Episode 12: Detention, Affection, and the Babybat Years

There is a specific kind of quiet I associate with my childhood home.

Not silence.

Never silence.

But restraint.

Measured voices. Controlled movement. Thought before action.

It is… comfortable.

“You’re staring,” Annalise says, sprawled across the chaise like a cat who has never known consequence.

“I’m assessing,” I reply.

She grins.

“Same thing.”

“No.”

I stand near the window, dressed as I always am when I’m not at work but still intend to be perceived correctly.

Sheer black blouse.
Leather skirt.
High-heeled boots.
Spiderweb earrings—an addition to the usual.
Makeup precise—black eyeshadow, liner, mascara, dark red lips.

Presentation matters.

Even at home.

Especially at home.

Malcolm sits cross-legged on the floor, handheld console in hand.

Focused.

Quiet.

Beckett would approve.

I do.

“You’ve both grown,” I say.

Annalise groans.

“Not this again.”

“It continues to be a problem.”

“I can’t control that!”

“Incorrect,” I reply. “You can simply stop.”

Malcolm snorts.

A rare sound.

I step forward.

Without warning—

twack

My book meets Annalise’s head.

“Hey!”

“Detention,” I say calmly. “For excessive growth and continued cuteness.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Life rarely is.”

I lean down.

Kiss her forehead.

Then her cheek.

Then pull her into a brief, firm hug.

“You’re still acceptable,” I murmur.

She melts instantly.

“Say that again.”

“No.”

Malcolm doesn’t look up.

“Do I get detention too?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

I tap his head lightly with my pen.

“Quiet compliance. Suspicious behavior.”

“…I see.”

I crouch beside him.

Brush his hair back slightly.

Kiss his temple.

He stills for a moment—

then relaxes.

“Continue,” I say.

“Yes, Diana.”

The game shifts on screen.

Turn-based.

Predictable.

Comforting.

“You’re under-leveled,” I note.

“I’m testing strategy.”

“You’re losing.”

“Temporarily.”

I sit beside him.

Close enough.

Not intrusive.

Just present.

“Give it to me,” I say.

He hesitates.

Then hands over the console.

Trust.

Immediate.

I adjust the formation.

Reassign roles.

Optimize.

“Observe,” I say.

Two turns later—

Victory.

Clean.

Efficient.

Malcolm stares.

“…Again.”

“Obviously.”

We play like that for a while.

Quiet.

Focused.

Aligned.

Annalise watches, then flops over dramatically.

“You two are so boring.”

“Join us,” I say.

“No, I’d win too fast.”

“You would not.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

She crawls closer anyway.

Resting her head against my shoulder.

Uninvited.

Accepted.

“You still play these?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Even with… everything else?”

I glance at her.

“What else is there?”

She smiles slightly.

“Fair.”

Otome games sit on my phone.

Unread routes.

Unfinished stories.

I return to them when time permits.

Not for escapism.

For structure.

For narrative control.

For understanding.

“Who’s your favorite type again?” Annalise asks.

I don’t hesitate.

“Younger. Quiet. emotionally complex. Requires guidance.”

Malcolm coughs.

Annalise grins.

“That sounds familiar.”

“I have a preference.”

“Clearly.”

I lean back slightly.

Close my eyes.

Just for a moment.

And I remember.

Black clothes that didn’t quite fit yet.

Makeup applied too carefully.

Too seriously.

Books held like shields.

“Why do you dress like that?” someone had asked once.

I looked at them.

Considered.

Then answered—

“Because I like it.”

Babybat, they called it.

Not unkindly.

Not kindly either.

Just… observant.

I wasn’t loud.

Wasn’t cruel.

Wasn’t attention-seeking.

Just—

certain.

I knew what I liked.

What I didn’t.

Who mattered.

Who didn’t.

That hasn’t changed.

“Diana?”

I open my eyes.

Annalise is looking at me.

Closer now.

“Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere.”

“Liar.”

I tap her forehead lightly.

“Detention.”

She laughs.

Malcolm nudges my arm slightly.

“Your turn.”

I take the console again.

No hesitation.

“You were always like this,” Annalise says softly.

“Like what?”

“Calm. Sure. Kinda scary.”

I consider that.

“Yes,” I say.

Because I was.

Not cold.

Not distant.

Just…

selective.

I look at them both.

My siblings.

Growing.

Changing.

Still mine.

“Come here,” I say.

They do.

Of course they do.

I pull them both into a brief embrace.

Measured.

Firm.

Certain.

“You are not permitted,” I say quietly, “to become insufferable.”

“We won’t,” Annalise says.

“We know better,” Malcolm adds.

“Good.”

I kiss their foreheads.

Release them.

“Now,” I say, picking up the controller again, “pay attention.”

Outside—

the world continues its endless noise.

Its constant, exhausting need to be seen.

Inside—

we remain as we are.

Composed.

Close.

Unchanged where it matters.

And if they grow?

If they change?

If time insists on moving forward?

I will simply—

adjust.

And, if necessary—

assign detention.