Held in the Reestablishment's grip, Kenji Kishimoto and Rome Vera find solace within each other. But as war looms and betrayal threatens their fragile bond and with sacrifice on the horizon, can their love survive? Or will it be forever hidden in th...
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𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗢𝗙𝗧 𝗧𝗢𝗨𝗖𝗛 of my mother's lips meets the side of my forehead, an all-too-familiar gesture that has greeted me since I started talking. Setting down the soapy plate, I turn to face her, the warmth of her kiss lingering on my skin.
Her smile is radiant, a beacon of comfort, as she steps closer until we're shoulder-length apart. The kitchen light catches in her eyes, making them sparkle with an unspoken question.
"So. . ." she begins, her voice gentle but firm, her gaze already hinting at what she's about to ask. "Did you do your homework?"
This, again.
A groan escapes my lips as soon as the words leave hers. I stop scrubbing the dishes, turning fully to meet her expectant eyes. She gives me a 'sorry, not sorry' look, one eyebrow raised.
"Mom, really?" I grumble, dragging out her name in exasperation.
"Yes, really," she snaps back just as quickly, her tone leaving no room for argument. As strong willed she is, I'm pretty up to pair. It's her genes you could say.
"I'll finish it, I promise," I lie through my teeth, turning back to the grimy dishes. The suds swirl around my fingers as I try to divert the conversation, hoping she'll drop the subject.
"Rome won't do it, she's lying," my dad's voice booms as he enters the kitchen, his heavy footsteps resonating off the tiled floor. He sets something down on the table with a thump, a slight grunt escaping him. I furrow my eyebrows as he meets us, his presence commanding attention.
He greets my mother with a quick peck on the cheek, her smile returning with ease. The momentary distraction gives me a chance to grab the green towel and wipe my hands, a quick getaway.
"Come on, Rome, we've talked about this," he says, his tone a blend of frustration and concern.
"I know—I'm doing it now," I dismiss myself, putting the crinkled towel down on the marbled counter. I feel their eyes on me as I walk up the wooden stairs, the tension in the air thick.
I would've stayed to enjoy the moment a little longer, but I have no intention of getting into another argument about school.
The old stairs creak with each step, the wood groaning under my weight. From downstairs, I catch the hushed mutters of my parents' conversation, their voices blending into a low hum. I don't bother to eavesdrop; knowing where the gist of their discussion was going.
