In Love With Him

Kennedy’s POV I fluffed the last pillow and stepped back, smoothing my hands over the comforter for what had to be the fifth time. The spare room looked perfect now — the blankets tucked in crisp at the corners, the soft gray throw I’d folded at the end of the bed sitting like it was ready for a catalog photo. The nightstand was wiped clean, the small lamp plugged in, even the blinds adjusted to let just the right amount of soft, late-afternoon light in. I stood there for a long second, arms crossed, just staring at it. If I was being honest, I wasn’t doing this for Dominic. I was doing it for myself. Because once he moved in, the chaos would start — and I needed to cling to this moment of order before it disappeared. I still couldn't believe my dad had waited until this morning to mention it. “By the way, Dominic will be staying with us too. He’ll be doing his college courses from home now,” he’d said casually, like he was announcing what we were having for dinner. I had blinked at him over my cereal spoon. “Who?” And just like that, my entire third-floor sanctuary was no longer mine. It wasn’t that I had a problem with Helen — not really. I’d met her a handful of times. She was nice. Polite. Busy, just like my dad. They made sense, I guess, both married to their jobs. She was a detective, which I had to admit was kind of cool. After her ex-husband went to jail — my dad said it was for something serious, but wouldn’t get into details — she’d apparently decided to dive into criminal justice and never looked back. I didn’t know much, but I knew enough. I knew her ex was abusive. I knew Helen worked long hours. I knew she had two sons. And I knew I’d only ever met one of them — Kyle, the older one, the military guy. He came by once for Christmas when he was home from Iran. He’d shaken my hand and called me “kid” even though I was seventeen at the time. Nice enough, I guess. Polite in that kind of distant soldier way. But I’d never met Dominic. Never seen a photo. Never even heard his voice. And now I was supposed to share my floor — my bathroom — with him? I exhaled sharply, staring down at the clean white bathmat in front of the sink. All I could think about was someone using my shampoo. Someone dripping toothpaste all over the mirror. Leaving little black hair clippings in the sink. Someone stealing my razor, forgetting to put the cap back on the toothpaste, moving my things around. I hated clutter. I hated messes. And I hated strangers in my space. The layout of the third floor wasn’t exactly built for privacy. My room was at the far end of the hallway, and the spare bedroom was at the opposite end. The bathroom sat right in the middle, connected to both rooms with doors on either side — like a weird shared Jack-and-Jill setup no one asked for. Up until now, it hadn’t mattered. The spare room was storage. Empty. Safe. Now? Now it was his. I gritted my teeth and yanked the folded towels down straighter on the bathroom rack before turning out the light and heading down the stairs. Max was exactly where I expected to find him — planted on the living room couch like a potato with legs, controller in hand, eyes locked on the TV screen. “What are you watching?” I asked suspiciously, squinting at the screen. “Nothing,” he said quickly, adjusting his body like he was trying to block my view. I narrowed my eyes and leaned in. It wasn’t “nothing.” “Oh my God—Max,” I snapped, grabbing the remote out of his hand and hitting the power button. “You can’t watch this stuff!” “It’s not that bad!” he whined, reaching for the remote. “There were literal boobs, Max.” “So? They were cartoon boobs!” “Not the point!” He groaned like I’d just ended his entire life. “You’re such a buzzkill.” “Thank me later when you’re not grounded for a month.” “You’re not Mom.” That one stung. It always did. I tried not to let it show as I tossed the remote onto the coffee table and sat down beside him. “I’m not trying to be Mom,” I said evenly. “But someone has to act like one around here.” He didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms and pouted like only a thirteen-year-old boy could. I looked over at him — really looked. He was getting older. He wasn’t the baby I used to carry on my hip anymore. His voice was changing, his hair was messier, and he was starting to test the waters of rebellion more often than I liked. And honestly? I couldn’t blame him. He didn’t remember Mom. Not really. He was only two when she died. Everything he knew about her came from pictures, from secondhand stories. But me? I remembered all of it. The good… and the bad. Mostly the bad, lately. I remembered the way her eyes dulled. The way her bones showed under her skin. The way her laugh disappeared completely by the end. I remembered sitting beside her bed holding her cold, fragile hand, trying not to cry so Dad wouldn’t see. After she died, Dad had collapsed into himself. And I had to step up. Someone had to feed Max. Bathe him. Get him to daycare. Someone had to be strong. And I was. Even when I didn’t want to be. “You two better get it together,” Dad’s voice called from the hallway. “Helen and Dominic will be here soon.” I sighed and leaned back on the couch, rubbing my temples. “If you could just act like a normal family for once, I’d really appreciate it,” he added, his footsteps disappearing toward the kitchen. Max made a face and stuck his tongue out at me. I punched him in the leg without looking. “Grow up.” He yelped. “You’re abusive.” “Tell Dad I’ll hit you harder.” “Hit me and I’ll key your car.” “You don’t have a key.” “I’ll make one.” I turned to glare at him, and he just smiled. Little brat. I stood up and brushed off my jeans. The house suddenly felt too hot. Too full. The clock on the wall ticked loudly — a reminder that the chaos was about to walk through the front door any minute. Dominic Marsh. The stranger who was about to take over my bathroom, invade my space, and throw my perfectly quiet world into a tailspin. Whatever. He was probably some lazy dropout, anyway. Cocky and entitled. Too good to follow rules. I’d seen the type before — guys who thought they owned every room they walked into just because they had muscles and a smirk. This was my house. My