The living room filled with soft voices, the clinking of glasses, and polite conversation. Patricia sat with Emily on her lap, listening to her chatter about school, while Josh, now more relaxed, played quietly on the rug with a toy Mr. Philip had given him.
I sat on the edge of a single-seater couch, my hands folded neatly in my lap. I listened, nodded when needed, but mostly kept to myself—watching, reading the room, learning.
Elsa stayed close to her mother, occasionally glancing at me and my siblings, her eyes flicking over us with a guarded curiosity. She hadn't said much. No insults, no kindness—just a distant silence that I couldn't quite place.
Shawn took a seat across from me, lounging easily. He hadn't spoken to me yet, but his gaze drifted to me often, always quickly looking away when I glanced back.
"Anne," Patricia said, gently drawing me from my thoughts. "Mr. Philip told me you're in Ridgeview Girls College. That's quite an achievement."
I offered a soft smile. "Thank you, ma'am. I'm really grateful he made it possible."
"He speaks highly of you," Patricia replied. "Of how strong and responsible you've been. You're welcome here—as long as you need."
The words were kind. They should've comforted me. But something inside me still tensed. Words were easy. Actions were harder. And I'd learned not to trust comfort too quickly.
Later, as the evening wore on, the family moved upstairs to unpack and settle into their rooms. I helped Emily and Josh with their baths, got them into pajamas, and tucked them into bed.
But as I stepped into the hallway to return to my room, I found Shawn leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching me.
"You really don't talk much, huh?" he said.
I raised an eyebrow. "I do. Just not when there's nothing to say."
He gave a soft smirk. "Fair enough."
We stared at each other for a moment. No hostility. No warmth either. Just something unreadable lingering in the air between us.
Then I stepped past him, heading for my room. "Goodnight."
Shawn watched me go, still standing in the hallway, brows slightly furrowed.
Something about me didn't fit into the box he'd tried to place me in.
And he hated how that made him curious.
Sunday morning in the house was slower, softer.
Sunlight spilled into the windows, and the smell of pancakes, sizzling eggs, and something sweet wafted through the halls. Patricia, already dressed in a soft cream blouse and apron, was in the kitchen helping the cook, laughing gently at something lighthearted.
I came downstairs in a modest floral dress, my hair tied into a low ponytail. I moved quietly, as always, still adjusting to the feel of the home. Patricia turned and smiled warmly.
"Good morning, Anne. Did you sleep well?"
"I did. Thank you, ma'am."
"No need for 'ma'am.' Patricia is fine," she said, placing a plate on the counter. "Come, sit. Breakfast is almost ready."
I hesitated—just for a moment—before taking a seat.
Shawn entered shortly after, hair tousled, a sleepy look in his eyes. Sweatpants, no shirt, just a hoodie half-zipped. He moved like someone who knew he owned every room he stepped into. His eyes brushed over me before he mumbled a casual, "Morning."
"Morning," I replied, not looking up.
Emily and Josh bounded in next, already arguing over cereal versus pancakes. Their laughter echoed through the dining room as they raced to sit beside me.
"You two are louder than the blender," Shawn said, sipping from a glass of orange juice.
"Because we're excited!" Emily beamed. "It's our first Sunday in a big house!"
Patricia chuckled, setting food down at the table. "Then you should eat like kings and queens."
I watched my siblings dig in, their cheeks full and hands sticky with syrup. I smiled quietly, but my thoughts drifted. Even in comfort, even surrounded by warmth, there was that sliver of doubt that never quite left me.
Later, after everyone had eaten, I helped clear the table even when told I didn't need to.
Shawn passed by on his way upstairs and said with a glance, "You never sit still, do you?"
I looked up, drying a plate. "Hard to sit still when you're used to running."
He paused. Just for a second. Then walked off without another word.
But that one sentence stuck with him more than he wanted to admit.
The rest of the day moved with a calm rhythm. Patricia took Emily and Josh out into the garden behind the house, where a swing set had been recently installed. Their laughter rang out in bursts, filling the backyard with life.
I stayed inside, finishing up the dishes and sweeping the already spotless kitchen floor—partly out of habit, partly to stay distracted.
From the hallway upstairs, Shawn leaned over the railing, watching quietly. Something about the way I moved—silent, careful, like I didn't want to take up too much space—unsettled him.
"You're always working," he called down.
I looked up. "And you're always watching."
He raised a brow, impressed by the comeback. "Touché."
I gave a small smirk and turned back to what I was doing.
Later that afternoon, while the kids played and Patricia dozed off on a lounge chair with a book on her chest, I wandered to the side garden alone. The breeze was soft, and flowers swayed in slow motion. I sat on a low stone bench, pulled my knees to my chest, and let my mind drift.
I should've felt safe here. Should've relaxed by now. But there was always something tugging at my chest—like I was waiting for the bubble to pop.
Shawn showed up minutes later, hands tucked in his pockets.
"You always sneak off somewhere quiet?" he asked, breaking the silence.
I turned my head slightly. "I like the quiet."
"You don't seem like the type who gets quiet often."
I shrugged. "You don't know me."
"Maybe I want to," he said—too quickly, and then looked away.
I blinked, caught off guard. I didn't respond. I didn't know how.
We sat in silence, the wind speaking between us.
Inside, the house remained warm and loud and full.
But out there, on that quiet garden bench, something was beginning to stir—and neither of us quite knew what to call it yet.
Shawn stood a few steps away, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the garden wall. The silence stretched between us—long and heavy—but not uncomfortable.
"I didn't mean to say it like that," he said, finally breaking the stillness. "About you being different."
I kept my eyes on the flowers. "You don't even know me."
Shawn didn't respond immediately. He shifted his weight, as if unsure of what he was doing there in the first place.
"I guess you're right," he admitted. "I don't."
I turned to look at him, expecting sarcasm or annoyance, but his expression was unreadable—guarded.
I nodded, not sure what else to say. "Then maybe you shouldn't talk like you do."
A beat passed. He gave a faint, almost dry chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Noted."
The wind moved gently through the garden, rustling the leaves and bringing a soft chill. I hugged my arms and began to walk toward the path that led back inside.
Shawn watched me go but didn't call out. He didn't know what this was or why he felt pulled toward me, but he wasn't ready to name it. Not yet.
And I, as I reached the door, didn't look back.
But I could still feel his eyes on me. Quiet. Curious.
Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.
Not yet.