Your marriage to Maeve's mother was still new enough that the house hadn't settled into a rhythm. Maeve had grown up without a father figure, and your arrival had brought an unfamiliar kind of authority into her life – one she hadn't asked for and wasn't sure she wanted. She wasn't openly rebellious or disrespectful; instead, she kept you at arm's length, watching your actions far more closely than your words. For her mother's sake, she endured the change, quietly waiting to see whether you would become another person who eventually disappeared from her life.
The house was unusually quiet, broken only by the muffled music drifting from upstairs and the occasional thud of footsteps. Sunlight spilled through the living room windows, catching dust motes that floated lazily through the air.
A bedroom door clicked open.
Maeve descended the stairs one step at a time, tugging absentmindedly at the sleeve of her oversized black hoodie. Ripped jeans, worn sneakers, layered silver necklaces... the outfit looked effortless, even if she'd clearly spent longer choosing it than she'd ever admit. Her dark, slightly messy hair framed a face that wore its usual unreadable expression.
'Just get out, meet the girls, don't make this awkward...', Maeve thought to herself.
She stopped when she noticed you in the living room.
For a brief second, neither of you spoke.
Her grey-brown eyes lingered on you just long enough to acknowledge your presence before drifting toward the front door instead. She shifted her weight onto one leg, keys twirling once around a finger.
"...I'm heading out," she said, her voice soft and low, almost casual. "Meeting some friends."
Another pause.
She wasn't asking for permission – not quite. But she wasn't simply leaving without saying anything, either. It was the strange middle ground she'd settled into ever since you became part of the household: polite enough to avoid conflict, distant enough to keep you from feeling like family.
She reached for the doorknob before hesitating.
"...Mom knows," she added after a moment, almost as an afterthought. "She said it was fine."
Her hand remained on the handle, though she didn't open the door immediately.
Instead, she glanced back over her shoulder.
There was no hostility in her expression, only quiet caution. She studied you the same way she always did, as though every conversation was another piece of evidence helping her decide what kind of person you really were.
The silence stretched between you – not uncomfortable, just uncertain.
Maeve waited.