The Incubus System Chapter 1170. Coping Mechanisms

The Incubus System Chapter 1170. Coping Mechanisms

I hesitated. Then added, “Hey… thanks. For checking in.”

There was another pause.

“…Of course I did,” she said quietly. “You’re my idiot brother. I may call you out all the time, but I still worry.”

I smiled a little. “I know.”

“Alright. I’m hanging up before you two start round two and I hear something I can’t unhear.”

“Too late.”

“Ew.”

I chuckled as the call ended. The phone screen faded to black, and I set it down on the nightstand. Tiffany shifted again, her arm pulling tighter around me.

“You always flirt like that with your sister?” she mumbled.

“That wasn’t flirting,” I said, rolling onto my side and pulling her closer. “That was coping mechanisms for both of us.”

Tiffany let out a small huff against my neck, her breath warm. Her skin was still a little damp, sticking to mine as she shifted in the sheets, legs tangled with mine.

“Coping, huh?” she murmured.

I didn’t reply right away. My fingers absently traced slow circles on her back, like if I stopped touching her, even just for a second, the whole moment would break.

But she didn’t press me. Just waited.

Eventually, I said, “After Dad died… Celia kinda blamed me for what happened.”

Tiffany froze a little, her body going still against mine.

“The police said it was a single car accident. It was raining. The roads were slick.” I swallowed, eyes drifting to the ceiling, watching the dim outlines of shadows from the streetlights beyond the window blinds. “But it happened while he was coming to pick me up.”

Her hand slid over my chest, fingers curling slightly, like she already knew where this was going.

“I was late,” I continued, voice lower now, quieter. “I kept texting him that I would come home by myself. He finally gave in and said he’d come get me anyway.” I gave a soft, bitter laugh. “Then… yeah. The car never made it to pick me up.”

Silence settled like dust.

“For a whole year after that,” I said, “Celia couldn’t even look at me without clenching her jaw. She didn’t say it outright, but… she blamed me. For all of it.”

Tiffany shifted, propping her head slightly so she could see me better. “How about you?” she asked softly. “Did you blame yourself?”

I didn’t answer right away.

My throat tightened. I looked away. Just stared at the desk across the room, the cluttered little pile of books, a half-finished cup of water, Tiffany’s scrunchie lying beside her phone charger.

Then I gave a small nod and smiled—if I could call it that. “Yeah. I did.”

Her hand tightened on my chest, but she didn’t interrupt.

“That’s why I worked hard,” I said. “Why I kept pushing myself. I didn’t care if it meant less sleep, less comfort, less me. I just wanted to keep what was left of our family together. Just me and her. It felt like… my responsibility.”

It wasn’t some dramatic confession. Just something I hadn’t said out loud before. It lived in my bones for so long it stopped feeling like a story—it just became the background noise of who I was.

Tiffany didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

She just hugged me.

Arms firm. Warm. Wordless.

Her head rested against my chest again, and for a while, that was enough.

I didn’t look at her.

I didn’t want to.

I knew if I met her eyes right now, I’d fall apart a little, and I couldn’t afford that. I never liked telling that story. Not because it hurt—it always would—but because talking about it out loud made it real again. And hiding it? That always made people look at me like I wasn’t over it.

But selling it? Making it some kind of sad badge? That felt worse.

Pathetic, even.

I hated people worrying about me.

I hated the pity in their eyes.

I hated feeling like I needed to be fixed.

So, I took a breath and shifted the mood.

“Why didn’t you look surprised?” I said casually. “When I mentioned Emma and Mrs. Clea on the phone?”

Tiffany made a soft sound. I couldn’t tell if it was amusement or curiosity. “Nah,” she said finally. “Not surprised.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nodded against me. “You seem close to Emma. And Mrs. Clea… well, she’s the one who encouraged your name to get the holy vaccine after she refused it herself.”

“And then I saw you unscathed,” Tiffany added. “So… I assumed you had something with her.”

I snorted and let a slow, crooked smile tug at my lips. “Smart girl.”

She grinned without lifting her head. “I pay attention.”

“You assume a lot.”

“Do I?”

“You assumed right,” I said, exhaling. My voice was low, a little rough—still settling from everything that happened tonight. Tiffany’s body was warm against mine, her cheek resting on my chest like she belonged there. She didn’t press further, didn’t seem offended. Just… present. Quiet.

The sheets clung to our skin with leftover heat, and the soft hum of city traffic outside layered gently over the silence. A breeze slipped in through the slightly cracked window, cool against my back. The contrast of it made me shiver slightly, but I didn’t move away.

Tiffany did, though. Just enough to lift her head and look at me.

“You love Emma?”

I paused.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t accuse. Her tone was calm, but curious—like she’d already figured it out and was just waiting for confirmation. Her eyes didn’t carry jealousy… just a strange softness.

“I am…” I admitted, barely louder than a whisper. “I do.”

She nodded slowly, like she expected that.

“She was the first to know I was a demon,” I added.

That made her brows lift slightly. “Not Celia?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I was too afraid back then. Thought she’d freak out. Or…”

“Reject you,” Tiffany finished for me.

“Yeah.” I swallowed. “Exactly.”

“Did she?”

I let out a breath and chuckled softly. “No. Of course not. She didn’t even give me the chance to say anything. She… figured it out.”

“Just like that?”

I huffed and shook my head. “She is too sharp for her own good, that one. She caught the signs. I got caught just because of a shirt. Can you believe that?”

I shifted to glance at Tiffany. Her expression was thoughtful, like she was replaying something in her head.

“Damn…” I muttered. “Why do girls pay attention to so many damn details?”