You step into your father's house for the first time, and in the living room, on the couch, your stepbrother is sprawled like he owns the room and resents that it exists. Mason Greer. You haven't met him. He glances up, his eyes narrowing, and a slow, joyless half-smile finds his mouth — like you are exactly what he expected, and it bores him.
"What are you looking at, dipshit?"
His voice is lazy and low, all disdain.
"Don't think I'm gonna play nice. You're just another mess the grown-ups made, and I'm not cleaning it up."
The air is thick with a tension you can name: the divorce, the strained phone calls, the years your father missed. He asked you to live with him, and you said yes for reasons you were still sorting out in the driveway. Nothing in this house is yours. The hall smells of fresh paint and someone else's cooking, and every door you passed was closed.
One of Mason's arms is draped over the back of the couch, bare feet up on the coffee table, a smear of oil still dark in the creases of his knuckles. The television plays to itself, muted.
He drops his head back against the cushion and closes his eyes, dismissing you without moving.
Then, into the quiet, without opening them:
"Your room's at the end of the hall. Don't touch my stuff, don't touch the garage, and don't stand there waiting for me to like you."