Rosie had never lived in a house so large.
She walked through its long corridors like a guest, not a daughter. Every chandelier, every polished surface reminded her she didn't belong here.
"Don't touch that, it's imported crystal," Charles had warned her the first day, half-joking. Rosie laughed nervously and shoved her hands into her hoodie pocket.
Her mother, Jane, however, seemed perfectly at home — happier than Rosie had seen her in years. There was laughter in her voice again. Her eyes softened when Charles walked into the room. They shared glances, inside jokes.
"You always scrunch your nose when you laugh," Charles said one evening as Jane passed him in the hallway.
Jane chuckled. "And you always point it out."
"Because it's adorable."
Rosie should've been happy for her.
She wasn't.
She missed their tiny old apartment. Their late-night TV dinners. The shared silences that didn't feel uncomfortable.
This new life, full of glass and gold, felt cold — especially when Arthur was around.
Her stepbrother wasn't rude. But he wasn't exactly welcoming either.
He walked through the halls like he owned them — shirtless most of the time, beer in hand, his phone buzzing constantly from the girls who just couldn't get enough. The type of guy Rosie usually avoided. But avoiding Arthur was easier said than done.
Their rooms were across from each other, separated by only a few steps of thick carpet. She tried not to look when he stood at his door in low-slung sweats, music playing behind him, that maddening smirk on his lips.
That night, the music thumped through the walls.
Rosie tiptoed past his door.
"You always this quiet?" Arthur called out.
She hesitated mid-step.
"I like quiet," she replied without turning.
Arthur leaned on the doorframe. "You like hiding too?"
That made her pause. She turned just enough to meet his gaze. "I'm not hiding."
"You just stay away like you're allergic to me," he said with a grin.
Rosie shrugged. "You make a lot of noise."
"I could be quiet. For the right reason."
Rosie's cheeks flushed. "Goodnight, Arthur."
He raised a beer toward her. "Sweet dreams, Rosie."
Downstairs, Charles and Jane curled up on the living room couch. A jazz record played softly, and the wine had started to loosen their shoulders.
Charles raised his glass. "To second chances."
Jane clinked her glass gently. "And new beginnings."
He reached for her hand, running his thumb over her fingers. "You've brought life back into this place, Jane."
She smiled. "It's just me. Same old me."
"Not to me. You're… more now. Braver. Beautiful. Real."
She laughed softly. "You're drunk."
Charles leaned in. "A little. But that doesn't make it any less true."
She looked at him for a moment before setting her wine down.
"Do you ever think about how fast this happened?" she asked.
"All the time," he said. "But I don't want to slow down."
She shifted, now straddling him, letting her fingers trail along the collar of his shirt. "Then don't."
Their kiss deepened. Clothes wrinkled. Breath shortened. The air between them charged — not with lust alone, but with longing. Two people finally allowed to want again.
Upstairs, Arthur stood at his canvas, brush in hand.
He hadn't touched the painting in minutes. His mind wasn't on the brush. It was on the girl across the hall.
He thought of Rosie's awkward smile. The way she clutched her books when she walked past. The way she looked at the world like she wanted to be invisible.
"She doesn't even try," he muttered aloud. "And she still fucking gets to me."
A knock echoed inside his head — not real, just the lingering weight of her presence. He tossed his brush down, grabbed a beer, and leaned out into the hallway.
Her light was off.
"She sleeps so early," he whispered to himself.
But he liked that.
She didn't chase the chaos. She didn't need the spotlight.
She just... was.
And somehow, that was more tempting than anything else.
In her room, Rosie curled under the covers, her heart thudding for no real reason. She could hear his music. She could picture his bare chest, the tattoos along his arms, the way his gaze lingered when she walked by.
She told herself he was just being friendly. Maybe flirty.
But deep down?
It felt different.
When he looked at her, it was like he was trying to figure something out. And that scared her more than she wanted to admit.
Back in the living room, Charles and Jane lay tangled on the couch, the embers of intimacy still warm between them.
Jane traced lazy circles on his chest. "It's been a long time since I felt this safe."
Charles kissed her forehead. "I want you to stay here. I want Rosie to feel at home."
"She doesn't yet," Jane admitted.
"She will," Charles said. "Arthur's... a lot. But he'll adjust."
Jane sighed. "I just hope she doesn't get hurt."
There was a beat of silence.
"I think," Charles said slowly, "they might need each other more than they know."