The sun hadn't even cleared the horizon before Stephen was already up.
He hovered over the edge of his bed—figuratively. Literally, he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, his blanket half-pushed off from a restless night. His arms rested beside him, hands balled into light fists, his fingertips twitching now and then like they were rehearsing something.
He sat up slowly, reached for the glass of water by his nightstand, and didn't pick it up. His hand hovered near it for a moment, then shifted back to his lap.
The glass remained still.
Stephen sighed.
Downstairs, the clink of plates and the low murmur of the television marked the start of another school day. He made his way to the kitchen, his bare feet brushing softly against the floor—he made sure of that. He always did now. Every step needed thought.
Mark was already at the counter, hunched slightly as he stabbed at his scrambled eggs. His face was lined with shadows under his eyes and a distinct grimace that deepened whenever he reached for his glass.
Stephen could tell immediately—Mark was sore.
Not just "late night gaming" sore. More like "thrown through a tree and landed in another tree" sore.
He smirked and leaned against the doorway. "Dad hit you in the gut again, didn't he?"
Mark looked up slowly and glared. "It was training."
"Right. And how'd that feel?"
Mark grimaced as he raised his fork. "Like getting steamrolled by a truck. Twice. And then the truck asked if I was still breathing and ran me over again, just to be sure."
Stephen chuckled as he slid into his seat and started buttering a piece of toast. "So… a productive session, then."
From the stove, Debbie shot them both a look. "Nolan, seriously? You said you'd ease him in."
Nolan, sitting at the table with his paper and a mug of coffee, didn't look up. "He's stronger than he thinks."
Mark muttered into his eggs, "Barely."
Stephen smiled faintly but didn't add anything else. Instead, he looked down at his toast and ran his fingertips just above the surface of the plate. He felt the edge of it—not the ceramic, but the space around it. The hum.
I can hold this, he thought. I can hold everything, if I'm careful enough.
A few minutes later, Mark grabbed his bag and muttered a half-hearted goodbye before heading out.
Stephen lagged behind a little, pausing by the fridge, pretending to grab a snack bar. As soon as Mark left, Nolan's voice broke the silence.
"I heard you up last night."
Stephen froze mid-reach.
Nolan didn't look away from his paper. "You were on the roof."
There was no accusation in his voice. Just simple fact.
"I was just… testing something," Stephen said softly.
Nolan hummed. "Careful. The wind up there can trick you. Makes you think you're floating when really, you're falling slower than you realize."
Stephen nodded. "I wasn't floating."
"Good," Nolan said, and flipped a page.
Stephen stepped outside and headed off toward the bus stop.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Mark met up with William by the parking lot, and sure enough, William was already in the middle of a very important speech.
"—so I said, 'Look, if you're going to pretend to like Nirvana, at least don't wear the shirt inside out.' Can you believe the disrespect?"
Mark rolled his eyes as he approached. "Morning to you too."
William gave him a once-over and whistled. "Dude. You look like you wrestled a grizzly bear."
"Close," Mark muttered. "Dad training."
"Oof." William leaned in dramatically. "Tell me the truth. Did he knock you into next week? Because that would explain why you didn't respond to any of my texts yesterday."
"I was busy being ragdolled through the woods, thanks," Mark said.
William laughed. "And here I thought gym class was bad. Still, I'd take a wild forest sprint with your dad over another essay on 'the sociopolitical ethics of post-war reconstruction.'"
Mark smirked. "I think you just made that phrase up."
"Guilty."
They fell into step as they entered the school, the hallways still buzzing with early morning grogginess. Backpacks shuffled, locker doors clanged, and the low rumble of sleepy teenage energy simmered just under the fluorescent lighting.
At the far end of the hallway, Stephen walked in with a few other freshmen. He was easy to spot—shorter than most, sharp-eyed, his shoulders pulled back with careful control.
He didn't walk so much as pace. Not because he was nervous. It was practice.
Every step deliberate, Stephen reminded himself. Land, lift, step. Heel barely touches the floor. Weightless. Always weightless.
He kept his hand on his backpack strap, his fingers brushing it with rhythmic taps. Not tapping on the strap—through it. Every texture, every shift of pressure, was information.
Someone bumped his shoulder.
"Oops—sorry, kid."
Stephen didn't react at first. Then, he blinked, looked up, and gave a polite smile. "No problem."
But his hand clenched briefly around the strap.
Too tight. Almost.
