Born To Be Your's

Chapter 6

The week crawled by, filled with the strange, boring rhythm of suspension. Blake spent Thursday morning pawning the rest of the copper, securing a thick stack of bills that he handed directly to Laura without comment. He spent the afternoons hauling laundry with Laura to Mrs. Chin’s, dodging Old Lady Barbie’s insistent phone calls, and, increasingly, sitting with Mark at Headstart, watching Lainey bring order to his brother’s quiet world.

It was now Friday night, the evening before the new resident was scheduled to arrive next door. The Copper living room was dim, illuminated only by the flicker of their medium-sized, outdated flat-screen TV.

The usual family compromise was in effect. Maddie, had campaigned fiercely for K-Pop Demon Hunters. Ryan, wanted the Ted Bundy Documentary. They had settled on a heavily edited, PG-rated Minecraft movie—a victory for negotiated mediocrity.

Mark was happily secured on Blake’s lap, sucking his thumb with maximum concentration. The bright, blocky colors on the screen held his complete, silent focus. Blake, with his strong arm loosely wrapped around the boy, felt the rare, heavy weight of peace. Travis sat on the floor, flipping through an old auto-mechanics manual, occasionally glancing up.

The front door finally opened, and Laura walked in. She looked less exhausted than usual, but wired with residual tension.

“Sorry I’m late, guys,” she said, dropping her keys onto the entry table. “I had to help Francis talk with the case worker. They were doing a final house check before the foster kid comes tomorrow.”

Blake didn't take his eyes off the screen. His sarcasm was low-key, just testing the waters. “How did that go? Did they decide Francis isn’t the motherly type? Maybe tell Paul to put away the blow torch?”

Laura sighed, plopping down heavily on the couch next to him. The springs groaned in protest. “No, but they definitely warned her. They said this particular teenager is… really troubled. They used the word ‘unstable’ four times.”

“Aren’t we all?” Blake scoffed, reaching for the bag of stale chips. The word troubled meant nothing to a Copper. It was just a job description.

Mark finally noticed Laura was home. He uncurled from Blake’s lap, crawled clumsily onto the couch, and into his sister’s arms, hugging her neck.

“Mama,” Mark whispered, the rare sound muffled against her worn sweatshirt.

Laura smiled, a genuine, warm smile that instantly erased a few of the dark circles under her eyes. “Hey, baby.” She hugged him back tightly, savoring the moment.

She leaned into Blake, her voice dropping so the twins couldn't hear. “It’s a girl, Blake. Name’s Olivia. They didn’t give me many details, but she grew up with an alcoholic father and an uncle… I guess. Her mother died when she was little, and she was the one who found her or something like that.”

Blake suddenly stopped chewing the chips. The casual way Laura delivered the final, horrific detail—she was the one who found her—hit him hard. Blake, the king of emotional detachment, felt a flicker of genuine pity, a rare and dangerous emotion for him. That level of trauma was a different kind of architecture of disaster entirely.

Seventy-five homes in eleven years, Blake thought. And she found her dead mother.

The moody teenager wasn't just a challenge for Francis and Paul; she was a walking, ticking time bomb of generational tragedy, about to be housed thirty feet from his bedroom window.

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Saturday morning was slow and quiet, blanketed by a fresh layer of snow that muffled the already minimal sounds of the neighborhood. The Copper family was utilizing their enforced weekend at home.

Ryan, the household's smallest anarchist, was bundled in a too-big coat outside, using a shovel to meticulously carve deep trenches in the snow, probably planning some kind of tactical operation against the neighborhood’s stray dogs.

Maddie, sweet and focused, was at the kitchen table coloring. Mark sat next to her, lining up the worn, dull markers by their exact color shade and length, completely absorbed in the tiny task of creating order.

Travis, the soft center of the family, was preparing to walk to Mr. Chin’s convenience store for his extra hours.

Blake sat on the worn couch, his long legs stretched out, watching the weather report on their outdated flat screen. The report confirmed what everyone already knew: the cold was settling in, and more snow was incoming.

Then, a quiet, unfamiliar sedan—not the sleek black government kind, but a beat-up blue one—pulled slowly to a stop in front of Paul and Francis’s house.

Maddie gasped, her coloring momentarily forgotten. The sound was sharp with excited anticipation. “She’s here!” she whispered, bolting for the window and pushing her face up against the cold glass, leaving a large fog print. Travis walked up behind her to peek. Even Mark, sensing the sudden shift in focus, toddled over, sucking his thumb, his eyes wide.

Blake chuckled, pushing his messy dark hair back from his forehead. “You guys are creepers.”

Laura was next door helping Francis and Paul with the final, frantic preparations.

Maddie spoke against the fogged glass, her voice full of hopeful energy. “I hope she likes Barbies and coloring!”

Travis snorted, a low, dry sound. “Highly doubt it, Mads.”

Then Maddie gasped again, her voice softening with awe. “Wow. She’s pretty.”

Travis, momentarily distracted from his internal worries, confirmed, “Yeah. She is.”

