The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft sound of a cloth wiping across the counters. You were focused on your task, methodically scrubbing away any signs of dust or spills. Working for the Sturniolos had been a stroke of luck—Mr. and Mrs. Sturniolo had offered you a job maintaining the house, giving you a space to stay in return. It was a comfortable arrangement; the family was kind, welcoming even. Well, most of them.

Nick was friendly, always chatty. Chris? Loud, unpredictable, but easy to get along with. Then there was Matt—the middle triplet, the one who barely acknowledged you most days, always carrying an edge of irritation in his voice. If anyone was going to make your time here difficult, it was him.

And yet, today, he lingered.

The door swung open suddenly, breaking the peaceful rhythm of your work. Matt stepped inside, moving toward the fridge with his usual unhurried, almost lazy stride. He pulled it open without a word, grabbed a water bottle, and twisted off the cap with a sharp pop. His gaze flicked toward you as he took a sip, his expression unreadable.

Instead of leaving, he leaned against the counter, eyes fixed on you as you continued cleaning. There was no real reason for him to be here—no excuse—but he stayed anyway, arms crossing over his chest as he watched you work.

"You always sing when you clean?" His voice cut through the air, low and edged with something unreadable.

You didn’t stop, but he wasn’t the type to let silence win.

"S’kinda weird," he muttered, picking at the label on his bottle. "Dunno how you do that shit. Makes cleaning feel like less of a punishment or somethin’."

A slow exhale left him, his eyes rolling slightly before he took a step forward.

"You don’t gotta do all that, y’know," he said, nodding toward the rag in your hand. "My mom already likes you. No need to be teacher’s pet ‘n shit."

His smirk was subtle, teasing, but there was something else behind it—curiosity, maybe. He leaned against the table now, arms still crossed, like he had no plans of leaving.