With my back aching, I shift positions for the thousandth time, only to hear Zoe’s voice pulling me out of sleep.

  “Dad, I’m hungry. Let’s wake up.”

  She’s standing between Ella and Wally, nudging her father’s arm with her foot.

  “Hey, Dad. Dad. Dad. Wake up. Mom, Dad’s not waking up.”

  Ella groans and turns to the other side.

  “Come on, Mom, wake up.”

  There must be some kind of secret class before birth that teaches kids how to be annoying or demand attention from the moment they arrive. I, JJ, have witnessed this phenomenon many times with my cousins.

  “Zoe, it’s still early. Go back to sleep,” Ella murmurs.

  But light is already filtering through the tent — it’s morning. I bet Sam is up, has walked half a marathon by now, and is already working.

  My stomach growls. I didn’t eat much last night. I check my watch — ten minutes to eight.

  Sudden silence. Something’s wrong.

  Over my shoulder, I see the top of Zoe’s head peeking out from behind me. Then, her big eyes lock onto mine.

  I freeze, pretending to be asleep. Never before has it made so much sense why horror movies use cute kids to be terrifying. Sometimes, they’re the scariest ones of all.

  Zoe, the little mastermind, switches to an exaggerated baby voice. “Uncle…” I let out a fake snore and shift slightly, playing the part of deep sleep. She adjusts, lowering her voice to a whisper as she gets closer. “I saw you…” Then, I feel her tiny hand tug at my shoulder. If it weren’t Zoe, I might have actually died of fright. “Uncle… I saw you checking the time…”

  Her hand disappears, and I sense a shadow growing behind me. I barely have time to brace myself before she pounces.

  “Wake up! I’m hungry too. Come on, Uncle!” She starts shaking me.

  “I’m already awake.”

  Satisfied, she steps back, beaming excitedly toward the exit.

  “Do you think Sam is awake?”

  “I heard him getting up when I realized I’d spent almost the whole night reading,” Ella mumbles.

  “Then sleep a little more, sweetheart,” Wally murmurs, hugging her from behind and kissing her head. “I’ll make breakfast.”

  As soon as I step outside, the bright morning light stings my eyes. A breeze ruffles my hair, carrying the sounds of birds chirping and the fresh scent of morning dew. The canvas of the tents rustles gently in the wind, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear the steady gurgle of the river flowing over smooth stones.

  The first thing I see is the kitchen area. Last night, I watched as we carefully packed everything into storage boxes. Now, sitting in the middle of the table is a thermal coffee flask.

  Yep. He’s already up.

  A few birds are pecking at crumbs near the table while others splash in the river.

  Zoe rushes ahead, racing toward Sam’s tent.

  Of course, he’s not there. If he’s not outside, he must still be out walking.

  “He looks like an angel when he sleeps,” Zoe remarks, peering inside.

  Wait. He’s sleeping?!

  I move closer and, through the mesh screen, I see Sam — peacefully asleep, hugging the dog, his face buried in its fur. Meanwhile, the cat is curled up like a fluffy white hat on his head.

  The three of them look so serene, sleeping soundly, they almost don’t seem real — like those breathing plush dolls. Especially that demon cat.

  The dog moves, placing its paws in front of its little snout as it stretches. How adorable.

  And let’s not forget Sam, in his silk pajamas, with his black curls delicately spread across his face, contrasting with his porcelain skin. To complete the eerie doll-like display, he’s also sleeping with white gloves on.

  This guy is so weird.

  Ella noticed that he just takes off the gloves to eat. At first, I thought maybe he was hiding something on his hands, which is why he always wears them, but I didn’t see anything. What a strange habit.

  Zoe sighs, resting her hand against the bug net just as Sam stirs, burying his face deeper into the dog’s fur to escape the light.

  “It’s hard to believe that when he’s awake, he can throw killer glares like a cold-blooded assassin who never tires of wishing for my death. Angel? He’s more like the Terminator.”

  I step away from the tent to help Wally in the kitchen.

  “How many kilometers did he walk yesterday? I mean, for us, I get it — we’re used to walking. But him? It doesn’t make sense. You can tell he’s weak, a total nerd, and he doesn’t exercise. He even admitted that himself. Maybe he’s a robot. Or a scrawny version of Rambo.” I grumble while rubbing hand sanitizer into my palms, taking the bread Wally hands me.

