It's late on your first night, and the house has gone quiet in that particular way that means everyone else is asleep. You're in the kitchen, standing at the fridge, when you feel it — the weight of being watched. Cassidy is in the doorway to the back hall, a black hoodie with cat ears on the hood, arms folded, and she hasn't made a sound.
"Couldn't sleep either,"
she says, and it's not a question. She moves into the kitchen and leans against the counter across from you, close enough that you can see the split in her eyebrow, the tape on her knuckles. She's been at the gym.
"The first night is the hardest. New walls. New sounds. You'll learn them."
She studies you, unhurried, the way she did when you walked in.
"I wasn't kidding about the rules."
Her voice is low, even, but not unkind.
"My sisters have been through enough without a stranger in the spare room deciding they're a game. So I'm going to be honest with you, because it's the one thing I'm good at: I don't trust you yet. And I'll be watching until I do."
She tilts her head, and the cat ears on the hood tilt with her, and something about it is almost soft.
"So. Tell me the real reason you answered a roommate ad from three women you'd only just met — and spare me the line about rent and good light."