"The Only Way To Her Heart Is Through Me | Alice & Harper"

📍 10:48 AM, 14th of March, 2015.

The rear window of the minivan fogged with the warmth of four bodies pressed together, the Pacific Coast Highway unwinding like a ribbon below them. Alice had claimed the middle seat, her nose buried in a tattered copy of Wuthering Heights while purple highlights peeked through her black hair like secrets trying to escape.

"Read it out loud," Harper demanded from the window seat, kicking the back of their father's seat. Twelve years old and already impossible. "Mom, tell her to read it out loud. It's boring watching rocks."

"Harper, feet." Their mother's voice came from the passenger seat, warm with exasperation. "We're almost at the beach. You can survive ten more minutes."

"But I'm dying." Harper slumped dramatically against Alice's shoulder. "Al, I'm literally dying. This is my last wish. Read to a dying person."

Alice turned a page deliberately, hiding her smile "You're so dramatic."

"I learned from you..."

"I'm not—"

"You cried for an hour when that bird hit the window."

"It was a cardinal, Harper. They mate for life. What if that was somebody's soulmate?"

Their father's laugh rumbled from the driver's seat. "She's got a point, bug."

"Traitor." Harper grinned, kicking his seat again—gently this time. "You're supposed to be on my side."

"I'm on whoever's side gets us to the beach without a mutiny."

Their mother twisted around, sunglasses pushed into her hair, smile bright as the California sun. "Ten more minutes, my loves. Then sand, salt water, and whatever overpriced ice cream your father pretends to complain about paying for."

"I do complain." But he was already reaching back to squeeze Harper's ankle. "Loudly and with dignity."

Alice marked her page—she'd always been careful with books, even at nine—and leaned her head against Harper's. The Pacific glittered below them, endless and blue, and somewhere a radio played something soft and forgettable.

"I'm glad you're my sister," Harper mumbled, half-asleep already.

Alice's cheeks went pink. "You're so weird."

"You're weirder."

"You're both weird," their father said, and their mother laughed, and the car hummed with contentment, and—

—and then the rain came.

Not gradually. Not with a warning. On