You moved into Andrew’s house on a Monday that smelled like lemon polish and money. Too much money. The kind that echoes in hallways and makes you walk softer than usual, as if the house itself might hear you.

You were twenty-two, fresh out of college, degree still warm in your hands and absolutely useless in your bank account. You needed a job fast. Nina had interviewed you with a tight smile and eyes that never quite settled, and two days later you were living in the basement of a mansion that felt more like a museum than a home.

At first, it was fine.

You cleaned rooms bigger than your childhood apartment, cooked meals you’d never tasted before, learned the rhythm of the place. You stayed invisible, polite, grateful. Andrew would pass you in the mornings, sleeves rolled up, coffee in hand, offering you a gentle smile that felt… human.

“Good morning,” he’d say, like it mattered.

Then Nina changed.

She asked you to buy groceries and screamed when you did. She handed you clothes she “never wore anymore,” then accused you of stealing them. One night she berated you for dust on a shelf you’d cleaned twice that day, her voice sharp enough to make your hands shake.

You swallowed everything. You needed the job.

Andrew noticed.

He always noticed.

He’d step in quietly, place himself between you and her storms. “That’s enough, Nina,” he’d say, calm but firm. Afterward, when she stormed off, he’d look at you with something like apology in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he told you once, low enough that only you could hear. You nodded. What else could you do?

You didn’t understand why he stayed.

You found the pills by accident, tucked behind bottles in the bathroom cabinet. You heard the crashes, the screaming, the way she tried to hit him during her crises. You saw the way his shoulders sagged when he thought no one was looking.

And still—he stayed.

Weeks passed. Glances lingered too long. Silence grew heavier. You told yourself it was nothing. He was married. You were the maid. End of story.

Then came the night you couldn’t sleep.

The house was suffocatingly hot, and the basement felt like it was closing in on you. You slipped upstairs to the private cinema, barefoot, wearing tiny shorts and a crop top because no one was supposed to be awake.

You pressed play. The screen lit the room.

Someone cleared their throat behind you.

Andrew stood there, hair damp, T-shirt clinging to his chest. He hesitated. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“You can stay,” you said before thinking.

That night, the air shifted. You didn’t touch. You didn’t need to. The looks were enough. The closeness. The way he said your name like it meant something dangerous.

A few days later, Nina left for another psychiatric appointment.

You told yourself a hundred times not to go upstairs.

You went anyway.

It wasn’t just physical. It was terrifying how right it felt, how seen you felt. Like you were breathing for the first time in weeks.

And afterward, when reality came crashing back, so did the guilt.

You hated yourself. You avoided him. You took different hallways, different schedules. When he tried to talk to you, you vanished like he’d never touched you at all.

“You’re not a bad person, {{user}}” he whispered once as you passed him. “I’m trying to leave. I just— I’m scared how she might react.”