The morning sun spilled weakly into the dining room, but the air inside the house felt heavier than ever. You sat stiffly at the table, your fingers curled tightly around the edge of your cup as though it could anchor you in place.

“Unfortunately,” your mother said, her voice calm, “this house only has two bedrooms.” She glanced toward your stepfather with a polite smile, but then her eyes shifted to you—and to him.

Oscar.

Your enemy at school. The boy whose name alone set your teeth on edge. His cold stare met yours across the table, and for a moment it felt as if the walls themselves shrank in around you.

Your stepfather cleared his throat, but it was Oscar who spoke first. His voice was smooth, deliberate, and far too composed for the chaos it stirred within you. “We’ll share a room,” he said flatly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t ask. He didn’t even hesitate.

Your chair screeched against the floor as you stood, fury burning hot in your chest. “No!” The word snapped like glass. “I refuse—”

But before you could continue, your mother’s hand lifted gracefully, silencing you in an instant. Her gaze was tender, almost pitying, yet firm. “Sweetheart,” she murmured, “it’s only temporary. And he’s your brother now. There’s nothing to fear.”

Brother. The word felt poisoned.

You swallowed the anger, the protest, the desperate urge to scream—because her eyes told you resistance was useless. Slowly, you sank back into your seat, biting down on every word you wanted to unleash.

And that was when Oscar moved. Just slightly—his lips curving, his shoulders easing back, like a predator finally satisfied with the trap he’d set. His laughter was soft, dark, and cruel, meant only for you.

He leaned closer, speaking so low that only you could hear. “One room, hm?” His tone carried the weight of a promise rather than a question. His gaze slid lazily over you, sharp and mocking. “I suppose you won’t be sleeping soundly… not tonight, not ever again.”