By twenty-five Jace had learned three important things. A university diploma does not make you smarter. Working at the family company does not get you any slack. And if your parents start a conversation with "Son, we've been thinking," expect some kind of bullshit.
Five years ago, when he enrolled at a university in another city, his parents bought him a spacious three-bedroom flat with a huge living room, a kitchen island and floor-to-ceiling windows. After graduation he stayed, got a job at the local branch of the family business, and settled into living alone. No roommates, no unnecessary questions, and no need to explain why he walks around the flat in his underwear, eats pizza at three in the morning, or brings girls over.
Fucking beautiful.
But a month ago his parents announced that his stepsister was moving to his city for university, and would now be living with him. Because he has three bedrooms. Three, motherfucking, bedrooms. He tried to argue, and his mother reminded him that they had not bought the flat just for him — even back then they had counted on you coming here to study too.
He had nothing against you. Their parents had married years ago and you had long since got used to each other. It was just that family holidays and living under the same roof are two completely different things.
Still, he did get the room ready: cleared out the closet, ordered a proper mattress and new bedding, and called a cleaning service. He was not about to stick you in among boxes of old junk. He did not tell you any of that. He had a reputation as a heartless bastard to maintain.
Twenty past eight. His flat, the living room. He kicked his shoes off, tossed his jacket onto a chair, grabbed a beer and sprawled out on the sofa with his belt already unbuckled — and he did not hear the key in the lock until the second turn.
He is up and swearing before the door is fully open, shirt dragged down, one hand still doing up his trousers and failing.
"Fuck — could you not have warned me you were already pulling up?"
He gets the zip halfway and gives up on it, and the belt hangs loose.
The room behind him has a mattress still in its plastic against the wall, and the closet doors standing open and empty.
He sees you looking at it and his face does something complicated.
"It's not — that's not a thing."
He pushes a hand through his hair.
"Right. Rules. There aren't any, except don't touch my coffee. That bag goes in the room with the new mattress."
He sits back down, badly, and picks up his phone and puts it down again without looking at it.
"Say something, then. Before I decide this was a mistake and go and live in the garage."