Chapter 2
1653 Words
The night was too quiet.
Ava lay in the enormous bed that didn’t feel like hers, staring up at the high ceiling as if it would answer the questions crowding her mind. The sheets were soft, the pillows plush, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place—like she’d wandered onto the wrong set in someone else’s movie.
Her mom was just down the hall, probably already asleep. But Ava couldn’t seem to settle. Not with Rylan’s voice still echoing in her head.
“I didn’t ask for this either.”
What did he mean by that?
She turned over for the fifth time, pressing her face into the pillow with a frustrated sigh. Maybe this was what wealth felt like—pretty surroundings with invisible walls no one talked about. Not that she’d had much time to figure it out. Everything still felt fresh-painted and untouched, like she was the one thing that didn’t belong in this perfect mansion.
A faint sound drifted through the silence.
Music.
Soft and distant. Not the kind you blast on speakers—no, it sounded like something being played privately. A slow, moody guitar rhythm, barely audible. It was coming from downstairs.
Curiosity tugged at her. She sat up, listening harder. A shadow shifted past her window—just a glimpse, like someone moving near the backyard.
Rylan?
She crept toward the curtain and peeked through. There he was, outside on the edge of the patio, standing by the pool with his back to her. One arm rested lazily on the railing, his other hand holding something—maybe a cigarette, maybe just his phone. His head was bowed slightly, the glow from the pool casting pale blue shadows on his bare arms.
He looked... different.
Not angry. Not guarded. Just alone.
Ava’s hand hovered over the doorknob for a second, then dropped. No. She didn’t want to interrupt him. She didn’t even know what she’d say. She didn’t understand him—not his coldness, not his stares, not whatever storm was brewing beneath that cool, unreadable face.
She turned away from the window and crawled back into bed.
“I’ll never understand him,” she murmured to herself, pulling the blanket higher. But a quiet voice in her mind whispered something else.
You want to.
The sunlight hit too early.
Ava stumbled into the kitchen, hair a mess, oversized hoodie drowning her frame. She wasn’t a morning person, never had been—but this new house had a way of waking you up whether you wanted it or not. Too many windows. Too much light. Too much space to feel small in.
She reached for the fridge, yawning, when a voice caught her off guard.
“You’re up early.”
She turned too fast, the orange juice in her hand nearly slipping.
Rylan stood by the counter, coffee mug in hand, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants and a loose gray shirt that clung to his shoulders like it was made for him. His hair was damp, like he’d just showered. He didn’t look at her—just sipped his drink like she wasn’t suddenly hyper-aware of the silence between them.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” she said, more to fill the air than anything else.
“It’s the kitchen,” he replied dryly. “Didn’t think it needed a reservation.”
Ava bristled, but bit her tongue. She opened the fridge again, hiding her eye-roll behind the door. Breathe. Don’t fight this early.
She grabbed a yogurt, turned around, and leaned against the counter opposite him. Rylan still hadn’t looked at her.
“I didn’t realize this place was so... quiet,” she said, testing the waters.
He shrugged. “It usually is. Until now.”
There it was—that edge in his voice. Not sharp enough to cut, but it scratched under the surface.
“I didn’t ask to move in either,” she said softly, meeting his eyes now.
He paused mid-sip. That seemed to catch him off guard.
For a second, something shifted behind his expression. Less ice, more... confusion?
But then he smirked. “Guess we’re both stuck, then.”
She set her yogurt on the counter. “You don’t have to act like I ruined your life.”
His brows lifted slightly. “I don’t recall saying that.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “It’s in your face.”
Another pause. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t fire back. Instead, he pushed off the counter, rinsed his mug, and turned to leave.
Just before he stepped out, his voice drifted back.
“You’re not what I expected either.”
And then he was gone.
Ava stood there, heart ticking too fast for something so small. But it hadn’t felt small. It felt like something had cracked open—just a little.
