I dig the whole story out of my uncle eventually, though it takes more effort than is dignified for either of us. His dogged resistance pisses me off, and my prying does the same for him. Too bad, because I'm the one in charge.

I take my time reminding him of that.

* * *

His bare knees are a pleasant dark brown against the white kitchen linoleum. He doesn't show bruises easily, but maybe his serious boyfriend, the one he was so careful to hide from me, will notice the bluish tone on them the next time he sees him. I press my elbow into his naked back as I lean on him like he's a leather-bound workbench.

"Oran. I'm sorry, you have to understand," he murmurs, though he's smart enough to not raise his head. Good furniture.

"Oh, no, I understand!" I say with a laugh. I feel manic, like I could break something. The kitchen smells like burnt salmon skin and flop sweat. Dinner will be so cold. "I get why you asked if I wanted to move out when I graduated. Thought it was obvious I didn't, back then. But you had your eyes on this guy, huh?"

Jett winces. His knees must really hurt. "That wasn't my intent," he says, voice still soft.

What does this conversation feel like for him? I'm not sure. He's never reacted in the straightforward way my other targets do. I can't read him clearly, like I said. My intrusions into his thoughts, while effective to an extent, have trouble keeping a hold. In the end, he usually does what I want, but with some complaint. Still, despite everything I've done to him, he doesn't seem to find our relationship beyond the pale, or even that unusual. I can tell he's embarrassed by what he sees as "indulging" me, but that's the most of it. Like it's normal for me to use him whenever it satisfies me. (It is.)

"C'mon, how long have you been planning to ditch me?" I say. Maybe I don't have a right to be so angry he's found someone and wants to move in, but I feel the rage like a boulder in my stomach. The worst part is that he hid it for so long.

"You're welcome too, Oran, please, we're family," he says, louder this time. "I just... didn't know how to tell you. He has his daughter to worry about, and I thought you might be upset. Or not get along."

"You thought I'd want to screw his little princess, huh?"

He doesn't deny it. "Sometimes, you... charm young ladies without thinking," Jett whispers. His muscular back tightens, cutting shapes into his sweating skin. Tense, anxious. He knows it's dangerous to talk back to me, but he's trying so bravely. This girl must be cute.

"You make me sound like such a slut." I elbow between his shoulder blades. "But you want us to play house now. Sure you want me to meet her? What about him? Maybe you should be more worried about your man."

My uncle audibly swallows a few times. I sense blurry resignation and regret, but also warmth, at the summoning of his boyfriend's specter. "He's not... your type," he finally ekes out.

I place my hand on the back of his head, at the short, well-maintained fade there, and press my fingers into the hair and skin. I try to yank an image of him out, right from the source. As usual, Jett's mind is far less yielding than others, but I get something. Manly, big (in every direction), loud, narrow eyes and short black hair--definitely not my usual taste, I'll give him that.

Not that he knows everything I've ever gone after, just what I've brought home to fuck, unabashedly, in my room.

The positive emotions that come along with the image act as a temporary balm over my anger. I relax my hand, stroking rather than squeezing now. My stupid uncle. He's never had much luck with long-term partners, even before he selflessly adopted his brother's kid. He's too much of a sap for his own good, gets jerked around by guys who fetishize his stoic demeanor, his sensible glasses contrasting with his build, the way he yields when someone dominates him.

"Fine, fine, not my type," I offer, petting at his head like he's a well-behaved dog. "Then I just have to keep my hands off his daughter, right? That's not so hard. I can behave for my 'Dear Uncle Jett.' If it means that much to you. And we can talk about who's moving where after that."

"Please?" he says, with an upward waver. Nearly pleading.

He is such a stupid bitch. Should've been born a worm instead. "I promise."

* * *

The planned dinner arrives a week later.

It's scheduled at his boyfriend's house, 6 o' clock sharp. Jett will meet me there; I have class until 4:45, so my instructions are to tidy up and reach the address on my own. My uncle's the kind of uptight loser who would try to make me dress up for a homecooked meal, but I'm playing nice, so I do it.

I put a black button-down shirt on, then fasten a simple dark green cardigan over it. I may not be putting khakis on like he'd want, but I wear my nice black jeans tucked into leather boots. It looks like me, which khakis definitely wouldn't. I don't know what I'd call my style. Someone on TikTok is probably calling it new punk non-binary dark academia as we speak, but I just think of it as... what I like.

