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Chaos was the natural state of the Begović household in the morning.
By the time I stepped into the kitchen, the smell of fried eggs and simmering coffee was already competing with the rising volume of two voices I'd known since they were pink-faced toddlers screaming over who got the blue crayon.
"I'm not asking for your permission," Amina snapped, her arms crossed tight, her eyebrows perfectly arched like weapons. She stood on one side of the island like it was a battlefield. The battlefield.
Adem leaned against the fridge like he was posing for a magazine spread, all smug confidence and athletic ease. "That's not how this works, seko. You don't just announce an overnight trip with a bunch of strangers and expect no one to care."
"They're not strangers. It's our class. You're just pissed you can't go."
"I have a game. You think I'd skip that for a bunch of marshmallow-toasting under a pine tree?"
"So now I have to stay because you can't go? What century are we in?"
"The one where brothers still keep their sisters from doing stupid things."
Amina narrowed her eyes like she'd been betrayed.9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡG3ClSCVt4F
"You sound just like Babo."
"That's because I'm right."
Adem flopped into a chair like he'd just closed a case in court. Which, knowing him, he probably would one day.
I grabbed a slice of toast from the tray and leaned against the counter, silently chewing while I watched the show. Honestly, it was better than morning TV.
"You two realize you're eighteen now, right?" I said mildly. "Like, legally adults?"
Amina whirled. "Tell him that!"
"He's not wrong about the marshmallows, though."
"Lamija!"
"What? Teenagers arguing politics around a fire? That's literally how cults start."
Amina narrowed her eyes. "You're all traitors."
Mama didn't say a word. She just stirred the eggs, her back to us all. But I could tell by the way her shoulders tensed, the way her stirring became more vigorous, that she was listening. Always listening.
The stairs creaked behind me, and I didn't even have to turn around to know who it was.
Imran walked into the kitchen like he hadn't just been bucked by my four-legged demon the night before.
His dress shirt was tucked in, his slacks pressed, tie a miserable gray-blue mistake that looked like it had been chosen in the dark. He moved like every step cost him—but refused to show it.
Mama turned first and gasped. "Imran! What in the world happened to you?"
"Still alive," he said, his voice a rough croak of amusement.
"That's not what I asked." She rushed over, hands flitting like birds, inspecting him with the precision of a battlefield medic. "You're limping!"
"Men limp."
"Idiots limp," I offered.
He gave me a look. "You're enjoying this."
"Just a little."
Mama yanked a chair out. "Sit. You're not going anywhere until I check if you cracked a rib."
"I'm fine."
"You got flung off a horse like a slinky," I added helpfully.
Imran sat, wincing as he lowered himself into the chair. "It was a bonding experience."
"You bonded with the ground," I muttered.
Amina laughed. Adem tried to hide his grin.
Mama pressed a hand to his ribs. He didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened. "You're bruised."
"I'm also late."
"You're lucky you're not dead."
"Caesar was in a mood," he said—like the horse was a misunderstood poet, not a war beast.
I sipped my coffee and studied him. "That tie's awful, by the way."
He blinked. "What?"
"You look like you lost a bet to a wedding singer."
Imran scowled. "It's a tie."
"You own forty. Try the sage one. Second row."
"You remember where I keep my ties?"
"Hard not to. They take up more space than your ego."
Imran opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"Adem," he said finally, "be useful. Sage tie. Closet. Second row."
Adem grumbled but stood. "This house is a dictatorship."
"You'll survive. And stand up straight when you talk to me," Imran added without looking up. "You'll thank me in court one day."
Adem straightened automatically, muttering under his breath as he left.
I tossed Imran a glance. "Don't train him out of his attitude. It's half his charm."
As soon as Adem was gone, Amina pounced.
"Imran," she said sweetly, "tell him I should be allowed to go on the overnight trip."
He didn't even blink. "Nope."
"Why not?"
"I'm not taking sides."
"You weren't neutral when Lamija wanted to go to that science thing in high school."
"She had backup. Mama and Babo signed off."
Amina crossed her arms. "Because you told them to."
He looked at me then—just for a second. And something passed between us. Memory. Frustration. A quiet apology from the past that neither of us had ever spoken aloud.
