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How dare my dad put any of us in this position—especially Scarlett.

Whatever the next step is, I’m following her lead. The wellbeing of Caitlin and James is the most important thing here, and she knows what’s best for them.

I warn my siblings to keep their mouths shut within an inch of their lives, and Ronan promises. Fallon sends back an emoji with zipped lips. It’s something.

Ronan asks what Scarlett is like, but I hear the groan of the front door before I can type out a response. I pocket my phone and take a deep breath, my palms suddenly sweaty.

What if they don’t like me? What if I don’t know how to talk to them?

But they’re my family. I have to try.

I wipe my hands on my jeans as I walk out of the kitchen, the picture of confidence.

Three pairs of eyes greet me, all with vastly different expressions: curious—Caitlin. Wary—James. And Scarlett … Christ, she looks exhausted.

“Hi.” I lift a hand in perhaps the lamest greeting known to man. I focus on James first. He’s glued to his mom’s side, and I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “It’s nice to meet you, James. I’m Killian.”

James looks up at his mom, and she gives him a nod of encouragement. He steps closer to me, and every inch feels like a mile of progress, given how shy he seems to be. When he’s a few feet away from me, he does the last thing I expect and sticks out his tiny hand for me to shake.

I’ve never shaken a four-year-old’s hand—is this typical pre-school behavior?—but I close my fingers around his, somehow still shocked by how small they are. He shakes, up and down, his grip surprisingly firm.

“Hi,” he says, and when I glance over at Scarlett, she’s watching him with a proud smile.

“Hi,” I repeat. “That’s a strong handshake you’ve got there.”

“Grandpa taught me. Cait too, but she doesn’t like it.”

“I’m a hugger,” Caitlin says, and before I have a chance to blink, she’s hugging me.

I half-hug her back, but I mostly just pet the top of her hair, like she’s a cat and I’m trying to gauge my odds of getting clawed.

“Caitlin Piper Michaelson. We’ve talked about this. We don’t hug people without asking,” Scarlett chides, and Caitlin steps back with a sheepish expression.

I find myself replaying her full name over and over in my head. Caitlin Piper Michaelson. She’s a whole person, who shares my DNA, standing in front of me, and I didn’t know she existed when I woke up this morning. I wonder what James’s middle name is, if he has one.

“Sorry,” Caitlin mumbles.

“I like hugs,” I tell her, and her lips lift.

“Do you like horses?”

“Horses are cool.” I barely get the sentence out before she’s jumping up and down.

“Mama, can I show Killian my horses?”

“Of course,” Scarlett answers with a twinkly laugh. “Wash your hands while you’re upstairs. You too, Bug. I’ll start dinner.”

I follow as Caitlin barrels up the stairs, James on her heels, but Scarlett says my name, softly.

“Yeah?” I reply, turning to face her.

“Do you have any food requirements or anything I should know about?”

“I’m not fussy,” I promise. “Hey, what’s James’s middle name?”

Surprise lights her face. “Landon. Dom picked their first names, but he said I could pick their middle names.”

She should’ve been allowed to pick their full names—first, middle, and last—as far as I’m concerned. But as pissed off as I am at my dad, I don’t need to bring that energy around the kids. So I just nod, and say, “Makes sense.”