I sweep my curly hair back into a loose, low ponytail, and squint into the mirror, considering if I want to wear eyeliner. My face is masculineish, but my eyelashes are long and doing eye makeup really ups my gender neutrality.

Sure, why not. I take a few minutes to line my green eyes with black, nothing too dramatic, but enough to make them pop. I look like some girl's ideal emo boyfriend now. Or maybe I need a facial piercing or some tattoos before I can call myself that.

Checking my phone, I find the address and confirm my ETA. Showtime.

* * *

When he throws open the front door, my uncle's boyfriend fills the entire doorframe. I knew he'd be big from the image I yanked out of Jett, but this is something else. He's closer to seven feet tall than he is six, and plenty broad too. The wave of emotions and thoughts rushing out of him takes up almost as much space.

"Oran! C'mere, it's so good to finally meet you, kid! Eh, you're not too old to be called kid, are ya?" Without further ado, he grabs me and crushes me up against his belly in a hug.

It feels like getting hugged by one of those huge walruses that bask on the beach surrounded by their harem; there's warmth and fat under his skin, but muscle too, especially in his arms. He squeezes so hard I let out an involuntary gasp.

"Eric, I think you're overdoing it, please," I hear from behind him. Jett, anxious and wheedling, suspecting that his boyfriend is probably pissing me off.

"Yeah, but, you kept him away from me all this time, I gotta make up for it," Eric says before letting me out of his vice grip. "He says you like to do things on your own, but that just sounds like shy to me! No need to be shy. Ahhh, so good to finally meetcha, Oran!"

I straighten up, only to hunch back over when he heartily thumps me on the back. Jesus, I had heard he works in construction from Jett, but I didn't know that meant he went around lifting cinderblocks by himself all day. "Yes, well, charmed," I manage, and his thoughts are as buoyant as ever after hearing it, so I guess he doesn't know what sarcasm is.

"Now come in, come in, Jett and I have been cookin', we've got a ways to go but it's all comin' together, trust me, and Violette's in the living room with some snacks if you wanna sit there while we work, no need to put yourself out, we'll cook and eat and then you can get a tour of the house, see the spare room and see what you think--"

"Eric," Jett says in a warning tone.

"Oh, I'm talkin' too much, sorry about that. Bad habit of mine! You gotta just give me a good elbow right here when I do that," Eric says, slapping his belly for emphasis. I raise an eyebrow at Jett, who has the decency to look embarrassed. This guy is not what I expected.

"We'll introduce you to Violette, then get back to prepping," my uncle says, nudging us back on track.

"Sure, sounds good," I offer. So agreeable.

"Of course, y'gotta meet my baby girl, she's the cutest little button you'll ever see, but she's shy too so don't worry if she doesn't talk much, that's just how she is. Opposite of me!" Eric laughs at his own joke, his large arm over my shoulder as he directs me down the hall to the living room.

I shoot a look at Jett, like, are you fucking kidding me with this being the guy you want to move in with, and Jett draws his eyebrows together. I can't read his exact thoughts, but I get the idea he's thinking:

See, this is why I didn't know when to introduce you.

Eric's thoughts, meanwhile, are like the flavor and consistency of a big bowl of sweet rice pudding. This is not a guy who thinks hard, but he thinks a lot, waves of warm, positive thoughts that spill over me like syrup over a stack of pancakes.

Contrary to my uncle's expectations, I find it hard not to like him. Genuinely happy, simple people tend to put me in a good mood. Jett's the other side of the coin--anxious and fussy people put me on edge.

We reach the living room. Eric's arm on my shoulder feels pleasantly heavy, and a small smile creeps onto my face. The vibes are surprisingly all right.

That's when I see her.

Her hair, straight, dyed blonde, drapes over her shoulders and covers most of her face, though one of her eyes is visible. If not for the golden halo, she'd resemble one of those Japanese ghost girls who curse you for watching the wrong video. Though, since her last name is Li, I assume she's a different kind of ghost. Can't say I've seen any Chinese horror movies.

"Violette, they're here, say hi to Oran, sweetiepie," her dad calls, his arm as heavy as a python draped over my shoulder.