Chapter Two: Lines We Don’t Cross
Part 3
Rylan
She wasn’t what he expected.
Rylan leaned against the back patio door, arms folded, watching the morning stretch across the garden like it didn’t care who was breaking apart inside. He hadn’t meant to speak to her—not really. But the girl had a way of forcing words out of him, even when he was trying to stay silent.
He hated that.
He hated how unbothered she looked in his kitchen, in his house, sipping yogurt like she hadn’t cracked something open just by existing.
Ava.
She didn’t look like trouble. But she felt like it. Too soft to be safe. Too new to understand the mess she’d been dropped into. And that comeback? The one in the kitchen?
“You don’t have to. It’s in your face.”
Yeah. That stung. Because it was true.
He didn’t hate her. He just didn’t want her there. Not in this house, not in his head, and definitely not in his mornings.
He dragged a hand through his hair and muttered under his breath, “Keep your distance, Rylan. Just keep your distance.”
---
Later that morning
Ava sat at the dining table with her mom, trying to keep the mood light. She poked at her eggs, barely listening until her mom spoke the dreaded words.
“By the way,” her mom said, smiling, “I talked to Harold. He wants Rylan to show you around Brentford on Monday. Orientation and all.”
Ava almost choked.
“What?”
Her mom sipped her tea. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? You don’t know anyone yet, and he’s been going there for a while. It’s only right.”
Across the room, Rylan, who had just walked in, paused like someone had thrown cold water on him.
“I’m not a tour guide,” he muttered.
“And I’m not a freshman who needs a babysitter,” Ava shot back, too fast.
Silence.
Their mom blinked between them, surprised by the matching venom.
“Well then,” she said, clearing her throat, “maybe you two should at least try to be civil. It’s just one day.”
“I’ll figure it out on my own,” Ava added, standing. “It’s not like I haven’t before.”
Rylan said nothing.
But as Ava left the room, she could feel his eyes on her back. Not mocking. Not angry.
Something else.
And for the first time since moving in, she wanted to know what it was.
The mansion always felt colder at night.
Ava wandered the upstairs hallway after dinner, unable to focus, unable to sleep. Everything about the house felt too quiet, like it was waiting for something to happen. Like it could hear her thoughts.
She made her way toward the balcony at the far end of the hall, drawn by instinct more than anything. The glass doors were already cracked open, a breeze sneaking through.
That’s when she saw him.
Rylan sat on the railing, half in shadow, half in moonlight. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, the cherry tip glowing faintly in the dark. His head was tilted back, eyes closed. He looked… tired. Not in a physical way—but in that way people look when they’ve been carrying something for too long.
He didn’t flinch when she stepped closer.
“Didn’t know this place had a view,” she said softly.
“It doesn’t,” he replied. “Not unless you’re looking for something.”
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And what are you looking for?”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then—
“Peace,” he said. “But it’s not here.”
Ava swallowed. The way he said it—low and hollow—it wasn’t for attention. It was just honest.
“Is it that bad?” she asked.
Rylan finally looked at her, his eyes darker than usual.
“You don’t know what this place does to people,” he murmured. “You’re still too new.”
A beat passed. She didn’t know what to say to that. But maybe she didn’t have to.
He stood slowly, brushing ash off his jeans, and started toward the door. As he passed her, his voice dropped to a whisper.
“Don’t get too comfortable. People like us… we don’t stay lucky for long.”
And then he was gone, swallowed by the hallway.
Ava stood there, heart pacing.
People like us?
She stepped out onto the balcony, needing air. That’s when she noticed something near the railing—a small sketchbook, forgotten. She picked it up, fingers brushing the leather cover.
She opened it.
Inside were pages filled with drawings. Ink, charcoal, pencil. Mostly faces. One of them was hers—unfinished, rough, but unmistakably her.
Her breath caught.
There was more to him. More than anger. More than walls.
And suddenly, she wasn’t so sure keeping her distance was going to be that easy.
- Writer
