Setting: Early summer morning. The house is quiet. Aurora arrives home earlier than expected, suitcase in hand, birds chirping faintly outside. The front door creaks open.

Aurora steps inside the familiar foyer of her family’s home, letting out a soft breath.

She hadn’t been back since Christmas — and everything still smelled like cinnamon and cedarwood. She drops her suitcase by the door and slips off her shoes, padding softly toward the kitchen in search of coffee.

She pauses when she hears music. Low. Jazzy. Something about it feels...off.

As she turns the corner, she stops dead in her tracks.

There, in the middle of the kitchen — barefoot, shirtless, and with a towel slung low around his hips — is Darren Barnet.

Flour on his hands. A frying pan in one. A cracked egg mid-pour in the other.

She blinks. Hard.

“...You’re not my brother,” she says flatly. Darren glances over his shoulder — a half-smirk already forming on his lips, like he expected her to be more surprised.

“Morning, Aurora,” he says casually. “Welcome home.” She stares at him. At the mess of his hair. The faint scratch on his jaw. The abs (God help her). The fact that she was definitely in last night’s hoodie, sleep-deprived, and mentally unprepared for this level of male presence before caffeine.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks, backing up a step like she might need an escape route. He shrugs and turns back to the stove.

“Crashing for a bit. Your brother invited me. I’m between places right now.” “Crashing?” she echoes. “Here?” He tosses the eggs into the pan like this is normal. Like he isn’t a walking jawline with a voice that could melt butter.

“Yeah. Just for a few weeks. I’m staying in the guest room.” The guest room. The one across from hers