She doesn't respond. I study her more, taking in the paleness of her skin, which is quite unlike her tan and ruddy dad's. She's much daintier too, shorter than me, and almost dwarfed by the lavender, shimmery, puffy-sleeved dress she's wearing. I think I've seen those advertised somewhere online; being non-binary means the targeted ads have no idea what to do with you.

At last, she glances up from her phone, and I'm struck by the weight of her gaze.

Void. Empty. Blank. Falling. Underwater. No, lower. Buried.

If her dad wasn't keeping me grounded with his arm, I might have reeled back.

She nods at me, just barely. "Hi," she says in a voice that's much huskier than I expected. She promptly turns back to her phone, her expression unchanging.

It's a good thing her dad is beside me, bubbling with love and enthusiasm, babbling away about how well she's been doing in her last year of high school, or else I might turn and run.

She's not like my uncle, who has walls around him but still comes across with fuzzy, indistinct thoughts. There's nothing coming from her, not a whisper. I reach out with my mind, only to hit... nothing, again. A yawning emptiness unlike any I've known. A chill prickles the back of my neck.

What the fuck is wrong with this girl?

For the first time in a long time, I tense with self-consciousness. What if she can hear my thoughts? Back when all of this shit hit in puberty, I was incredibly paranoid that people could hear my thoughts too. As I got better at picking apart the noise, that fear subsided. If they could, I'd be able to sense it, or they'd be able to resist me. I've never run into anyone who could do that beyond Jett, who definitely never knows what I'm thinking.

Is she resisting me right now?

"Why don't you talk, you're only a year apart, she's nearly graduated, you can tell her about college? I keep telling her to at least try community college, but she's deadset on doing her social media influencer thing. I'm not that old you know, Jett must've told you I had her young, but it's still a bit over my head. You probably know all about it though. Go on, have some of the chips!" Eric steers me bodily into the chair across from Violette. Social convention dictates that I sit, so I do.

Is this punishment? Am I being punished? Sweat pops up on my forehead, but my bangs should be hiding it, at least. I try not to stare at her, do it anyway.

She picks up a chip from the table between us without looking at me, then eats it in one bite.

Something about her reminds me of those creepy ball-jointed dolls that some people are into, the ones with flat chests, wide hips, and eyes that almost look bruised around the edges. She has all three. Up close like this, I can see the elaborate tracing of white and black lines, pink and red smudges that are her makeup look. Influencer, her dad had said? She must be into fashion or makeup, or both. The dress looks expensive.

Eric gives a thumbs up to the both of us--cringe--before he claps Jett on the shoulder and redirects him (as manfully as he directed me a few minutes ago) toward the kitchen. I'll have to think about that crazy relationship when Ms. Blackhole over here isn't taking up all my thoughts.

"So, uh, Violette, yeah, nice to meet you, my name's Oran. Like your dad said. You're almost done with high school?"

"I'm eighteen," she says.

Cool, why the fuck did you tell me that?

She turns her uncovered eye to me, and I freeze like one of those little hobbit guys when Sauron is peering at them. Did she hear that?

"My dad said you're not a boy," she says in a monotone, before eating a handful of chips.

"Uh, yeah, but you can use whatever pronouns," I say, like a fucking bitch who doesn't regularly force people to correct themselves. Who am I right now?

"No, I won't."

"Sorry, what do you mean?"

"Use whatever."

"Right...cool. Thanks?"

She blinks at me, slowly, in a way that reminds me of a sleepy animal. Then she lifts her phone up and takes a picture of herself eating a chip, a slight pout on her lips.

Some of my fear starts to ebb away. Is it possible that this girl is so blank because... she's dumb as hell?

"Sooo... your dad and my uncle, huh? Opposites attract situation, for sure, right?" I try to sound conspiratorial, like we are about to have a bit of gossip. See if she catches the mood.

"Daddy still likes me best."

Wow, that was a stone-cold failure at a conversational baton pass. And what do you do with the kind of high school senior who drops "Daddy" on you that casually?

"Well, Jett and I aren't that close, so you can keep him, anyway," I say with a light touch.

Her expression twitches a little, and she sinks into the couch and her own dress, the neckline gaping a bit around her flat chest as her shoulders rise. Like a girl sulking in a princess dress at her birthday party. The way she raises her phone blocks my view of her face.

"What, does that mean I should take him back?"

The phone drops. "Could you?"

