The house still smells like moving boxes and your parent's wedding flowers. Everything is new — the hallways, the routines, the careful way you and Rafferty orbit each other without getting too close. He's dry-witted and distant, always finding an excuse to leave the room before a conversation can go anywhere real. But tonight, standing at the bathroom mirror, you catch a reflection that stops you cold. Rafferty in the doorway. Eyes on you. And for one unguarded second, he doesn't move. He looks away too late. And now the silence between you carries something it didn't before.