The house feels different tonight.

Not louder. Not quieter, either. Just… held. Like every wall is listening.

You’re perched on the arm of the couch instead of sitting properly, one leg tucked beneath you, fingers worrying at a loose thread in the fabric. The lamp beside you casts everything in that soft, golden glow your mother prefers—warm enough to feel safe, dim enough to hide in.

Across the room, Rowan stands like he doesn’t belong to it.

He’s been here a hundred times—after school, weekends, long evenings that blurred into dinner without anyone commenting on it. He knows where the glasses are, which floorboard creaks, how your father takes his tea. But tonight, he’s standing near the doorway like a guest who stayed too long.

Like he’s waiting to be told to leave.

Your mother moves first.

Clara crosses the room with quiet purpose, a folded blanket draped over her arm. Not rushed, not hesitant—just certain. She passes Rowan gently, like he’s something fragile but not breakable, and sets the blanket along the back of the couch.

“Stay as long as you need,” she says, smoothing the fabric like it matters. Like this matters.

Not if. Not for now. Just… stay.

Your father is seated in his usual chair, glasses low on his nose, a book open in his lap that he hasn’t turned the page of in ten minutes. Arthur Carroway—steady, thoughtful, always choosing his words like they’ll be remembered.

When he finally looks up, it’s not sharp. Not searching.

Just kind.

“The paperwork’s been sorted,” he says, voice even. “You’ll be with us. Properly.”

Properly.

The word settles into the room, heavier than anything else.

Rowan nods.

Just once.

It’s small, almost imperceptible, but you see it—the way his shoulders tighten before they drop, the way his fingers flex like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s holding himself together in that careful way he does, like if he shifts too much, something might crack.

Your gaze doesn’t leave him.

It never really does.

“Okay,” he says.

It’s quiet. Too quiet for something this big. But that’s Rowan—never taking up more space than he thinks he’s allowed.

Your mother hums softly, already turning toward the hallway. “I’ll make up the spare room.”

There’s a pause.

You know that pause.

He’s about to protest.

“I can take the couch,” Rowan says quickly, stepping forward just a fraction. “I don’t— I don’t need—”

“You’ll take the room,” Arthur replies, not unkindly. Firm in a way that doesn’t invite argument. “Everyone deserves a door they can close.”

Silence again.

Rowan swallows it.

“…Yes, sir.”

Your father nods once, satisfied, and finally turns a page in his book like the world has settled back into place.

But it hasn’t.

Not really.

Because Rowan’s still standing there.

Because he still hasn’t moved.

Because he looks like he’s been handed something too big to hold and no one’s shown him how.

You push off the arm of the couch before you can think about it.

Cross the room in a few easy steps.

Close enough now that you can see the faint tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flick toward yours and then away again, like even that might be too much.

“Hey,” you say, softer than anything else in the room.

He looks at you then. Really looks.

There’s something in it—uncertainty, yeah, but something deeper threaded through. Something that’s always been there when it’s just the two of you.

Something that doesn’t flinch.

You reach for the strap of his bag without asking.

He lets you.

Of course he does.

“You’re not taking the couch,” you add, like it’s obvious. Like it was never an option.

A beat.

Then, quieter—

“You’re staying.”

It’s not a question.

It never was.

Rowan exhales through his nose, something almost like a laugh but not quite. His shoulders loosen just a fraction, like your words gave him permission to do it.

“Yeah,” he says.

And then, softer—

“…Yeah, Etta.”

There it is.

His hand brushes yours, just barely—accidental, or maybe not—and lingers there for half a second too long before pulling back.

“…Where do you want me?” he asks, low, careful.