Rose had been hiding out downtown all day, bouncing between thrift shops and coffee places like some kind of retail refugee. But now, after the sun had long set behind Princeton's old clock tower, and the storefronts were going dark, she knew she couldn't put it off anymore. She had to go home.
She'd killed time wandering the mall, pretending to browse clothes that she had zero interest in, camping out on benches, people-watching college kids who seemed to have their shit way more together than she did. Their biggest worry was probably whether they'd remembered to do their laundry.
Must be nice.
Around eight, hunger finally drove her to that little Vietnamese spot on Market Street, where Mrs. Pham always remembered her usual order. Bun Bo Nan Bo, extra spicy, hold the peanuts. The woman had chatted away about her grandson's soccer team, her granddaughter's scholarship to Princeton, and the price of fish at the market. Rose had nodded in the right places, made appropriate noises, and thought about absolutely nothing at all. Or rather, about only one thing, and how that one thing was making her want to crawl out of her own skin.
"Everything okay, honey?" Mrs. Pham had asked, that concerned mom-tone cutting through Rose's fog. "You seem... distracted. My granddaughter has that same look on her face, and I worry about her as well. You know, when something troubles the heart, it shows in the eyes."
"Oh, just school stuff," Rose had mumbled, which was such bullshit it wasn't even funny.
School stuff. Right. If only her biggest problem were a sociology paper.
Now, as she turned Noah's BMW onto their tree-lined street in Riverside Heights, Rose felt her stomach tighten. Her heart beat louder with each step toward the house. The neighborhood was settling into its evening rhythm: porch lights flickered on, the sound of dinner conversations drifted through open windows, and someone's dog barked three houses down. Normal family sounds. Normal family dinners.
Not whatever complicated mess she and Noah had stumbled into.
The large house looked different somehow as she approached, though nothing had actually changed.
Except that he was home. Of course, he was home.
Rose paused at the front door, her keys cold in her palm. She could hear faint sounds from inside. The television murmuring in the living room, the occasional creak of floorboards. Through the side window, she caught a glimpse of the kitchen. It was empty now, with no signs of recent activity. No plate in the sink, or glass on the counter.
Had he eaten alone? Had he wondered where she was? Had he even noticed she'd been gone all day?
The thought made her chest tighten; she didn't know which possibility made her feel worse. Of course, she didn't want him to worry, but she also didn't want him to 'not worry' either. The contradiction was exhausting.
She slipped her key into the lock as quietly as possible, the familiar click echoing louder than it should have in the evening stillness. The front hall was dim, lit only by the lamp they always left on.
The hardwood floors creaked under her feet as she toed off her shoes, placing them carefully in the rack by the door. Everything felt amplified in the quiet house. The rustle of her jacket as she hung it up, the soft thud of her purse hitting the hall table, even her own breathing seemed too loud.
From the living room came the sound of the television, some talk show host delivering his monologue to scattered applause. Noah was probably stretched out on the couch, maybe with a beer, probably writing, or reading, or doing whatever it was that brilliant, complicated guys did when they weren't turning their stepsisters' worlds upside down.
Rose stood there for a minute, just listening. She could call out, let him know she was back, maybe grab a beer, and join him. That's what she would have done a week ago. That's what a normal stepsister would do. But the memory of waking up pressed against him, of the way his hands had felt on her waist, of the confusion and want and guilt that had been churning in her stomach all day. It all made the idea of casual conversation feel impossible.
Instead, she started up the stairs, each step carefully placed to minimize the creaking. The banister was smooth under her palm.
Halfway up, she paused. The television volume seemed to drop, and she held her breath, wondering if Noah had heard her come in. But after a moment, the sound returned to its previous level, and she continued climbing.
The upstairs hallway was darker, lit only by the streetlight filtering through the window at the far end. Her bedroom door was slightly ajar, exactly as she'd left it that morning in her rush to escape the house and her own thoughts. Noah's room was at the other end of the hall, and his door was closed.
Rose pushed open her bedroom door and stepped inside, immediately hit by the familiar scent of her lavender body spray and the faint mustiness of textbooks. Her room was exactly as she'd left it. Bed unmade, laptop open on her desk, yesterday's clothes draped over the chair by the window. But it felt different now, like she was seeing it through someone else's eyes.
The girl who had left this room that morning felt like a stranger now. She'd spent the day trying to convince herself that Jonah's return to Princeton didn't mean anything and had nothing to do with her.
She also agonized over what had happened between her and Noah. She repeatedly told herself that it was just a moment of confusion, wine, and proximity, nothing more, nothing less. Just a physical accident that meant nothing.
But sitting alone in her bedroom, surrounded by the clutter of her life, she couldn't maintain that fiction any longer.
She'd spent the day trying not to think about it. But underneath, there had been one constant thought, like a song stuck on repeat: he's down the hallway, and I want him.
She wanted him. Had wanted him for longer than she was willing to admit, even to herself. And the worst part was, she was pretty sure he knew it.
Rose sank onto her bed, the springs creaking in protest, and stared at the ceiling. The house settled around her with small sounds. The heating system cycling on, the refrigerator humming downstairs, and the distant sound of Noah moving around downstairs. Normal domestic sounds that felt anything but normal now.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. For a split second, her heart jumped—maybe it was Noah, texting from downstairs. But it was just the study group chat, someone asking about tomorrow's lit seminar.