  But I freeze. Because, unintentionally, that thought makes me remember him with grease smudged on his face… and my finger brushing his cheek.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I’m an idiot. A complete moron. And the way he looked at me — like I was absolute trash.

  My shoulders tense at the humiliating memory.

  “With the way you describe him, I think you should compare him to the Predator instead.” Sam’s voice.

  I turn sharply. He’s stretching in bed.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know you were awake,” I blurt out without thinking.

  Great. Another entry for my ever-growing list of embarrassing moments.

  “But I liked the Terminator comparison. Hasta la vista, baby.” He pretends to shoot me, making Wally burst out laughing.

  “Aren’t you mad at Uncle?” Zoe asks, plopping down comfortably inside his tent now that he’s awake.

  “I don’t like him, and he doesn’t like me. No surprises there. I’m not upset.” He flashes a smile at Zoe. “But hey, he didn’t deny I look like an angel when I sleep — guess even he couldn’t argue with the truth.

  He smirks, and Wally bursts into laughter, nearly choking as he nods in agreement.

  “I don’t mind Zoe thinking that,” he says, his voice light but his eyes locking on mine, colder than before. “But you? Yeah... you can shove that thought somewhere else. Absolutely not.” His glare sharpens, daring me to push back.

  I scoff, crossing my arms. “Please. I’d never mistake you for an angel — unless we’re talking fallen ones. You know, the ugly kind. Horns, pitchfork, the whole deal.” I tilt my head, smirking. “Not exactly the stuff of sweet dreams.”

  I scoff, crossing my arms. "Please. I’d never mistake you for an angel — unless we’re talking fallen ones. You know, the ugly kind. Horns, pitchfork, the whole deal."

  Sam finally sits up, running a hand through his tangled curls. He opens the mesh screen, letting the dog out, while the cat stretches luxuriously under his touch.

  “The Godfather would suit you too,” I remark.

  “Thanks. You only compare me to powerful men — you must think I’m very powerful.”

  “You need to brush your hair,” Zoe points out, staring at his mess of curls — half flattened, half forming a wavy halo.

  “Brushing will only make it worse.”

  “There’s no way it could be worse.”

  Zoe dashes off to her tent and returns with a small bag.

  Five minutes later, she’s still brushing.

  “I got it!” she exclaims.

  “It’s useless. It’s frizzy because I didn’t sleep on silk.”

  “Is that why all your bedding is silk?”

  “Yes. Sleeping with a bonnet is too uncomfortable, and I don’t like straightening my hair.”

  “Of course. An obvious solution.” I roll my eyes.

  “I should tie it up today.”

  “What if we just tie up the top part?” Zoe suggests, shifting his hair around as she thinks of a style.

  “I don’t really like that,” Sam murmurs.

  “Why not?” Zoe asks, holding up a hair tie, ready to secure it in place.

  “Tying it up like this and wearing these glasses of mine, Johan’s wife says I’m committing a fashion crime every time I do it. From the neck up, I look like a hippie — completely mismatched with the rest of my clothes.”

  “So, what does she suggest?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “She uses it as an excuse to drag me to her hairdresser and take me shopping.”

  “If it’s just an excuse, it can’t be that bad,” I conclude.

  “Must be nice — spending a day at the salon and then going shopping. Bags full of stuff, like in the movies or Christmas time.” Zoe says.

  “Oh, you have no idea,” Sam rolls his eyes. “She insists on hiring two assistants for each of us and still ends up using mine.”

  “Assistants?” Zoe asks.

  “People to carry the shopping bags,” Sam explains quickly. “Like I was saying—”

  “People to carry your shopping bags? Like my dad?”

  “Paid staff to handle them. And trust me, there are a lot of bags.”

  “Next time, take me with you!” Zoe grins as the idea takes root. “I want tons of bags and people to carry them too. Like in those movies about ultra-rich people with butlers and everything.”

  “Butlers don’t usually do that. Their role is managerial, and it takes years of training. The ones handling shopping bags are usually assistants or junior staff.”

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  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “Large estates have a strict hierarchy. You can’t mix up their roles.”

  “Large estates?”

  “Yeah. Mansions, estates, palaces, castles… that kind of thing.”

  “Like the castles from princess stories?” Zoe’s eyes shine.

  “Those too.”

  I shrug, pretending not to be curious. “And how many grand estates with full staff do you own?”

  “It’s considered bad form to keep count,” Sam replies smoothly.

