VOLUME III: 58 - Uncanny Resemblance

We made it back to the apartment complex, dust in our hair and gravel still sticking to my palms. Poppy was humming like we hadn’t just trespassed, scaled a deathtrap staircase, and possibly shaved ten years off my life expectancy.

I was about to say something smug about returning her in one piece when I noticed a figure lingering near the building entrance.

Tall. Lean. Corporate-looking even in casual clothes.

My stomach dropped. Oh, great. Serial killer energy. This is how my murder documentary starts.

He looked up when we approached, and under the yellow glow of the streetlight, I recognized him.

Weaver.

I froze mid-step. “What the—what are you doing here?"

Weaver’s sharp gaze flicked between me and Poppy.

Oh god, he’s here to fire me.

But then Poppy lit up like she’d spotted a free churro stand. “OTIS!”

And she bolted straight into him.

…Otis?

Weaver’s usually neutral face cracked, relief flashing through as he steadied her. “Where the hell have you been? Mom’s losing her mind. I’ve been walking half the city looking for you.”

“I'm fine,” Poppy said breezily, like she hadn’t just made me climb a staircase that squeaked out its last rites. Then she pointed at me. “She took care of me.”

Both their eyes landed on me.

I blinked. “…Wait. You’re her brother?”

Weaver raised a brow, all corporate steel and exhaustion. “Clearly.”

“Ohhhh… OH.”

Poppy giggled behind him, clearly delighted at my reaction.

Weaver just exhaled, running a hand down his face. “We’ll talk later. For now, thank you. For not letting her do something stupid.”

I crossed my arms. “Bold of you to assume I had control over any of this.

Poppy leaned around him, still grinning at me. “See? Told you the pudding lady is cool.”

Weaver gave me a long, unreadable look. Not hostile. Not grateful. Just… evaluating. Then he rested a hand on Poppy’s shoulder and guided her inside, leaving me standing there with a thousand unasked questions and a very loud internal scream.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Great. Just great. Out of all the chaotic teenagers in the city, I get the one with a corporate handler for a brother.”

Still, my feet moved before my brain could stop them. I trailed after them into the building.

Weaver didn’t say anything at first, but I could feel him noticing. The way his eyes flicked back once, twice, like he was trying to figure out if I was about to sell him a pyramid scheme.

By the time we got to the fourth floor, Poppy was skipping again like the whole midnight rooftop escapade had never happened. Weaver stopped in front of a door, keys in hand, then turned sharply toward me.

“You don’t have to walk us back,” he said, tone clipped. Polite, but edged with suspicion.

I blinked at him, deadpan. “…I live here.”

His brow furrowed.

I pointed lazily across the hall. “Literally right there. Door with the dent from someone who clearly lost a battle with moving a couch and gave up? That’s me.”

For the first time since I’d met him, Weaver actually looked... thrown. Not much, just a tiny crack in the corporate mask, but enough to make me want to laugh.

Poppy lit up like she’d just uncovered a government secret. “NO WAY. You’re our across-the-hall neighbor?! Oh my god, Mom’s gonna freak—this is so cool!”

Weaver closed his eyes like he was bargaining with God.

I shrugged. “Small world.”

Weaver blinked at me, and that tiny pause was all it took for Poppy to narrow her eyes between the two of us.

“…Wait,” she said slowly, finger bouncing between us like she’d just cracked a conspiracy board. “You guys already know each other?”

I opened my mouth, but she gasped, dramatic as a telenovela reveal. “OH MY GOD. Are you two DATING?!”

Weaver immediately went rigid, like someone had just offered him a raw onion milkshake. “Absolutely not.” His voice was sharp enough to cut drywall.

I nearly choked on my laugh, slapping a hand over my mouth. “Relax, Otis. We’re not. He’s just—” I gestured vaguely, “—a friend of a friend.”

Poppy squinted at us, clearly unconvinced, then broke into a grin like this was her new favorite piece of gossip.

 Weaver muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer to be struck by lightning.

The door next to Weaver’s unlocked with a sharp click, and a woman stepped out. Hair tied back, apron still on, worry lines etched into her face.

“Poppy.”

Her tone cracked like thunder.

Poppy flinched, shrinking instantly from neon-gremlin into a guilty middle-schooler. “...Hi, Mom.”

“Don’t you ‘hi, Mom’ me. Do you know what time it is? Do you know how worried I’ve been? I told you not to wander off, and then Otis comes back saying he can’t find you. Do you think this is a game?”

Weaver winced at the volume. I could swear he wanted to be anywhere else, preferably on Mars.

Poppy ducked her head, mumbling, “...I'm fine…” but her voice cracked. She tried to plaster on her usual grin, but it slipped crooked, and for a second I caught it. 

The little shine in her eyes she didn’t want anyone to notice.

“Uh, technically she was with me. I mean, sure, it involved trespassing and potentially getting tetanus, but, like, she didn’t die or anything. That’s… good, right?”

The mom blinked at me like she was just realizing there was a stray raccoon in the hallway. Then her gaze softened, gratitude overtaking the sharpness. “You were with her?”

I gave a helpless shrug. “More like she dragged me into chaos and I barely survived, but yeah, sure, let’s call it that.”

The mom’s expression melted, and suddenly I'm getting Mom Eyes. The warm kind that made you feel both appreciated and slightly guilty for existing. “Thank you. Really. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

Weird. Gratitude. That’s not the usual tone I get from mothers. Theirs or mine.

Poppy peeked up at me, cheeks pink, still sulking under her mom’s scolding but clearly relieved I’d taken some of the heat.

Before I could slip back to my dented-door apartment, her mom added, “You should join us for dinner.”

“Oh. Uh, that’s nice, but no, I couldn’t. It’s late, and I already ate—”

“Nonsense.” She cut me off with the terrifying, unshakable confidence only moms wield. “You’re coming. It’s the least we could do.”

Weaver rubbed his temple like this was the worst possible outcome. Poppy lit up, instantly back to gremlin mode. “YES! Dinner with the pudding lady!”

“...Thank you..”

Somehow, against all my survival instincts, I found myself being ushered inside.