Hey, did Martinez say which Neruda translation we're supposed to use? I have like three different versions, and they're all saying different things.
Rose's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She started typing—"I think he said the Bly translation?" Then deleted it. The question felt impossibly distant, as if it were coming from another life. She set the phone aside without responding and lay back on her bed, still fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. Back in her old bedroom, she'd stuck glow-in-the-dark stars up on her ceiling during her sophomore year of high school. Not even close to accurate, but her teenage self had thought they looked cool.
Everything had been simpler then. Noah had been away at college, then the Army, then traveling. And when he came back, He had changed and began living his mysterious writer's life in the city. He'd been this distant figure she admired from afar, someone whose books she read with the kind of pride you felt when family made it big. Safe. Uncomplicated. Separated from her by years and continents and the simple fact that he was Noah White, celebrated author, hometown hero, and she was just his weird stepsister who embarrassed herself at family dinners.
She remembered the first time she'd read one of his novels. It was after he'd won all of those awards, and his name was starting to be whispered by literary critics. Even in her high school hallways, with the kind of reverence usually reserved for movie stars and singers. There had been this quiet reverence when people found out who her stepbrother was. Like she'd become interesting by association. She'd been seventeen, sitting in her childhood bedroom in their parents' house in the suburbs, three years before their father had passed away.
She'd devoured every word, completely blown away that this brilliant, celebrated author was her stepbrother. She'd texted him afterward. Something embarrassingly gushy about how incredible his writing was. And instead of a text back, he'd called her.
"You don't have to kiss my ass just because we're family, Rose," he'd said, but she could hear him laughing.
"I'm not!" she'd protested, her seventeen-year-old voice cracking with earnestness. "Noah, it's really, really good. Like, scary good."
"Scary good, huh? I'll take it."
She'd talked to him for almost an hour that night, about books and writing and what it meant to want to create something that lasted. He'd taken her seriously in a way most adults didn't, asking her real questions instead of just nodding along. He'd been patient. He'd recommended books she should read. He'd made her feel seen.
The memory made her chest ache now. When had that innocent admiration turned into something else? When had the proud little sister become this confused, wanting woman lying in this bed?
Now he was just down the hall, probably thinking about his students or his writing or whatever deep thoughts occupied Noah White's brilliant brain. Was he thinking about her at all? Or had he genuinely drunk himself into complete amnesia about what had happened on the couch?
She didn't know which possibility bothered her more.
The questions felt too big for the small space of her bedroom, too complex for the simple life she'd been living until now. Rose closed her eyes and tried to imagine tomorrow, sitting across from him at breakfast, pretending everything was normal, while the memory of their bodies pressed together hung between them like a third person at the table.
The thought sent shivers down her spine and caused nervous fluttering between her thighs. She forced herself to breathe through it.
The only experience she could compare it to was the night with Jonah. But she didn't want to compare the two. They weren't comparable. They existed in completely different universes. Noah never made her feel the way Jonah had. She might be afraid of the future, uncertain about what came next, terrified of the consequences. But she wasn't afraid of Noah.
Though if she was being honest with herself, and at this point, alone in her room at night, she might as well be. Even though what had happened with Jonah still lived in her bones. She could access only scattered pieces of that night, like memories viewed through a frosted window.
Accepting multiple drinks from him after initially refusing. The way his hand had lingered on hers as he passed her the third one, his eyes holding hers a beat too long. His laugh when she'd mentioned feeling dizzy. The strange unreality of standing up and finding the room tilting sideways. The feeling of her jean shorts being pulled off by rough hands, impatient hands that didn't bother with gentleness. The image of his intense dark eyes locking onto hers from between her thighs. Pain, sharp and burning, the kind that made her wonder if this was what sex was supposed to feel like, or if she was just being dramatic. And then cold. The cold of his sheets as she lay in his bed afterwards, holding herself in a tight ball, arms wrapped around her knees, listening to his peaceful snores beside her like he hadn't just…
She forcefully shook the memories away, as the house creaked again, and she heard footsteps in the hallway. Noah's door opened, then closed. She heard the sound of water running. He was getting ready for bed, following the same routine he always did.
Shower, probably some reading, then sleep.
In the morning, they'd have to face each other again. They'd have to figure out how to be family when they'd already crossed lines that families weren't supposed to cross.
Rose pulled a pillow over her face and tried to muffle the sound of her own frustrated sigh. Outside her window, the neighborhood was settling into full darkness, porch lights glowing like beacons of normalcy. Inside the house, the weight of unexamined desires pressed down on her like a physical thing.
She thought about Emma's texts from earlier in the week, the ones that had made her blush and protest. "Dios mío, Emma, he's my stepbrother!" she'd typed back. But Emma had just sent a string of eye-roll emojis and reminded her that they weren't actually related, that there was nothing technically wrong with the way she felt.
Technically. As if feelings followed technical rules.
Eventually, Rose allowed herself to admit the truth she'd been running from all day: she was in love with Noah, and she had no idea what to do about it. The realization loosened a weight in her chest. She could breathe again, even as her heart raced.
In the distance, she heard the shower turn off, heard Noah's familiar nighttime routine continuing. And despite everything, the confusion, the guilt, the impossible complications, she found herself listening for every sound, holding onto these small domestic intimacies like lifelines.
The new week would bring its own challenges. But tonight, she was home, and Noah was down the hall, and maybe that was enough… For now.