is usually riddled with dirty clothes and dishes everywhere.
"What do you think?" Ethan asked beside me, and I just looked at him like he had just grown a second head.
"What do I think? Why are my furniture not here? What did you do?" I barreled the questions at him so fast it sounded like one very long panic attack.
Ethan blinked at me, hands raised defensively. "Okay, first of all. I didn't do anything. This was your brother's idea."
"My house looks like an IKEA catalog," I said, pointing accusingly at the white sofa that looked too clean, too square, too not me. "Where's my coffee table? Where's my old couch with the questionable stain? Where's my… everything?"
Ethan cleared his throat. "Jake ordered the remodel."
I whipped around to face him so fast he actually flinched. "He what?"
"He remodeled your place," Ethan repeated carefully, like I was a startled animal that might bite. "You know, he saw some of your outdated furniture, and he didn't want you getting smashed by your shelf. So he rushed the contractors to redecorate this part first."
I blinked at him. Twice. Maybe three times.
"So he rescued me and then redecorated it like some minimalist Pinterest board?"
"…Yes?"
I threw my hands up. "And he didn't think to tell me?!"
"In his defense, you were unconscious, then traumatized, then busy being a lazy-ass in my house," Ethan said, walking ahead of me and opening the blinds like this was normal. "He didn't want you stressing about living in a half-collapsed house."
"I could have handled it," I muttered. Even if I'm not a millionaire like him or Jake, I can still get by. But Ethan gave me a look. The kind that said "you've got to be kidding me"
But in my defense, I have a lot on my plate on normal days. So I forget to clean and wash my clothes, or not paying attention to how my furniture been doing. So what? It's not that big of deal. I can still replace it when it break.
I surveyed the room again. Sure, it was attractive. Clean. Bright. Airy. The kind of place an adult with their life together would live in. Which is exactly why it felt like I was trespassing.
"Where's my bookshelf?" I asked suddenly.
"In the guest bedroom. Jake said the contractors didn't have time to reinforce the wall here yet, and he didn't want it crashing down on you."
I scrunched my face. "Why am I… weirdly touched but also extremely violated?"
"That's called having Jake as your brother," Ethan said dryly.
I walked toward the new sofa and poked it. Firm. Too firm. It made me miss the old one that sank like a dying marshmallow. "And what's with the white furniture? I spill things just by existing!"
"That's… also why Jake added stain-resistant coating." Ethan gestured to a tiny tag still attached to the couch. "It literally says 'Emily-proof.'"
I choked. "He branded my furniture?!"
"Kinda."
I sank onto the sofa, pressing my hands to my temples. "I leave for one week. One single week. And suddenly my house is a Scandinavian spa resort."
Ethan sat next to me. "Would you rather it still be falling apart?"
I glared at him.
He held up his hands again. "Just asking."
I deflated. "It's not that I hate it. I just… didn't expect it. And everything is so different. And Jake didn't tell me. And I hate surprises."
Ethan softened. "He wanted you to come home to different surroundings so you don't get triggered easily."
I stared at the wall. The very white, very smooth, very not my vibe wall.
"He means well," Ethan added quietly.
"I know," I sighed, sinking back into the couch.
Silence settled over us. The kind that only exists when something big has happened and everyone's still pretending things are normal.
I ran a hand through my hair. "Okay. Fine. I'll… get used to it."
Ethan nudged my elbow. "If it helps, the kitchen looks the same."
My head snapped up. "Really?"
He hesitated. "Mostly."
I groaned. "Ethan!"
*~*
A week later…
I had been waiting for this day for so long.
I could finally sleep in my own house again.
And to earn that privilege, I'd spent the last seven days forcing myself to obey Jake's "superior safety protocols," which was basically a fancy term for run drills until your lungs cry.
I'd practiced every defensive routine he ever taught me, even the ones I hated that made my knees aching, arms shaking, cursing under my breath the whole time. I hadn't been consistent for years, choosing writing deadlines over martial arts warm-ups, and my muscles made sure I regretted every decision I'd ever made.
But it paid off.
Jake would have been proud.
Annoyingly smug about it, but proud.
Standing inside my doorway now, backpack slung over my shoulder, I felt something warm swell in my chest. Despite the crisp-white minimalist makeover Jake forced on most of the house, my workspace, my sacred creative cave, was untouched.
It was exactly the way I remembered. Chaotic, cozy, messy in a very artistic way, and smelling faintly of old books and the candles I always forgot to blow out. I nearly cried.
"Looks like someone's happy," Ethan said as he carried in two boxes behind me.
"I am," I said, running my fingers across my cluttered desk like it was a long-lost friend. "He didn't touch anything in here."
"That's because I threatened him," Damien's voice boomed from the hallway.
I turned to see him balancing three boxes on each arm like a pack mule. His wife, Isabelle, followed behind him with an amused shake of her head. "Damien," she scolded softly, "you're going to throw out your back."
"Nonsense. I'm built for this."
He took one step forward and winced. "Mostly."
Isabelle rolled her eyes and turned to me with a warm smile. "Sweetheart, where do you want these pillows? The decorative ones."
"Oh! Uh—living room, I guess. On the couch. If the couch allows it."
"It's a couch, Emily," Ethan called from the kitchen. "Not a religious shrine."
I poked my head into the kitchen. "It's too white. It scares me."
"It's stain-resistant," Ethan reminded me for the tenth time.
"Doesn't matter," I said dramatically. "One wrong move and I'll ruin its entire existence."
Isabelle laughed. "We'll get you dark blankets. Problem solved." Bless this woman.
For the next hour, it was chaos.
Ethan organized the kitchen drawers like a commander preparing for battle. Damien assembled a new shoe rack in the hallway after denying that he lost the screws. He absolutely lost them. Isabelle folded my clothes with the precision of a professional stylist, humming under her breath while she worked.
And me?
I just floated through the rooms, watching my house turn from remodeling hostage back to "my home." At one point, Ethan poked his head into the living room with a triumphant grin. "I found your missing blanket."
"Oh my God, my burrito blanket!" I almost tackled him to get it. "Where was it?"
"In the box labeled kitchen utensils."
"…Why?"
Ethan shrugged. "Do I look like someone who questions your organizational methods?"
"No," I admitted. "You look like someone who judges them silently."
He didn't deny it.
When the last box was unpacked and the last pillow dramatically fluffed by Damien, who insisted it needed more character, we all collapsed onto the living room furniture.
I sighed, sinking into the cushions. "Thank you, guys. Really. For all of this."
"You're family," Isabelle said, reaching over to pat my knee. "That's what we do."
Damien nodded. "Plus, Jake would murder all of us if we let you come home alone."
"Facts," Ethan added.
Isabelle opened her phone and immediately asked us what type of pizza we want and I opted for the traditional peperoni style pizza with extra cheese. And we spent the better part of the afternoon chilling, watching TV, and arguing about the cop show we were watching.
Eventually, Damien checked the time. "Alright, troops. We should head out before Isabelle turns into a pumpkin."
Isabelle stood with a graceful stretch. "You wish."
Ethan grabbed his jacket. "Text me if you need anything. I'll be 10 minutes away."
"Thanks," I said, walking them to the door.
Before they stepped out, Isabelle gave me one last hug, the kind that squeezes out all the worry you didn't know you were holding.
"We're glad you're home," she whispered.
I swallowed. "Me too."
When the door finally closed and their footsteps faded, I turned back toward the quiet house. I wrapped my burrito blanket around my shoulders like a superhero cape and walked into my workspace, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent. Now, I can go back to my routine.