There were years where he had spoken for me. Shielded me. Smothered me. There were fights. Screams. Doors slammed hard enough to crack the frame. I'd called him a dictator. He'd called me reckless.
And maybe we'd both been right.
"You know," he said, his voice softer, "you once said I was worse than Babo."
I met his eyes. "You were."
"But I was right."
I didn't answer. Some things didn't need confirmation.
Adem returned then, holding the sage tie like it was a flag of surrender.
"Victory," Imran said, taking it with a grin.
"Tell her she's not going," Adem muttered.
"Not my job," Imran said, swapping out his tie while eating scrambled eggs with military efficiency.
Mama handed him a slice of toast and pointed at his tea.
He obeyed without a word. Injured or not, no one ignored Mama.
Then we heard it—the unmistakable rhythm of Babo's footsteps, slow and certain, padding across the polished hardwood like a warning and a welcome at once.
Our father stepped into the kitchen like a man returning to his domain. Beard trimmed. Shirt crisp. Sleeves rolled just enough to say I am relaxed, but I am still in charge.
He paused, taking in the scene. Adem and Amina mid-glare. Imran trying to tie a knot one-handed. Me sipping coffee like I hadn't slept in three days. Mama at the stove like the general of this entire campaign.
And he smiled.
Not politely.
Not out of habit.
But like this was his favorite view in the world.
"SubhanAllah," he said. "You'd think this family had never heard of silence."
"We've met it," I said. "Didn't like it."
He laughed and bent to kiss Mama's cheek, then clapped Imran on the back.
"Didn't expect to see you at the table."
"I live here," Imran said.
"Could've fooled me."
"He got thrown," Mama said. "By that demon you insisted we keep."
Husein grinned. "Good. That animal's got instincts."
"I thought we were bonding," Imran muttered.
I snorted. "He doesn't like politicians."
"I'm not a politician."
"You wear suits and manipulate markets for a living."
Adem held up a hand for a high-five. I obliged.
The room filled with laughter. Even Amina cracked a smile.
I moved toward the machine and poured Babo's coffee just as he reached for it.
He took the mug from me, his fingers brushing mine. "Thank you, ljubavi."
He sipped. Then: "How's Ayub?"
The question slid through the air like a scalpel.
I didn't blink.
"Still breathing," I said.
"You two surviving each other?"
"For now."
I felt every set of eyes in the room swing toward me like searchlights.
I smiled, handing him the sugar. "Is this an interrogation or morning gossip?"
He shrugged. "I like him. He's a good man."
"He is."
"But?"
"No but. Just coffee."
He didn't press. Babo never did when it came to the things that mattered most. Just planted seeds and waited to see what grew.
Imran's phone buzzed on the table. He checked it, then shot me a look that was equal parts smug and exasperated.
"Ah. Brother-in-law's calling in reinforcements," Imran said with a smirk. "Probably wants hazard pay."
I rolled my eyes. "He's not your brother in law."9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrgccqlDwyT
"Yet," he muttered, already reaching for his blazer.
He turned to me and smirked. "I'll make sure to tell him you said hi. Maybe throw in a 'she's looking forward to seeing you at work today' while I'm at it."
I didn't blink. "Tell him not to confuse basic professionalism with romantic delusion."
Imran gave a low whistle. "Ice cold."
"Temperature's appropriate for the conversation," I said, reaching for my coffee.
He kissed Mama's cheek, ruffled Amina's hair, fist-bumped Adem, and limped out like a man who'd already survived a war before breakfast.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the house let out a collective sigh.
I refilled my coffee and leaned against the counter again, letting the noise settle into the walls.
It wasn't perfect.
It was never quiet.
But it was ours.
And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Not even for silence.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Welcome to the Begović breakfast battlefield—where the coffee's hot, the siblings are hotter (headed), and Imran still thinks he can outmatch a warhorse. In this house, silence is suspicious, eggs are sacred, and your brother might CC your crush on a meeting titled "Lamija: Approach With Caution."
Also, yes. The tie matters.
You're welcome.9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6705IvXAr2
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-Ash&Olive
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