side story the one exception

That was why Terry had always been… different.

Not just different, but the exception. The extrovert exception. The oldest sibling, yes, but also the only one he willingly shared more than silent observation with. Not because she pushed him—she never had to—but because she understood him.

It began one unusually bright morning in Terry’s studio. The sunlight spilled over mannequins and racks of unfinished designs. Beckett adjusted his gloves reflexively, scanning the layout of the room, noting exits, lighting, and anyone who could get too close.

“Beckett,” Terry called, stepping in with her usual mixture of authority and warmth, “I need your eyes on these layouts. You refuse, I know—but I won’t take no for an answer today.”

“I refuse,” he said automatically, though he already knew she wouldn’t stop until he complied.

She raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You always say that. Come on. I’ve got models arriving soon and—”

Beckett already knew. He adjusted his mask and scarf. He did not need her to explain.

The models arrived, sleek, polished, practiced. They moved like the world revolved around attention. They were used to getting it, especially from men like Damien, who often accompanied Terry to meetings. But today? Today, Beckett and Terry were in their own orbit.

The models tried. Light touches on arms, flirty smiles, subtle compliments. Beckett ignored them completely. Terry, however, was vigilant. A glance, a slight movement, and Damien—the quiet observer—intervened just in time.

“He’s working,” Damien said calmly, like stating a fact.

“He’s spoken for me,” Terry added, and the models recoiled, realizing immediately that any other game had failed when other male models and buisness men try going after her.

Beckett didn’t even glance up. Not once. He never had to.

Damien watched quietly, fascinated. Beckett wasn’t robotic; he was deliberate. But there was something Terry had unlocked: the mask privilege.

Not physical alone—though she could adjust his scarf or gently nudge his mask down to show a quick smile—but a rare glimpse of him, fully, without fear. Today, even amidst a busy studio, Terry leaned close, brushed a kiss against his cheek, leaving a faint lipstick mark, just like she often did.

Beckett’s lips twitched. He didn’t shy away. He even muttered softly, “You’re excessive.”

“I’m ensuring your health, youngest,” Terry replied. “Dark chocolate. Healthy sweets. Frozen lemonade. You’re not getting away with poor habits, Beckett.”

“Noted,” he said.

“You’re important to me,” she said quietly, brushing past him to adjust a layout. “As much as I am to you.”

He looked up, gloves slightly trembling from the attention. “…Yes. That’s… mutual.”

Damien noted the animation in Beckett’s face, something rare. This wasn’t the usual reserved, withdrawn Beckett. He was lively, arguing over color gradients, layout balance, and text spacing, back-and-forth with Terry in full conversation.

“…No, the font hierarchy here is wrong,” Beckett said.

“Yes, but only because your spacing is off,” Terry replied with a grin.

“Off? I’ve been precise.”

“Precise isn’t always correct, youngest,” she teased, brushing a lock of his hair aside. “And I need these corrections today.”

“…I see,” he said, reluctantly smiling beneath his mask.

By mid-afternoon, Terry noticed a small issue: Beckett hadn’t eaten anything substantial. She pressed a plate of dark chocolate, herbal iced tea, and some naturally sweetened snacks toward him.

“Eat. You’re working too hard,” she commanded.

“…I will,” Beckett said, quietly grateful. He accepted the snacks and actually ate, something he rarely allowed anyone to see.

Later, as the studio quieted, Terry leaned back and muttered, “…You always save the most serious for me, don’t you?”

Beckett adjusted his scarf. “…You’re one of the happy few I don’t have to hide from.”

She smirked. “…I know.”

The creative sync continued: Beckett refining, Terry directing, both of them talking and debating over designs and models, laughing occasionally, correcting each other, pushing and pulling ideas back and forth. Damien watched quietly, taking notes mentally. He’d seen people work together—but never like this. The oldest and youngest, complementing each other perfectly, each vital to the other.

He realized then: the bond wasn’t just affection. It was necessity. Mutual respect. Absolute understanding.

A minor crisis occurred when a new client tried to redirect Beckett during a critical design adjustment. Before Beckett could disengage, Terry intercepted, sharp and precise, cutting the client off politely but firmly. Beckett didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. He only glanced at her once, a small nod of acknowledgment. Damien thought that glance was worth more than any handshake.

Later that evening, when the studio emptied, Beckett and Terry stepped outside. A small diner across the street called. The usual: frozen lemonade, burgers, and fries.

They laughed as they argued about the proper way to balance text in Terry’s latest design mockups. Beckett’s mask was down now, scarf loose. Terry placed another kiss on his cheek, leaving lipstick marks that had become their casual ritual. He smiled faintly at her, finally letting his guard relax.

“…You really are the oldest for a reason,” Beckett muttered.

“And you’re the youngest for a reason,” she replied. “…I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“…Nor I,” he said, taking a sip of lemonade.

Damien, observing quietly from the table across, finally smiled. He understood what everyone in the manor already knew: Beckett and Terry were not just siblings. They were a unit. Complementary. Vital. And completely unshakable.

Outside, the models and businessmen they had ignored all day continued their chatter—but here, in their small bubble of trust, the only thing that mattered was the bond between oldest and youngest, unbroken and fully accepted. Beckett with Terry. Terry with Beckett. And always, somewhere, Diana waiting in the background, unbothered and fully aware, their love absolute.