"Ha, uh, no, I mean, he's like? Living his own life," I hurry to say, covering for my surprise. Damn, she really doesn't like Jett, huh? I would never have guessed from the way he talked about her.

I keep quiet about the fact I probably could break up his happy relationship. That'd be low, even for me. Intimidating, using, and bossing him around is one thing, but as long as he's not trying to run me out of his life, he can keep his romantic dreams. I'm not after his heart. That's my general modus operandi, for the record. I'm into dirty hook-ups, not crushing spirits.

Awkward silence blooms between us like a corpse flower. She wrinkles her nose, which I admit is adorable on her pixieish face, then types something into her phone. Texting a friend about what a loser I am? Seems probable. I'm not used to conversations on hardmode these days, okay?

"Are you going to move in, like Daddy wants?" she asks abruptly, her gaze back on me.

"Maybe? I mean, this is a nice house, and Jett's the only family I've got, so, if he moves in..." I trail off. Using the dead relatives excuse usually eliminates any questions about why I haven't moved into the dorms.

"Daddy built it himself," she says, latching onto my compliment. A daddy's girl, that's for sure. I'm not sure exactly how old her dad is, but Jett said they're not too far apart in age, so he had to be around sixteen or seventeen when he knocked her mom up. Since the mom's not in the picture, he must've been the primary figure in her life, so it's no wonder, I guess.

"That's great! I couldn't do anything like that, he must be very talented," I say, offering it like a present to an unruly child. She sits up a little and smiles the tiniest bit at her phone screen. My heart thumps with an eagerness I don't have words for when she does that. She's not my type at all, more doll than hot girl, but her smile is... something else.

I've only just made her smile when Jett interrupts us. If I doubted her ire for him, the way she immediately returns to ice at the sight of him would confirm it. Ouch, dude.

"How's it going out here?" he asks, his voice and thoughts strained with the desire to hear "Great!" as our answer.

"Oh, fine, Violette's been telling me about the house," I say, and she says, absolutely nothing, even when I nod at her encouragingly.

"It's a lovely home, Eric is really amazing," Jett hurries to reply, almost tripping over the words. Desperate, dude. She doesn't like you, get over it! "Anyway, glad it's going well, just wanted to let you know I'm stepping out, we're out of black bean sauce and that won't do. But Eric will--"

Eric walks up behind him, his coat already on. "Hey, I'm coming with, don't try to leave me out! Gotta grab a couple of other things, and everything is good to cook on the stove without us for fifteen minutes. You're worrying for nothing, the food'll be fine," he assures my uncle, who looks at him, then me, with pleading eyes.

Haha. He doesn't want to leave me alone with her, but Eric doesn't get it. I'm not excited about my date with the void either, but to let him know that would mean ego death, so I shrug. "I can make sure stuff doesn't burn, and Violette and I are getting along. Isn't that right?"

I don't expect her to say much, so I'm gobsmacked when she says, "Yes, I like them."

Eric grins, delighted by this turn of events, while Jett goes wide-eyed. "Told you they'd get along, you worry too much, sweetie. C'mon, they'll hold down the fort."

"If you're sure," Jett says.

Eric doesn't say more, just redirects Jett out of the living room and down the side hall to the garage. It's hard not laugh, seeing Jett get steamrolled by this guy about as easily as I do it. I told you he should've been born a worm.

When the door to the garage clicks and the sound of the car leaving can be heard, Violette puts her phone down, not just out of her face but on the coffee table, which instantly fills me with... is this dread? Anticipation? Something potent.

"So, you like me, huh?" I ask, then wonder why I said anything in the face of her stare. Her eyes remind me of a dead fish's.

"You're kind of cute," she replies, unexpectedly, and then she breaks the rest of my expectations as easily as a dry stick. I feel like I'm swimming slowly through deep water as I watch her place both of her feet on the edge of the couch cushions, knees up and apart, her hand grabbing the hems of her skirt and taffeta petticoats, the warm space between her legs exposed for me. No panties there, so I see it all, more when she reaches her other hand down and parts her pussy lips, exposing the center of her, pinker than I could have imagined, the shining wetness of her hole--she's so wet--which starts out dusky pink but terminates into blackness, drawing my eyes in as I can't help but think of putting my dick inside and seeing how deep it goes. Like it might be as neverending as the hole in her head.

"Do you want to fuck me?" she asks, and my answer, of course, is yes.