Blake’s own smart-mouth curiosity finally got the better of him. He killed the power on the TV with the remote, pushed off the couch, and walked over to the window. He pulled the dusty curtain back just an inch, peering out.

The scene outside was simple: a social worker was standing by the car, and Paul and Francis were moving toward the vehicle with an air of theatrical formality.

Then he saw her, Olivia.

She was stunning, a contrast of harsh defiance and delicate features. Her hair was thick, dark brown, and cascaded down her shoulders in heavy, rich waves. Her face was structured beautifully, with high cheekbones and a narrow jaw. Her lips were full and painted a deep, matte rust color, which drew all attention to her eyes: large, heavy-lidded, and a striking, complex shade of gray-green, framed by perfect, dark brows. She looked like a classic beauty who had decided to reject the concept of fragile innocence.

She was dressed in a purely punk-rock aesthetic: ripped black jeans, heavy boots, and a form-fitting black sweatshirt that clung perfectly to her figure, hinting at the taut, athletic body underneath. The only visible disruption to the black canvas of her clothing was a small, detailed black feather tattoo on the side of her neck, where the quill transitioned into a scattering of birds taking flight.

Olivia carried the detached, hostile indifference of someone who had seen too much. As Francis rushed forward, attempting an overly enthusiastic hug for the benefit of the social worker, Olivia didn't acknowledge her. She simply sidestepped the fake affection and slowly scanned the street, taking in the dilapidated houses and industrial surroundings. Her expression was utterly blank, bordering on boredom, as she registered the new architecture of her disaster.

Blake, the king of casual cynicism and emotional distance, stared, his breath hitching slightly. She was beautiful, defiant, and she was poison. That single, visible tattoo and those intense, distant eyes spoke volumes about the war she was constantly fighting.

Seventy-five homes in eleven years, Blake thought. And she looks ready to burn down the seventy-sixth.

Then, suddenly, chaos erupted.

The Coppers were shattered from their voyeuristic stillness by a distant, sharp scream.

“Ryan, NO!” It was Laura’s voice, muffled but unmistakable, coming from the direction of Paul and Francis’s porch.

Blake didn’t even have time to curse before a massive snowball, dark and misshapen, came hurtling through the air. It was aimed directly at Olivia, who was standing stiffly next to the social worker, holding her dark backpack. Olivia reacted with the sharp instinct of someone who had survived years of sudden attacks; she ducked just as the projectile reached them.

It was too late for the social worker. The snowball struck her squarely on the chest, exploding violently. The force of the impact was spectacular, covering the poor woman in a fine spray of white snow, wet dirt, and a sickening brown matter.

Blake, Travis, and Maddie, crowded at the window, erupted in suppressed giggles.

But Blake’s laughter caught in his throat as he registered the full horror: that wasn't just mud. Ryan, the little sociopath, had constructed a snow grenade, packing dog feces into the core. The social worker was covered in s**t.

Out on the lawn, Laura was screaming.

“BLAKE!”

Blake knew the sound. That was the 'you are already dead' scream. Without his shoes, he calmly pushed off the living room floor and walked out the front door, his black thermal shirt stretched tight across his muscular shoulders and chest.

Ryan was frozen mid-cackle near the fence, realizing he had just committed a felony against a government official. He tried to bolt, laughing hysterically, but Blake was faster. Blake, all six feet of him, moved with the powerful, fluid speed of a predator. He scooped up his younger brother effortlessly, tossing the giggling, struggling Ryan over his shoulder like a sack of garbage.

He turned back toward the scene of the crime, his gaze falling directly onto the new girl.

Olivia was standing perfectly still. The social worker was panicking, patting frantically at the excrement and snow clinging to her coat, while Francis was alternating between apologizing hysterically and trying not to laugh.

Olivia, however, wasn't looking at the chaos. She was looking at Blake.

Her expression was a perfect, intoxicating mixture of amusement, slight irritation at the disruption, and profound curiosity. Her sharp, gray-green eyes, framed by that beautiful dark hair and perfect makeup, slowly raked over him—the messy brown hair, the handsome face, the wide, powerful shoulders visible beneath the thin thermal shirt, and the easy way he carried the small, chaotic child over his shoulder. She was assessing him, categorizing him.

She slowly raised a perfect, dark eyebrow, a silent question mark hanging in the cold air.

Blake paused, the full, intense beauty of her face hitting him up close and in person. He briefly met her gaze, acknowledging the challenge.

Then, his smart mouth kicked in. His gaze shifted pointedly to the splattered, whimpering social worker.

Blake offered a dry, flat apology, his voice low and utterly devoid of sincerity. “Sorry. He’s… retarded.”

He didn't wait for her reaction. He strode back into the house, Ryan still squirming on his shoulder. Blake slammed the door shut behind them.

He deposited Ryan onto the floor. “Find a place to hide. Now. Before Laura gets back. I suggest the roof, via the bridge.”

Ryan giggled, ripped off his coat, and bolted up the stairs.

Blake leaned against the closed door, his heart finally slowing.