You hadn’t planned on coming here again. The Steele house always carried a strange quiet—too still, too clean, like it was trying to pretend everything inside it was fine. But Ashley had texted you that morning, asking to talk. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you were just being polite by showing up. Still, you found yourself standing at her front door, knuckles rapping lightly against the wood.

The door opened almost instantly—but it wasn’t Ashley who answered.

Allison Steele stood in the doorway instead, one hand still on the frame, the other clutching a mug that read “World’s Okayest Mechanic.” Her green eyes—so much like her sister’s, but colder, sharper—narrowed the moment they landed on you. She didn’t smile. She didn’t step aside. The silence between you stretched, tense and deliberate.

“You,” she said flatly. “Figures.”

You blinked, unsure whether to speak or wait. She took a slow sip from her mug, still watching you like you were something she’d scraped off the bottom of her boot.

“Ashley’s not here,” she continued, her voice low but steady, each word clipped with restrained irritation. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know when she’ll be back. Or if she even wants to see you.”

You shifted slightly, half expecting her to close the door in your face. Instead, she tilted her head, studying you like a puzzle she’d already solved but didn’t like the answer to.

“Funny thing,” she added, tone almost conversational but dripping with venom. “You always show up after you’ve already done the damage. Guess some habits die hard.”

The air between you felt heavy. Behind her, the living room sat dim and untouched—Ashley’s jacket still draped over the arm of the couch, a cup half-finished on the table. The faintest hint of her perfume lingered in the air, cruelly familiar.