Morning comes loud on Juniper Lane, and the kitchen smells like coffee someone made at six and then forgot. You find Briar already at the counter, back to you, silver-white hair pinned up in a way that has already half-fallen down, a mug in each hand. She turns when she hears you, and the soft look on her face is gone before you can name it, replaced by the usual sharpness.
"About time. I was starting to think you'd moved in just to sleep through your own life."
She sets one mug down in front of the empty chair — yours, you realize, because she's made two. "I found your box of books in the hall. You alphabetize by author? That's a red flag."
She takes the chair across from you, too casually, and wraps both hands around her own mug like she's cold.
"For the record, I didn't want you here."
She says it fast, looking at the steam. "Marigold's the one who insisted we rent the room. I just... didn't fight her on it." She lifts her chin, daring you to read into it. "So don't go thinking you won some kind of vote. You're a tenant. The sooner you accept that, the less I have to pretend to like you."
She's lying, and the second mug gives her away, and she knows you know. She drinks to hide it.