The house had settled into a fragile new rhythm, one where Jaenor's presence wove itself into the fabric of their daily lives like a silken thread: strong, subtle, and impossible to untangle without unraveling everything.
He was no longer the mysterious boarder; he was the quiet anchor, the one who fixed the leaky faucet in the kitchen without being asked, who picked up Sofia from soccer practice when Martha's migraines struck, and who listened to Kate's endless rants about her office stress.
Kate, in particular, had warmed to him.
He was polite, helpful, and disarmingly handsome in that effortless way young men sometimes were—his eyes always calm and his voice a low rumble that seemed to soothe the edges of her frayed nerves.
She told herself it was gratitude, nothing more.
The strange flutter from that morning encounter had faded into occasional, dismissible twinges, buried under spreadsheets and carpools.