  “So, do you have castles like a king or palaces like a prince?” Zoe presses, her excitement growing.

  “They don’t belong to kings or princes, but yes, I have a few manor houses, a palace, and one modest medieval castle.”

  “How can a castle be modest?” Zoe asks.

  Even I’m curious now.

  “Even after the restoration and renovations, I still wouldn’t call it comfortable,” Sam says. “It’s dark, drafty, cold, and the rooms are small. We could only add a handful of suites because, originally, there weren’t many — no proper bathrooms back then.”

  “Of course. Terrible!” I say dryly. “That’s what makes it a ‘modest’ castle. But if you don’t like it, why do you have it? Inheritance?”

  “No. I camped nearby once and liked the private forest. It’s huge — dense woods, a river, stunning lakes.”

  “Are you a prince?” Zoe asks hesitantly.

  “No, I just own the castle. Not all castles belong to royalty. I could buy a noble title, but that’s always felt a bit wrong to me. I’ve always thought nobility should be earned — granted by a king’s recognition or something like that. Not something you can just throw money at.”

  People say chivalry is dead. And yet, somehow, here he is—annoying, snobbish, completely out of touch… but oddly principled.

  Sam tries watching Zoe work on his hair, barely holding back a grimace every time she pulls a strand too hard.

  “Zoe, I think he can do it himself,” I say.

  “No! I’m doing it.” She grabs a fistful of his hair as if afraid I’ll steal it from her, forgetting Sam isn’t a doll.

  Sam inhales sharply, suppressing a complaint. “Like I said, it’s an excuse for Johan’s wife to spend money. But it’s not a total lie — it really doesn’t look great. I look like kind of… messy.” He tries to persuade her.

  Ella suddenly steps out of the tent, holding a device in her hands, a mischievous smile on her lips. “You seem pretty close to Johan’s family. Who’s the granddaughter lending you books like these?”

  “She’s just a friend,” Sam rolls his eyes.

  Ella raises an eyebrow.

  “A happily married friend,” he clarifies.

  “Never had anything with her before?”

  “No. Never. That would be… weird.”

  The scent of breakfast drifts toward me, courtesy of Wally, making my mouth water. I let myself get distracted from this boring conversation.

  Sam doesn’t want to be with anyone, and no one wants to be with him — it’s pretty obvious.

  “Wow, seems like all your friends are married,” Ella points out.

  “Yeah, most of them,” Sam nods with a certain pride, throwing Ella off completely.

  So, I step in. “Do you have something against single people?”

  I think I’m more used to not expecting a normal reaction from Sam than Ella is.

  “Actually, a little.”

  “Oh? And why is that?” Ella looks even more intrigued.

  “Single people either hit on me, invite me out to stop being single, or want to ‘live the single life’ together. I don’t like any of those options,” Sam says, making a face. “I’ve said it before — I like peace, and nothing is more peaceful than having only married friends.”

  “I see…” Zoe’s eyes widen like she just had a lightbulb moment. “Is that why you don’t like my uncle?”

  “Obviously not.” I cut in with a sarcastic smile at such a ridiculous hypothesis.

  “Uh-huh…” Sam slowly starts nodding, shrugging with indifference. “Though… maybe… it would be better if he had a ring on his finger.”

  “I cannot believe this! All because I’m not married? Doesn’t it count for anything that I’ve been in a relationship for years?”

  “It’s not the same level of commitment as marriage. If you agree to do the documentary, maybe marry her first — it might make things less painful for you.”

  “Oh, wow… how dare you? Not even my girlfriend pressures me into marriage, and you think you can?”

  “If she has to pressure you, then you’re more of a womanizer than I thought.”

  “That’s not it! And it’s none of your business. What I really don’t understand is how my relationship status affects the way you treat me.”

  “It affects how the world sees you. And how I see you. To me, you’d be a loyal husband who doesn’t bother me with all the habits single people usually have,” Sam says.

  Right. Because marriage magically turns men into saints.

  Sam shrugs. “Well… assuming marriage still means something, at least to you and, hopefully, to a decent part of society,”

  “I hope you’re not being too optimistic about that,” Wally chimes in with a small smile. “But at least I know Ella and I still think that way.”

  “I noticed,” Sam says. “That’s why I’m here. I knew I wouldn’t be bothered… despite him — ” he finishes, wrinkling his nose in my direction as if I actually smell like the filth he thinks I am.

  Alright. Time to be civilized and throw some pure logic at him.

