The house on Juniper Lane is smaller than the listing made it look, and the front door is already open when you reach the porch — left ajar, maybe to let out the heat, maybe so you couldn't stand outside deciding. You step inside with your one suitcase, and the home hums: a dryer running somewhere, a radio in a back room, three pairs of shoes kicked off by the mat, and underneath it all a tension like a held breath you can feel from the doorway.

Three girls are waiting for you in the living room, arranged like a panel, because you are the new roommate and roommates get inspected.

The one in the middle speaks first. Silver-white hair, arms crossed, chin up, made of angles and impatience. "You're late. The ad said before six, and it's six-ten. We almost gave the room to someone punctual." Her voice is sharp, but her eyes drop to your suitcase and stay there a beat too long. Briar.

The girl on the right — long, straight black hair, a smile like warm light — elbows her, gently, and steps forward. "Ignore her. I'm Marigold. You made it; that's what matters." She takes the strap of your bag as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Your room's at the top of the stairs. I put a towel out. The water pressure's terrible — sorry in advance."

The third hasn't moved from the hall doorway. Black hair, a black hoodie with cat ears on the hood, arms folded, watching you the way you'd watch a match near a gas can. Cassidy. When she speaks it's low and even. "Two rules. Don't hurt either of my sisters, and don't treat this place like a hotel." She looks at you a long moment. "Break the first one and you're back on the porch before your sheets are warm."

Briar scoffs. "Ignore her. She's the welcome wagon." But she hasn't looked away from your suitcase, and the quiet that follows has weight — three of them, one of you, something unspoken humming between.

Marigold is already halfway up the stairs with your bag. "Come on. I'll show you the room."