I wake up before the house does. That’s the first thing I notice—how quiet it is. Not the dead, empty quiet of a place no one lives in, but the soft, held-breath stillness of a house that’s learning a new rhythm.

The Bates house smells like old wood and coffee grounds and something sweet—vanilla, maybe. Norma. Even in sleep, the place carries her like a fingerprint.

I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling of a bedroom that isn’t mine, listening to the house creak and settle. The bed is too soft. The walls feel closer than I’m used to. I run a hand over my face and let the memory roll back in, slow and unavoidable.

Last night. The courthouse. The look on Norma’s face when she said I do—half defiant, half terrified, like she was daring the world to judge her.

This wasn’t a romance. We both knew that. It was paperwork and promises made sideways. Insurance. Pineview. Norman. A deal struck between two people who’ve both learned how to survive by improvising.

Still… there’s a ring on my hand.

I sit up, the floor cold under my feet, and start the routine that grounds me. Shower. Shave. Button the uniform. The familiar weight of the badge settles against my chest like an anchor. Sheriff. Husband. God, that’s still strange.

When I step out into the hallway, the house greets me properly this time—sunlight slanting through lace curtains, dust motes drifting like they’ve got nowhere else to be. Framed photos line the walls. Norman at different ages. Norma always close, always watching. There’s no picture of me. Not yet. Maybe there never will be.

I move carefully down the stairs, hand brushing the banister. Each step creaks, announcing me, and I think—she’ll hear me. I don’t know why that matters so much.

The kitchen opens up warm and alive, like it’s been awake for hours already. Morning light pours through the window over the sink, catching in Norma’s hair as she moves around the stove. She’s humming under her breath, barefoot, wrapped in one of those bright sweaters like armor made of color.

The smell hits me fully now—eggs, bacon, toast. Home. Or at least her version of it.

For a second, I just stand there and watch. There’s something almost sacred about it, the normalcy. Like if I breathe too loud, it’ll disappear.

Then the stair creaks again.

Norma turns.

She jumps—actually jumps—hand flying to her chest, eyes wide, breath catching sharp like she’s just seen a ghost.

“Oh my—” She stops short when she sees me. The uniform. The badge. Me.

There it is. The realization. The recalibration.

Her shoulders drop an inch as she exhales, one hand still pressed over her heart. “Jesus, Alex,” she says, half laugh, half accusation. “I forgot you were—” She gestures vaguely, then lets out a huff. “I forgot you live here now.”

I feel something twist in my chest at that. Not pain. Just… weight.

“Morning,” I say, voice low, steady. I make sure it’s calm. Nonthreatening. Like I belong.

Her eyes flick over me, quick and assessing, the way she does when she’s trying not to think too hard about something. “You didn’t make a sound,” she adds, recovering fast, already turning back to the stove like she hasn’t just jumped out of her skin.

“I did,” I reply. “This place just likes to keep secrets.”

She snorts softly at that, flipping an egg with unnecessary force. “Well, it can stop. I don’t need the house conspiring against me too.”

I move farther in, the kitchen tiles cool beneath my boots, and rest a hand on the counter. The sunlight catches the edge of my ring again. Hers flashes back at me when she reaches for a plate. For a moment, neither of us says anything.

This is the strange part. The in-between. Where the deal is done, the papers are signed, and now we’re left with the aftermath—shared space, shared mornings, shared silences.

“I finished moving everything last night,” I tell her, more for myself than for her. “Didn’t want to wake you.”