THE SIDE WE NEVER SHOW

I rang the bell and stepped back one respectful foot.

It was quiet for exactly three seconds.

Then the door creaked open with a slow, theatrical groan that made it sound like I'd disturbed a haunted tomb.

I peered inside.

"Blake?"

That's when something launched out of the darkness.

A blur of fur, fabric, and aggressive squeaking.

I ducked just in time as what appeared to be a stuffed octopus strapped to a drone buzzed past my head and spiraled into a bush.

I blinked.

"Why... was that octopus airborne?"

Before I could even process the question, I heard crashing.

Screaming.

And barking.

Blake Fletcher—shoeless, shirt half-buttoned, and wearing goggles for some reason—bolted across the hallway, chased by a massive golden retriever.

"NO, BUTTERBALL! NOT THE FACE!"

"What—what is happening!?" I yelled.

Blake skidded into the doorway like a man fleeing the underworld, saw me, and screamed:

"PETER! MATE! YOU CAME! OH THANK THE HEAVENS, HERE—SWITCH WITH ME!"

"What does that even—"

But before I could finish that sentence, he shoved me into the hallway, spun around me, and then locked the front door from the inside.

"WH—BLAKE!"

The dog—Butterball, apparently—made direct eye contact with me.

There was a moment of mutual understanding.

I was a stranger.

I had entered its domain.

I was now the problem.

"No," I said firmly, holding up my hands. "I am not part of this."

Butterball barked once.

And charged.

"OH SWEET QUEEN ELIZABETH—"

I ran.

I don't know where I ran to.

All I remember is crashing through what used to be a kitchen, stepping on a LEGO, tripping over a bucket full of unidentifiable slime, and diving behind a couch stacked with six lava lamps and a broken telescope.

"BLAKE," I yelled between gasps, "CALL OFF YOUR FLUFFY DEMON!"

From the stairwell above, Blake shouted, "YOU HAVE TO ASSERT DOMINANCE! BARK BACK!"

"I AM NOT BARKING AT A DOG!"

"THEN DANCE! DOGS LOVE DANCING!"

Butterball lunged at me again, teeth nowhere near threatening but tongue fully deployed. I was pretty sure I'd drown in slobber before I'd get bit.

I grabbed a throw pillow and spun it like a shield.

"I WILL NOT PERISH IN A THROW PILLOW BATTLE, FLETCHER!"

"PETER, HE LIKES SOCKS! THROW HIM A SOCK!"

"THAT'S NOT A SOLUTION, THAT'S A TRADE AGREEMENT!"

I dove behind the coffee table and threw my left shoe across the room like a sacrificial offering.

Butterball paused, chased the shoe instead, and mercifully disappeared around a corner.

Breathing hard, I slowly sat up from behind the couch.

Blake poked his head down the stairs, grinning.

"That… was beautiful."

"That," I snapped, "was animal-based betrayal."

"No, no. It was team bonding."

"Team bonding implies both parties survived willingly. I had an out-of-body experience. I saw the corgi afterlife."

He slid down the stairs using the railing and landed beside me with the grace of a toddler on rollerblades.

"Thanks for coming, though. Really."

"Why haven't you been in school?"

Blake scratched his head.

"Family stuff. Grandma's been staying with us. She's convinced the microwave is spying on her again."

"...Again?"

"Also Butterball broke my laptop. And possibly my clavicle."

I stared at him.

And for one weird, brief moment…

I saw someone normal under the chaos.

A guy who lived in a cluttered house with a paranoid grandma and an overexcited dog.

"You could've just texted," I muttered.

"Where's the flair in that?"

Butterball returned, my shoe in his mouth, tail wagging like a metronome on espresso.

I reached down and patted his head.

He licked my cheek.

"...You're alright," I admitted. "Traumatizing, but affectionate."

Blake threw an arm around me dramatically.

"He accepts you now. You're part of the pack."

"Great. Do I get a name tag or just recurring nightmares?"

We sat there for a moment, dog flopped across both our laps, lava lamps buzzing softly in the background.

And for the first time since arriving, I didn't hate being here.

That, of course, terrified me more than the dog.

Meanwhile though...

We were still sitting there in the living room—me, Blake, Butterball, and six half-melted lava lamps—when she appeared.

His grandmother.

She moved with that careful, slow-footed grace only grandmothers have, her grey curls tucked in a scarf with tiny strawberries on it, and her sweater hanging loosely off one shoulder like she'd forgotten to finish dressing.

But her eyes were sharp.

"Blake," she said gently. "Your grandpa is calling for you."

Blake's grin faltered. Just a little.

"Alright," he muttered, patting Butterball before rising. "Be right back."

She turned to me then.

"You're the polite one from school, aren't you?"

I blinked.

"...I try."

"Well, come along then. You've met our dog and our hallway, might as well meet the heartbeat of this house."

I didn't know why I stood up.

Maybe it was her voice. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe… I just couldn't say no to a strawberry-print scarf.

She led me to a small room at the back of the house. It was warm—too warm—and smelled faintly of camphor and tea leaves.

Blake was already sitting by the bed, holding the hand of an old man with sunken cheeks and watery eyes.

His grandfather.

I stopped at the doorway.

The man looked fragile. Not just sick—fragile. Like a gust of wind could carry him away.

He was smiling at Blake, mumbling something I couldn't hear, and Blake—Blake, the eternal explosion of energy—just nodded and murmured back, his hand never letting go.

The room was silent. Soft. Sacred.

And in that moment…

I felt like I was seeing Blake Fletcher for the first time.

"How long's he been like this?" I asked quietly.

Blake looked over his shoulder.

"Six months now. Cancer. We tried home remedies, diets, therapies… but hospitals..."

He trailed off.

I didn't need him to finish.

I understood.

"We're doing what we can," Blake said finally, eyes on the old man. "He's tough. My grandpa's a fighter. But… we're not exactly rolling in gold bars, y'know?"

His laugh was bitter. A little too bitter for Blake.

I stood beside him now, eyes on the man in the bed.

"My grandfather's sick too," I said, before I could stop myself.

Blake looked up, surprised.

"You never mentioned that."

"I don't talk about it much."

I folded my arms.

"He used to be this… towering figure in my life. Not physically, just… presence. He always said I had to be the top. That I had to make the Harold family proud. I thought he was just being hard on me."

I paused.

"But now he barely remembers what day it is. And he doesn't ask if I got first place anymore. He just asks if I slept well. If I'm eating. If I'm okay."

Blake didn't say anything.

He didn't need to.

I kept going.

"I used to think impressing him was a burden. But now... now it's the only thing I want to do before he's gone."

I swallowed hard.

"And I don't even know if he'll remember it when I do."

Blake finally nodded.

"Same here."

The dog came padding into the room like it sensed the emotion and decided to buffer it with pure fluff.

Blake chuckled softly and rubbed Butterball's ears.

"You're not so boring, y'know."

"Don't ruin the moment."

"I mean it," he said, glancing at me. "Most people don't stop to ask. You did. That means something."

I shrugged.

"Maybe I just wanted to delay going back to school and being Class Rep again."

"Nah." He smiled. "You're built different, Peter."

We stood there for a while—two grandsons beside two different legacies.

No jokes. No wild energy.

Just… understanding.

And somehow, in the silence, I felt like I knew Blake more than I ever had.

Not the chaos. Not the antics.

Just the person.

And I think…

That meant something too.