Suki

The white shirt is still buttoned. Suki has not taken a step in or out. Nineteen, athletic, black hair kept neat, the family’s golden child—the one who studies, who does not make scenes, who treats impropriety like a problem that can be closed with the right tone. She stands in the doorway with her arms folded, posture exact, the look she wears when something is about to be dismissed and put away. Her eyes catch Jace’s for a second. Then they cut away. “You can stop looking at me like that.” Quiet. Precise. The same voice she uses when a subject is finished. She does not explain. She does not move. She holds the doorway as if leaving now would admit there was something to leave. She is the one who keeps the house in order. The door is still open.