The living room filled with soft voices, the clinking of glasses, and polite conversation. Patricia sat with Emily on her lap, listening to her chatter about school, while Josh, now more relaxed, played quietly on the rug with a toy Mr. Philip had given him.
Anne sat on the edge of a single-seater couch, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She listened, nodded when needed, but mostly kept to herself—watching, reading the room, learning.
Elsa kept close to her mother, occasionally glancing at Anne and her siblings, eyes flicking over them with a guarded curiosity. She hadn't said much. No insults, no kindness—just a distant silence that Anne couldn't quite place.
Shawn took a seat across from Anne, lounging easily. He hadn't spoken to her yet, but his gaze drifted to her often, always quickly looking away when she glanced back.
"Anne," Patricia said, gently drawing her from her thoughts. "Mr. Philip told me you're in Ridgeview Girls College. That's quite an achievement."
Anne offered a soft smile. "Thank you, ma'am. I'm really grateful he made it possible."
"He speaks highly of you," Patricia replied. "Of how strong and responsible you've been. You're welcome here—as long as you need."
The words were kind. They should've comforted her. But something in Anne still tensed. Words were easy. Actions were harder. And she'd learned not to trust comfort too quickly.
Later, as the evening wore on, the family moved upstairs to unpack and settle into their rooms. Anne helped Emily and Josh with their baths, got them into pajamas, and tucked them into bed.
But as she stepped into the hallway to return to her room, she found Shawn leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching her.
"You really don't talk much, huh?" he said.
Anne raised an eyebrow. "I do. Just not when there's nothing to say."
He gave a soft smirk. "Fair enough."
They stared at each other for a moment. No hostility. No warmth either. Just something unreadable lingering in the air between them.
Then Anne stepped past him, heading for her room. "Goodnight."
Shawn watched her go, still standing in the hallway, brows slightly furrowed.
Something about her didn't fit into the box he'd tried to place her in.
And he hated how that made him curious.
Sunday morning in the house was slower, softer.
Sunlight spilled into the windows, and the smell of pancakes, sizzling eggs, and something sweet wafted through the halls. Patricia, already dressed in a soft cream blouse and apron, was in the kitchen helping the cook, laughing gently at something lighthearted.
Anne came downstairs in a modest floral dress, her hair tied into a low ponytail. She moved quietly, as always, still adjusting to the feel of the home. Patricia turned and smiled warmly.
"Good morning, Anne. Did you sleep well?"
"I did. Thank you, ma'am."
"No need for 'ma'am.' Patricia is fine," she said, placing a plate on the counter. "Come, sit. Breakfast is almost ready."
Anne hesitated—just for a moment—before taking a seat.
Shawn entered shortly after, hair tousled, a sleepy look in his eyes. Sweatpants, no shirt, just a hoodie half-zipped. He moved like someone who knew he owned every room he stepped into. His eyes brushed over Anne before he mumbled a casual, "Morning."
"Morning," Anne replied, not looking up.
Emily and Josh bounded in next, already arguing over cereal versus pancakes. Their laughter echoed through the dining room as they raced to sit beside Anne.
"You two are louder than the blender," Shawn said, sipping from a glass of orange juice.
"Because we're excited!" Emily beamed. "It's our first Sunday in a big house!"
Patricia chuckled, setting food down at the table. "Then you should eat like kings and queens."
Anne watched her siblings dig in, their cheeks full and hands sticky with syrup. She smiled quietly, but her thoughts drifted. Even in comfort, even surrounded by warmth, there was that sliver of doubt that never quite left her.
Later, after everyone had eaten, Anne helped clear the table even when told she didn't need to.
Shawn passed by on his way upstairs and said with a glance, "You never sit still, do you?"
Anne looked up, drying a plate. "Hard to sit still when you're used to running."
He paused. Just for a second. Then walked off without another word.
But that one sentence stuck with him more than he wanted to admit.
The rest of the day moved with a calm rhythm. Patricia took Emily and Josh out into the garden behind the house, where a swing set had been recently installed. Their laughter rang out in bursts, filling the backyard with life.
Anne stayed inside, finishing up the dishes and sweeping the already spotless kitchen floor—partly out of habit, partly to stay distracted.
From the hallway upstairs, Shawn leaned over the railing, watching quietly. Something about the way she moved—silent, careful, like she didn't want to take up too much space—unsettled him.
"You're always working," he called down.
Anne looked up. "And you're always watching."
He raised a brow, impressed by the comeback. "Touché."
She gave a small smirk and turned back to what she was doing.
Later that afternoon, while the kids played and Patricia dozed off on a lounge chair with a book on her chest, Anne wandered to the side garden alone. The breeze was soft, and flowers swayed in slow motion. She sat on a low stone bench, pulled her knees to her chest, and let her mind drift.
She should've felt safe here. Should've relaxed by now. But there was always something tugging at her chest—like she was waiting for the bubble to pop.
Shawn showed up minutes later, hands tucked in his pockets.
"You always sneak off somewhere quiet?" he asked, breaking the silence.
Anne turned her head slightly. "I like the quiet."
"You don't seem like the type who gets quiet often."
She shrugged. "You don't know me."
"Maybe I want to," he said—too quickly, and then looked away.
Anne blinked, caught off guard. She didn't respond. She didn't know how.
They sat in silence, the wind speaking between them.
Inside, the house remained warm and loud and full.
But out there, on that quiet garden bench, something was beginning to stir—and neither of them quite knew what to call it yet.
Shawn stood a few steps away, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the garden wall. The silence stretched between them—long and heavy—but not uncomfortable.
"I didn't mean to say it like that," he said, finally breaking the stillness. "About you being different."
Anne kept her eyes on the flowers. "You don't even know me."
Shawn didn't respond immediately. He shifted his weight, as if unsure of what he was doing there in the first place.
"I guess you're right," he admitted. "I don't."
Anne turned to look at him, expecting sarcasm or annoyance, but his expression was unreadable—guarded.
She nodded, not sure what else to say. "Then maybe you shouldn't talk like you do."
A beat passed. He gave a faint, almost dry chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Noted."
The wind moved gently through the garden, rustling the leaves and bringing a soft chill. Anne hugged her arms and began to walk toward the path that led back inside.
Shawn watched her go but didn't call out. He didn't know what this was or why he felt pulled toward her, but he wasn't ready to name it. Not yet.
And Anne, as she reached the door, didn't look back.
But she could still feel his eyes on her. Quiet. Curious.
Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.
Not yet.