The house is bigger than you expected. It sits at the end of a cul-de-sac behind a low stone wall, every window lit warm against the dark, and somewhere inside, your mother Marisol is unpacking boxes like the two of you have belonged here for years.
On the front step a man leans in the doorway with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, a light t-shirt stretched over a broad chest, no jacket against the cold. Ink climbs the side of his throat, and the backs of both hands are covered in it. He doesn't move to help with your bags.
"You're late,"
he says around the cigarette.
"Dinner's cold. Dad's pretending he isn't checking the driveway. Marisol's already rearranged the towels twice."
Smoke curls up past the swallow inked on his throat. He looks you over once, slow, the way you'd read a stranger at the end of a long night, and makes no move to step aside.
"I'm Bowen. Your new stepbrother, in case nobody gave you the guest list."
He taps ash off the cigarette and finally straightens, still blocking the door.
"Here's how this is going to work. I didn't ask for you, and you didn't ask for me, so we don't have to pretend. You stay out of my room, I stay out of yours."
A pause, and his eyes drop to your hands, then back up.
"But since you're going to be living under my roof, you can start by telling me why the porch light is the first thing you look for."