floor. My bathroom. And he’d better remember that. Because if Dominic Marsh thought he was going to come in here and act like he owned the place… He had no idea who he was messing with. --- Dominic’s POV I stared blankly out the passenger side window of my mom’s SUV, the world blurring by in sun-scorched streaks of green and beige. Palm trees. Fences. Rows of identical mailboxes. The same damn Florida humidity that clung to your skin like wet cotton. I couldn't believe I was doing this. Moving back in. Not just with my mom—but with her new boyfriend and his two kids. Fucking hell. This wasn’t what I’d imagined for myself at twenty-three. I should’ve been halfway through my senior year at college, on the beach with some blonde sorority chick riding shotgun in my Camaro, not stuck in a crossover with fading AC and my mom telling me how “nice” everything was going to be. “It won’t be that bad,” she said, hands on the wheel, voice cheery like she was trying to convince herself too. “Paul’s a good man. Very successful. Big-time lawyer. He’s been nothing but respectful.” I said nothing. “His son’s thirteen. Name’s Max. Total goofball. You’ll like him. And his daughter—Kennedy—she just turned eighteen. She’s very sweet. Keeps to herself. Smart. Quiet. Doesn’t party.” Still, I didn’t say a word. Mom sighed. “You could at least pretend to be open-minded, Dominic.” I turned my head slightly, lifting a brow. “You said the third floor’s mine, right?” She nodded. “Well… mostly. You’ll be sharing it with Kennedy. The bedrooms are on opposite ends, but the bathroom’s in between.” “Shared?” I asked, my voice flat. “It’s got a lock on both sides.” I scoffed and leaned my head against the window. So much for privacy. “She’s respectful,” Mom added. “Not like some of those girls you were always hanging out with back in California. Kennedy’s had a rough time. Lost her mom when she was little. Cancer or something. I forget.” I didn’t respond. I wasn’t trying to be an asshole—it just didn’t matter to me. I didn’t want some new sister. I wasn’t here to make friends. I just wanted to work out, do my classes, sleep, and get the hell out as soon as I could. This was a holding pattern, not a home. “Just… be nice, okay?” she added after a few moments. “She’s the one who’s held her family together since her mom passed. Practically raised her little brother. Poor thing.” That actually made me glance over. Eighteen and raising her own brother? That’s either a good lie or a s**t childhood. But again, I didn’t say anything. My eyes drifted to the rearview mirror where my gym duffel was crammed full of clothes, protein powder, and enough frustration to level a building. I still wasn’t over what happened in California. The way they spun it—grade dispute. That was a joke. The truth? I’d beaten the s**t out of a professor for putting his hands on a girl who didn’t ask for it. And the university covered it up like they always do, because god forbid they lose funding or get sued. They told me to disappear, take classes online, and if I said a word, they’d twist the narrative that I was the predator. So yeah. Now I’m here. With my mom. With her boyfriend. And some girl named Kennedy who probably hated the idea of me as much as I hated the idea of her. I shifted in my seat and ran a hand through my hair. At least Mom said there was an MMA gym nearby. That was something. I needed a place to hit something. Hard. Florida was a lot like California, just sweatier. Sunny, humid, and full of fake people with perfect bodies and fake tans. I wasn’t complaining—sexy girls were sexy girls—but I didn’t plan on getting attached to anyone here. No point. They’d all start looking the same after a while. Still… I wondered what Kennedy looked like. Quiet girls always had something going on underneath. Something dark. Something interesting. I smirked to myself and turned back toward the window. When we pulled into the driveway, I saw it—three stories tall, with white siding, a wraparound porch, and trimmed hedges that looked like someone gave a damn. Typical upper-middle-class suburbia. Mom parked beside a silver SUV and cut the engine. “Be nice,” she said again, like a warning this time. I didn’t answer. I grabbed my bag, popped the door open, and stepped out into the sticky heat. The front door opened before we even made it halfway up the steps. A man I assumed was Paul stood there, tall, tan, in a button-down shirt with his sleeves rolled to the elbows. Lawyer energy, clean and put-together. The kind of guy who looked at you like he was already calculating your flaws. “Dominic,” he said, stepping forward with a polite smile and extending his hand. “Glad to finally meet you.” “Yeah,” I said, shaking his hand. Firm grip. Too firm. Trying to size me up. I gave it back harder. Helen followed us inside while Paul launched into a tour, showing off the living room, the kitchen, the back deck. I tuned out most of it. What I was waiting for—half-dreading, half-curious—was the girl. Kennedy. The ghost of the house. I caught movement from the corner of my eye as we rounded the living room and stepped into the hallway. A girl was standing at the base of the stairs, arms crossed, one hip popped slightly like she was trying not to look annoyed. Black hair. Long, messy curls. Porcelain skin, like she avoided the sun on purpose. Eyes so vivid they practically glowed — this icy bluish-gray that didn’t match her expression. And her lips… full, natural, pink, like she bit them a lot out of habit. She was pretty. No—stunning. But not my type. She wore dark jeans and an oversized T-shirt, no makeup except maybe eyeliner, and that emo-nerd energy radiated off her in waves. She wasn’t smiling. In fact, she looked like she already hated me. Cool. “This is my daughter, Kennedy,” Paul said, clearly proud. “Kennedy, this is Helen’s son—Dominic.” She nodded stiffly. “Hi.” That’s it. Not even a smile. “Hey,” I said casually, smirking. “So… you’re the one I get to share a bathroom with.” Her face didn’t even twitch. “Lucky me.” Paul and Helen laughed like it was a joke. I could tell it wasn’t. I looked her up and down—subtle, not obvious—but she caught it. Her eyes narrowed. This girl wasn’t going to be easy. Which made it more fun.