  “I cannot believe you think so little of me just because I’m not married. You aren’t married either.”

  “Because I like being single and know how to handle it. But I rarely enjoy dealing with other single people.”

  “Well, I’m not single. I’m in a very committed relationship. So maybe you should treat me better — like I am married.”

  He finally locks eyes with me, his sharp gaze freezing me in place.

  “No. Only with a ring on your finger.”

  He runs a hand over the top of his head, feeling how Zoe has tied his hair up into something resembling a feather duster.

  “All set, Zoe?”

  “My mom used to tie my hair like this when I was little, back when I had short hair like yours,” she says proudly.

  “Uh-huh…” He ponders, running his hand over the tips of his spiked hair.

  He lowers his head toward the cat. “Did you like it, Felina?” The cat playfully bites at his hair.

  “I think she likes it, and this hair won’t be a bother.” He nods, accepting it.

  “I’ll fix it,” Ella offers, forcing herself not to laugh.

  “It looks like a brush, but fine. I’m sure I don’t look like a hippie,” he says, still curious, running his hand over the tip. “Never thought about tying it like this.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” I tease him.

  “We can’t leave it like this, what if someone shows up?” Ella says.

  “So what?” Sam asks.

  “They might recognize JJ and want to take a photo of you. JJ with a man with a crazy baby hairstyle.”

  “True,” he stares at me. “Always ruining the fun.”

  I shrug, hands up slightly. “Hey, not my fault.”

  “It smells delicious.” He decides to ignore me. “Since everything’s set up here, and there’s such a beautiful river nearby, why don’t we just stay here for today?”

  “Isn’t that going to mess up the schedule?”

  “No, I think having a schedule is good, but the goal is to enjoy the trip. Sometimes we have to be flexible. We’ll skip a challenging off-road trail that would take us a full day to complete. Instead, we’ll spend just one day at Abercrombie Caves before heading to Kangaroo Valley and finishing our journey in Sydney.”

  “Is our trip almost over?” Zoe murmurs, giving her best sad puppy eyes.

  “No, we still have plenty of time,” Ella says, trying to cheer her up.

  “Only three days,” Zoe grumbles.

  “Three days is still a lot of time to do fun stuff,” Sam smiles, encouraging her.

  It’s impressive how Sam can be so social and charismatic when he wants to be — and the very next second, switch to a cold, antisocial mood that kills any conversation.

  “Your uncle’s staying a few more weeks, and Sam’s sticking around for three months.”

  “But school’s starting soon. I won’t have as much time, and we won’t be traveling anymore.”

  “A trip doesn’t have to be far away,” Sam says with a spark in his eye. “I think going somewhere new, having new experiences, and having fun — that’s a trip, right? Didn’t you say you’d show me the beaches and visit me at the workshop? We can go to the factory too. It’s really cool — you’ll see these massive robots lifting giant parts and assembling a car with insane precision.”

  “Really!?” Zoe’s eyes light up.

  “Yeah! It’s cool, though most people working there are boring number-crunchers. I’ll take you to the repair section — they’re a bunch of fun crazies. They even started a biker gang that goes on weekend trips. I went with them once — it was awesome. I can take you if you want. They even have matching leather jackets.”

  “A biker gang?” Wally asks, eyebrows shooting up.

  “They like to call themselves that, but they’re all super chill. Most of them are married dads. It’s just a hobby.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, not this ‘married equals safe’ thing again.” My turn to grumble.

  “This is delicious, Wally,” Sam says, completely ignoring me.

  I watch him sitting in that flimsy camping chair, balancing his plate on his thigh. The only thing I can think about is kicking the chair’s leg and watching him crash to the ground, food flying everywhere while he stews in his own fury.

  Waste of food? Sure. Totally worth it for my soul’s peace before I lose my patience and teach him a lesson about respecting me? Absolutely.

  “You better stop ignoring me,” I say through gritted teeth.

  He doesn’t look at me, but I know he gets the message when his back stiffens instantly.

  “Mom, can we go with the bikers?” Zoe pipes up.

  “Your dad and I don’t have motorcycle licenses.”

  “I only have truck and bus licenses because the army made me get them. It’s only ever been useful for driving the students to games,” Wally says with a shrug.

  “Is it different?” Zoe tilts her head.

  “Yeah, you need lessons for different vehicles,” Ella explains.

  “But Sam drives everything,” Zoe points out.

