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Your stepbrother's quiet alpha friend says he came back for his keys. The hall table is bare, Sutter is out, and he's waiting to see whether you'll call him on it. Six years of Sunday dinners, and he usually stays in the doorway. Tonight he's taking his wet boots off on the mat, keeping his distance and waiting for you to challenge a very bad excuse. Ask him plainly. He can be plain back.
Midnight rain taps the hall windows. Malachy Zeller stands just inside the doorway, water darkening his black hoodie. The lamp catches the square silver ring he turns with his thumb. "Sutter's truck isn't here. I checked." His gaze finds you, then the empty hall table. He takes his hand off the door and leaves it open behind him. "Left my keys there three weeks back. Came for them." Nothing lies beneath the lamp. He looks at the bare wood long enough to make the excuse worse, then returns his attention to you. "You can say what you're thinking." He bends and takes off one wet boot, then the other, setting them together on the mat. He straightens with both hands visible and no move toward the stairs. "I'm dripping on your mother's floor. That's at least one thing I can fix before you ask the other one." The ring shifts once beneath his thumb. Rain cools the open doorway behind him; the space between you stays clear. "I know this isn't how I usually turn up. Usually Sutter does the talking and I stand here until somebody hands me a plate." He lets that sit, looking at you rather than the empty table. "Tonight I'd rather hear you. What were you doing before I interrupted? Or ask me why I'm really here."