A Scare!

The Smith family home was quiet, unnervingly quiet. The usual bustle of servants and the hum of conversation had been replaced by an oppressive silence. Reginald, still as composed as ever, sat at his desk, but his usually sharp features were drawn in concern. Samantha's health scare had rocked the family, and the weight of it was palpable.

Samantha had collapsed earlier that morning, her breathing shallow and her skin pale. The doctors had insisted that it was nothing too serious, but for Reginald, that was hardly reassuring. His little angel, the one person in the world who made him feel human, had been taken from the private doctor's office to the family estate's clinic in an almost frantic hurry. Now, as she lay upstairs, the house seemed to hold its breath.

Alexander was no better. He paced the floors of the mansion, his gaze flickering to the staircase, each step taking him further into a nightmare. His stomach churned. This wasn't how he imagined spending his day. The usual confidence he exuded had been replaced by a raw vulnerability he didn't know how to handle. When Samantha had collapsed, he'd felt the air leave his lungs.

He had never truly thought about losing someone until now. The protective instinct he always had for her, ever since they were children, suddenly became sharper, more desperate. As he stood there, wringing his hands in frustration, his mind drifted back to the countless times Samantha had looked out for him, had taken care of him, and now it was his turn. The thought of losing her—of never seeing her smile, hearing her voice, or feeling her warmth again—was more than he could bear.

The doors to the Smith estate opened with a low groan, letting in a gust of icy wind and the flurry of snow that clung to Michelle's shoulders as she stepped inside. Her emerald eyes scanned the silent, tense foyer before she spotted him—her son, standing rigidly by the tall windows, staring out at nothing.

He didn't move when he heard her footsteps. He didn't even look her way. He just stood there, still and hollow, as though frozen in time. But Michelle saw it—the tightness in his jaw, the slight tremble in his shoulders.

"Alex," she said softly, her voice catching.

He didn't respond.

So she walked to him. No questions. No demands. Just presence. Just her.

When she reached him, she stood beside him for a moment, looking out at the snowfall with him, her arms folded tightly across her chest—partly from the cold, partly from the fear that hadn't left her since the doctor's call.

"She'll be okay," Michelle whispered. "They said it was a temporary episode—her body's reacting to stress and the cold. She just needs rest. Hydration. Warmth."

Alexander didn't answer.

His breathing had grown uneven.

"She looked so small on that bed," he said suddenly. His voice was quieter than she'd ever heard it—like he was afraid that saying it out loud would make the image more real.

Michelle turned to face him fully now. "She's strong. Like you. Like your father."

"I'm not strong," he muttered, his head bowing. "Not when it matters."

And then he cracked.

His breath hitched sharply—once, then again—until it gave way to something guttural and unrestrained. The tears came fast, unannounced, slipping past the calm mask he had worn for years. He didn't fight it this time. Didn't try to stop it. Instead, he stumbled forward—just a step—before collapsing into his mother's embrace.

Michelle caught him, wrapping her arms around him with a force that startled even her. One hand cupped the back of his head, and the other held him to her chest. She hadn't held him like this since he was little—since before he started hiding everything behind that icy exterior.

"I thought I'd lose her, Mom," he whispered, voice muffled into her shoulder. "I thought—what if she never wakes up again? What if I couldn't protect her?"

Michelle closed her eyes, her tears falling silently as she gently stroked his hair. "I know, sweetheart. I know. But she's here. She's okay. And so are you. You don't have to carry this alone."

"I feel like a coward," he choked. "I wanted to be strong. But I'm just... scared."

"You're not a coward, Alexander," came a second voice, low and firm, from behind them.

Michelle opened her eyes, and Alexander slowly turned his head. Reginald stood a few steps away, his eyes dark and unreadable—but there was something else there, too. Something rare. Something softer.

He stepped forward, slower than usual, as though unsure if his presence would be welcome. But Alexander didn't move away. For once, he didn't shut down.

Reginald reached out and placed a hand on his son's shoulder—tentatively at first, then firmer.

"It is not weakness to feel," Reginald said, voice quieter now. "Especially for the people we love. You did everything right, Alexander. You protected your sister. You stayed by her side. That is strength. Real strength."

Alexander stared at him, eyes still red, shoulders trembling. But then—he nodded. Just once.

For years, he had fought against the cold distance he felt with his father. For years, he assumed Reginald saw him only as an heir, a soldier in his shadow. But in this moment, he allowed something to settle—an understanding that maybe, just maybe, his father felt the same kind of fear, too. Maybe Reginald loved just as deeply but didn't know how to show it.

"I'm glad you're here," Alexander said, voice cracking as he looked from his mother to his father. "I don't think I could've... held it together without you both."

Michelle squeezed him tighter. Reginald gave his shoulder a final, gentle squeeze before stepping back and nodding toward the stairs.

"She's awake now. Asking for you."

Alexander wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweater, and Michelle took his hand in hers.

"Go see her," she said, her smile trembling. "She needs her big brother."

He nodded again, this time more firmly, and walked slowly toward the stairs. The weight in his chest was still there but lighter. Not gone, but carried together.

And for the first time in a long time, the Smith household, though still quiet and tense, felt something close to united.