The morning air was crisp, soft with the chill of early spring. Thin clouds clung lazily to the sky, and the sun, still stretching over the horizon, spilled gold across the Grayson backyard.
Stephen stood barefoot on the damp patio stones, staring at his open hand like it was something foreign. The morning dew clung to his feet. Cold. Grounding. Necessary.
He bent down, picked up a tennis ball, and held it loosely in his palm. His fingers were shaking—not from strain, but something deeper. Something quieter.
Fear.
He exhaled slowly. Then closed his hand around the ball.
Not too tight. Not too loose.
He didn't want to crush it.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Inside, the house stirred with life. Debbie was already in the kitchen, the clink of dishes soft under the low hum of a news broadcast. Mark sat at the table, hunched over a bowl of cereal, a bruise peeking out from under his collarbone.
"You okay?" Debbie asked, pouring him a glass of juice.
Mark nodded through a spoonful of cereal. "Dad took me up to the Rockies this morning. Said I needed to feel high-altitude wind pressure."
Debbie raised a brow. "Did you get dropped?"
"Gently."
She gave him a look. "Mark."
Mark smirked. "It's fine. I bounced."
She rolled her eyes, but didn't push. Instead, her gaze drifted toward the back door where Stephen still stood, small against the open sky. Her smile faded just slightly.
"He was out there before I woke up," she said softly.
Mark glanced outside, then back to his mom. "He's been doing that every morning. Doesn't think anyone notices."
"Do you talk to him about it?"
Mark hesitated. "We talk. He just… talks different sometimes. Like his brain's already ten steps ahead. I don't always get what he means."
Debbie smiled faintly. "You don't have to get it. You just have to keep showing up."
_ _ ♛ _ _
Outside, Stephen lowered the tennis ball.
It was intact. He hadn't crushed it. That was something.
But his fingertips still tingled. The sensation of contact—of friction, weight, resistance—none of it felt natural anymore. Like his body was forgetting what it meant to be human.
He placed the ball gently on the garden table. Backed away.
Then reached out with his aura.
Nothing.
He stepped closer. Tried again.
A flicker—barely a whisper—of energy shimmered from his palm. The ball trembled.
He focused.
It rolled forward an inch.
Stephen's breath caught. It had listened.
"Okay," he murmured. "Again."
This time, the ball twitched, then lifted—barely a centimetre. His aura trembled around it like static clinging to skin. The control was there, just under the surface. But fragile. So fragile.
The moment he thought too hard about it—about weight, mass, trajectory—the ball fell.
Stephen closed his eyes.
"How do I hug without hurting?" he whispered.
"How do I not pull back too much and still stop someone who wants to hurt them?"
The sun warmed his skin. It made it easier. Calmed the tremble in his bones. But even the sun couldn't answer.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Mark came outside midmorning, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
"You know," he said, grabbing the tennis ball from the grass, "when most people say they're tired, they mean they stayed up late. Not that they trained with a demigod before sunrise."
Stephen looked up at him. "How's your shoulder?"
Mark rotated it slowly, wincing. "Still attached. So that's a win."
He tossed the ball gently, and Stephen caught it with both hands.
Mark sat down on the edge of the table. "You sleep at all?"
Stephen shook his head. "Didn't need to."
"Still doing the whole 'zero rest' thing?"
Stephen nodded. "Feels like blinking. I can do it. But I don't have to."
Mark watched him for a moment. "You know Mom's gonna worry if she finds that out."
"I know."
They sat in silence for a beat. Mark kicked at the dirt with his heel.
"Hey," he said. "You know it's okay if you're not perfect at it yet."
Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Says the guy who accidentally flew into a billboard yesterday."
Mark grinned. "That billboard came out of nowhere."
Stephen chuckled, and for a moment, he let his shoulders drop. Just a kid. Just a laugh.
"I saw what you did with the spoon yesterday," Mark added. "That was cool."
Stephen blinked. "You were watching?"
"Yeah. Dad told me not to distract you. Said you needed focus."
Stephen's stomach tightened. "He said that?"
Mark nodded. "He watches you a lot, y'know. Just quietly. He doesn't do the cheerleader thing like Mom, but he notices everything."
Stephen didn't reply. But his hands curled slightly around the tennis ball.
_ _ ♛ _ _
That evening, the house smelled like roasted garlic and rosemary. Debbie stood at the stove, humming to herself, flipping vegetables in a pan. Nolan sat at the kitchen table, flipping through a thick file folder.
Stephen slipped in quietly, washed his hands, and set the table. He didn't ask. He just did it.
Mark came down a few minutes later, hair still wet from his shower.
"Dinner smells awesome," he said, grabbing a slice of bread before sitting down.
Debbie waved a spoon at him. "Hands off until we pray."
Mark groaned. "Mom—"
"Table manners, Mark. Pretend we're not raising you in a barn."
Stephen slid into his seat. "To be fair, if we were in a barn, Mark would be in the animal section."
Mark threw a crouton at him. Stephen caught it without looking.
Dinner was loud, warm, a little messy. Just like it should be.
Nolan didn't say much, but he didn't need to. He nodded when spoken to, responded when asked. His presence filled the room, steady and calm.
But Stephen felt the way his eyes lingered.
How they paused on his hands.
How they tracked the way he cut his food, slowly, deliberately.
Stephen tried not to think about it.
After dinner, Stephen stayed behind to help clean. Debbie handed him a towel, and they worked side by side, rinsing and drying.
"You did well with dinner tonight," she said.
Stephen blinked. "I didn't cook."
"You didn't hide, either."
He looked at her, confused.
She smiled, brushing a damp curl from his forehead. "Sometimes showing up is the bravest thing you can do."
Stephen dried a plate in silence.
"I don't know how strong I am," he said quietly.
Debbie stopped for a moment.
"I know," she replied. "But I know who you are."
She set the plate down gently. "And I trust you."
Stephen didn't answer. But he didn't need to.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Later that night, he sat on the back porch, arms wrapped around his knees.
He tried again. The tennis ball sat in front of him, still and waiting.
He reached out—not with his hand. With his focus. With his fear.
It lifted. Shaky. Imperfect. But it lifted.
And for now, that was enough.
End of Chapter 26
(A/N: Dang sorry guys been hella busy, legit almost forgot to post this week, crap going on irl, and also got a lot of new work, 6 games i am helping to develop, its alot, gone days without sleep and food, my insomnia getting worse, its crazy work. Anyways here is the chapter, enjoy, haven't had time to work on them at all, so ;-; still enjoy)