He let go, slowly. Carefully.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Stephen's placement in high school had been… complicated. Technically, he was twelve. But he was also done with most of his curriculum. He'd skipped two grades quietly, landing him as a freshman.
Mark had been surprised at first. Then impressed. Then a little annoyed when Stephen breezed through a chemistry test he'd once barely passed.
But now, Mark just rolled with it.
And Stephen? He did everything he could to stay low.
He avoided gym. Avoided raising his hand too much. Kept to himself. People assumed he was quiet, or awkward, or both. And that was fine.
Less attention meant fewer accidents.
_ _ ♛ _ _
At lunch, Stephen sat at the far end of the table where Mark, William, Eve, and Amber usually gathered. He stayed one chair over, always giving himself that extra inch of space—just in case.
Amber was animated, telling a story about her photography project while William snuck fries off her tray when she wasn't looking.
"—so I told the teacher, I'm not editing out the power lines. That's part of the landscape! You can't just erase reality because it's inconvenient."
"That's deep," Eve said, smiling. "And kind of badass."
Stephen listened quietly, a smile tugging at his lips.
Mark caught his expression and nudged him lightly with his elbow. "You doing okay?"
Stephen nodded. "Just listening."
Eve turned toward him. "You're Mark's little brother, right?"
Stephen blinked, like he hadn't expected to be addressed. "Yeah. Stephen."
"I've seen you around. You're, like… what? A genius or something?"
Stephen shook his head. "Not really."
William leaned in, mock-whispering. "He's totally a genius. Rumor is he made Dunst cry during physics."
Mark snorted into his drink.
Stephen looked down at his tray, quietly biting back a grin.
It was moments like these—normal, human moments—that made him forget. For a little while.
Until someone reached for the ketchup bottle.
Stephen flinched.
It was small. Barely noticeable. But his entire body tensed for a fraction of a second.
Mark caught it.
He didn't say anything. Not then. But he remembered.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Later that day, during a particularly dull algebra class, Stephen sat at his desk, fingers hovering over his pencil.
He wasn't writing. He was trying.
He focused, gently, the way he'd practiced. Extending—not grabbing, not forcing. Let the current carry the leaf.
The pencil lifted slightly. Then wobbled. Then dipped.
He adjusted the energy. Not more—less. He didn't want to break the desk again.
The pencil steadied mid-air.
He smiled to himself. No one noticed.
But then… his breath caught.
The girl next to him shifted her chair and her elbow brushed his.
Stephen pulled his arm back instantly. His aura trembled.
His pencil dropped with a loud clack.
The girl jumped, startled. "What was that?"
"Sorry," Stephen mumbled, tucking the pencil back into place. His voice was flat. Controlled.
He stared straight ahead for the rest of the class.
_ _ ♛ _ _
That evening, Mark stepped into Stephen's room uninvited.
Stephen was sitting cross-legged on the floor, breathing slow and steady, a book open in front of him, pages untouched. A small rubber eraser hovered in front of him, rolling back and forth.
"You've been… weird today," Mark said.
Stephen didn't look up. "Define weird."
"Like… flinchy. Twitchy. You almost elbowed a freshman into orbit over a ketchup bottle."
Stephen exhaled slowly. "I was distracted."
Mark stepped closer. "Are you okay?"
There was a long pause. Then—
"I don't know how to hug people."
Mark blinked. "What?"
Stephen finally looked up. "Like, if Mom gave me a hug right now. I don't know how tight is too tight. I used to. I think. But now… I'm not sure."
Mark's smile faded. He crouched down beside him. "Is this about the powers?"
Stephen didn't answer.
"I don't think Dad ever worried about holding back. Not really. I mean, he says he does, but…" Mark shook his head. "It's just instinct for him."
Stephen's voice dropped to a whisper. "It's not instinct for me."
The eraser dropped. Rolled across the floor.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Stephen said. "But what if I do? What if one day I forget how much is too much? What if I'm not human enough to know?"
Mark didn't have an answer.
So instead, he reached forward and gently tapped Stephen's forehead.
"You're overthinking."
Stephen blinked. "I literally have to."
Mark grinned. "Well, yeah. But also, you're not alone. You've got me. And Mom. And even Dad, kinda."
Stephen let out a quiet breath. "Kinda."
They sat in silence for a moment, the air between them lighter now.
Then Stephen smirked.
"So… still feeling sore from training?"
Mark groaned. "Dude. My spleen has a bruise."
Stephen chuckled.
And just like that, the distance between them closed a little more.
End of Chapter 25