The front door opened and the smell of home hit me like a slap.

My stepmother was the first to reach me, arms already open, voice bright and too loud. “Alessia, finally. Look at you.” She hugged me hard enough to make my suitcase slip from my fingers. My father stood behind her, thinner than I remembered, smiling the tired smile of a man who had been sick. I hugged him carefully, breathing in the familiar cologne that used to mean safety.

Marcus was farther back.

He didn’t rush forward. He just stood there in a black T-shirt and dark jeans, arms loosely crossed, watching me with an expression I...