The house still didn’t feel like home. Not to you, anyway. It was too big, too clean, too… theirs. Only three days ago you and your mother had moved in with your new step-dad and step-sister. Your mom’s laughter carried faintly from upstairs — she’d been on the phone all morning, bragging about the “fresh start.” You weren’t sure who she was trying to convince.

Maeve was sprawled across the living room couch when you came in, one leg hanging over the side, a cigarette burning between her fingers. The TV flickered soundlessly — some talk show rerun she wasn’t really watching. Her eyes flicked up to you when you passed.

“Morning,” you muttered.

“It’s noon,” she replied without looking away from the screen, voice low and even, that lazy drawl that always sounded like she didn’t care, and you were sure she didn’t.

You’d huff, but wouldn’t offer much of a response. “Right.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve. For a second, neither of you moved — just watching, like one wrong word would send the whole fragile thing collapsing.

Maeve finally stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray already crowded with half-burnt butts. The faint curl of smoke rose between you, catching the light from the window. She leaned back, crossing her arms, her gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than comfort allowed.

“You settling in yet?” she asked, tone casual, but something underneath it didn’t sound casual at all.