They never wanted her there.

When her older brother moved out, the lease passed on to four of his closest friends — all of them older, rough around the edges, and far too used to having the house to themselves. They didn’t expect her to take the empty room. The little sister. The quiet one. The one they remembered from summers past, always tagging along, too soft, too kind.

Now she was grown, and she didn’t fit anywhere.

The tension began the first week — the way they would stop talking when she entered the room, how they’d exchange glances, like she was some uninvited ghost haunting their peace. She cooked sometimes, cleaned sometimes, tried to stay out of the way. But silence doesn’t make you invisible.

The first one, Rowan, was all edges and sarcasm — always watching, never smiling. He hated noise, hated clutter, hated her presence. The second, Jace, was charming but cold, the kind of man who used his words like knives — casual cruelty masked as teasing. Theo barely spoke to her at all, but she’d feel his quiet disapproval in every room, like gravity. And then there was Miles, the calmest one — detached, polite, but with an expression that always looked like he was thinking something cruel.

They shared nothing but resentment. Until one night.

It started small — power went out during a storm. Everyone was stuck inside. No phones, no distractions, just flickering candles and the sound of rain clawing at the windows. They ended up in the living room, together, unwillingly. And for the first time, they talked.

Not politely — not kindly. Truths slipped out, sharp and bitter.

Rowan accused her of being fake — always pretending to be innocent. She told him he hides behind cruelty because he’s scared of being

After that night, everything in the house felt different. Not louder — quieter. The kind of quiet that meant everyone was listening too closely.

No one spoke about what was said. They acted normal. Pretended. But tension hung heavy — in the walls, in the air, in the space between every glance.

Rowan was the first to crack. He started staying home more, claiming he “had nowhere better to be.” But every time she walked into the kitchen, he’d find some reason to leave. His voice had turned lower, his sarcasm less sharp — like he was trying not to say something he’d regret. One night she caught him outside her door, standing there like he’d forgotten why he came. When she asked, he said, “You left the lights on.” But the hall was dark.

Jace got crueler, but quieter. His teasing had lost its humor, replaced with something that almost sounded like regret. He’d still smirk, still lean against doorframes with that same cocky tilt of his head, but his eyes lingered too long. Every argument between them burned — and neither of them could walk away without shaking.

Theo avoided her for days — then showed up one morning in the kitchen, sitting silently with two mugs of coffee. One for her. He didn’t look up when she entered. Didn’t say a word. But his fingers brushed hers when she took the mug, and he flinched like it burned him. He left before she could thank him.

And Miles — calm, rational Miles — had started looking at her like she was a secret he couldn’t stop studying. He wasn’t cruel or cold. He was careful. Too careful. He’d listen when she talked. Remember the small things she said. And that was somehow worse, because he understood her — the part of her that didn’t belong, that didn’t know why she still stayed in that house where no one had ever wanted her.

They all changed, slowly, painfully. And she felt it — the way their hate had twisted into something raw. Not affection. Not safety. Something heavier.

One night, she couldn’t sleep. She went downstairs for water and found them all there — as if the same restlessness had pulled them to the same place. The rain outside again, just like the night everything had started.

They didn’t speak for a while. Just sat in silence, the storm whispering against the windows.

Then Jace said quietly, “We shouldn’t be here.” Rowan replied, “Then leave.” But no one moved.