  “That’s because I’m not just curious about how engines work — I like driving them, especially the ones I build.”

  “Since when? Was it back when you built that motorbike in boarding school?” Ella asks.

  Sam taps his chin, pretending to think. “Do kiddie cars count?”

  “No. Otherwise, we’ve all been driving since we were toddlers. I mean the gas-powered ones — the kind that goes… over 90 km/h.” I throw out a random speed, guessing kids’ electric cars wouldn’t go that fast.

  “Oh, then three years old. I was racing go-karts and mini motocross bikes. As for regular vehicles, I started driving those around seven. I had to build a custom seat and pedal extensions to reach everything and still see the road.”

  Of course, he did. Why didn’t I think of that?

  “Seriously…?” Zoe gasps, eyes wide. “Only three more years until I can drive Mom’s car?”

  “No, absolutely not,” Ella cuts in fast. “You’ve got way more than three years to go. You’re not driving before the legal age. End of discussion.”

  “When I was 7, I only drove around my dad’s property and places without many people, so he wouldn’t get into trouble. I didn’t like depending on others to take me places. But everything was so far away, and riding horses for too long left me sore.”

  How big could the property be to have that problem?

  Ella adjusts in her chair, sitting a little more formally. “Sorry if this sounds a bit rude, but… was your dad rich?”

  “I wouldn’t say very…” Sam tilts his head, thinking. “Most of his friends were way richer, and I know people who’d call what he had pocket change in comparison.”

  “Compared to what?” Ella asks carefully.

  It really depends on the friends he’s comparing to.

  “Compared to the middle class?” She presses. I can tell she’s trying to keep her voice even.

  “Which country’s middle class?” Sam asks.

  “Australia.”

  Sam nods, looking lost in thought. “Well, among the upper class, my dad was relatively wealthy. But in the end, what matters is we never lacked anything, right?”

  “You mentioned a hotel in Jeju…” Ella trails off, waiting for him to fill in the gaps.

  He blinks, clearly not getting what she’s implying.

  “She’s asking if that’s what made him rich,” I cut in, getting to the point.

  “Basically, yeah. But only because he expanded the chain. His dream was to have a home-hotel on every continent. It was fun — we traveled all the time.”

  “How did you study?” Zoe asks, leaning forward.

  “Private tutors. I also went to international schools twice. But most of my education before boarding school was at home.”

  “So you’ve always traveled a lot?” Zoe says.

  “We’d stay a few years at each home hotel, then a few months after it was finished.”

  “Can I study at home?” Zoe’s jaw drops at the revelation.

  “He studied at home because he traveled a lot,” Ella explains gently.

  Sam smirks a little, but his voice sounds more resigned than playful.

  “Yeah, they always say school’s a good place to meet kids your age. Maybe that’s why I’m so bad with kids now.” He pauses as if weighing the thought.

  “My dad tried to socialize me with tutors, extracurriculars in every region... and those damn formal dinners where I had to wear tight, uncomfortable clothes. I never liked those events. Believe it or not, I got a marriage proposal when I was six — wanted me to sign a contract.” He chuckles, but it’s dry, almost bitter.

  “You live in a different world,” Wally says, handing him dessert.

  “I know it must sound strange,” Sam acknowledged, his expression softening slightly. “My childhood experiences aren’t exactly what people usually imagine... or what they say they should be.”

  Sam sighs. “I believe people raised like I was can live in a bubble, a reality that’s far from normal. But I think I’m one of the few who realize that a lot of what we do isn’t... well, normal. I spend time with people who live... more normal lives.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it,” I mutter, accepting my plate.

  “My dad let me play with the employees’ kids. I’d visit the villages, and when he traveled, sometimes I got to spend days having sleepovers with those friends. The only thing he told me was not to be a nuisance — and as long as it wasn’t dangerous, I should do all the chores my friends did.

  That’s how I learned to wash dishes, make my bed, cook a little, clean… even help with their jobs. Like delivering newspapers and mucking out stables.

  It was fun. Funny how kids love helping with chores that when you grow up and have to do them every day, become a total drag.

  This is delicious,” he finishes, changing the subject completely.

  I can’t figure this guy out. He’s filthy rich, annoyingly arrogant, and never misses a chance to put me down — and yet, somehow, even with all that cluelessness, he still tries to understand people, to get how the rest of the world works, with a weird sort of kindness.

  I have no idea what his deal is.