Chapter 1
The house didn’t quite feel like home yet.
Boxes still lined the upstairs hallway, and I had half a mind to label them again — colour-code, maybe — anything to tame the chaos. Mum said I was lucky: a bigger room, freshly painted walls, a window that looked out onto the garden. “A new start, Isla,” she’d whispered when we moved in last week, her hand squeezing mine.
I wanted to believe her.
Downstairs, I could hear voices: Mum’s laughter, Ben’s steadier tone. He was kind — awkward sometimes, but kind. The sort of man who asked if I needed more shelf space, then actually built it himself. He wanted us to work as a family. I wanted that too, though part of me still felt like a guest wearing polite smiles.
From my open window came another sound: the echo of a football against shoe leather, shouts of encouragement, laughter spilling into the evening. I stepped closer and leaned out, brushing black hair from my face.
There he was — Caleb.
Ben’s son. My stepbrother.
He moved across the lawn with effortless certainty, dark hair damp with sweat, sleeves rolled high as if the game belonged to him. Which it did. His teammates orbited around him like planets. He barked directions, cracked a grin, laughed too loud. He was the kind of boy people turned toward automatically.
And then his eyes flicked up. Just for a second. Straight to me.
The ball slipped past his feet. A shout rang out — one of his teammates jeering as Caleb cursed under his breath and went after it.
I pulled back instinctively, heart quickening. He hadn’t glared. He hadn’t smiled either. Just that one glance, sharp and startled, like my presence had thrown him off balance.
The game resumed. Faster, louder, but every few minutes, I caught his gaze dragging back to my window. Each time it did, something faltered — a pass too short, a kick too wide. His teammates laughed, slapped his shoulder, carried on.
And I? I closed the curtains halfway, telling myself it was to block the sun. But my pulse stayed high, and I couldn’t quite tear my thoughts away from him.
By the time Mum called me down for dinner, the game in the garden had ended. Caleb’s friends had left — their laughter fading down the street — and the house smelled of roast chicken and thyme.
I padded down the stairs, smoothing my blouse, reminding myself that this was normal life now. Mum in Ben’s kitchen. Ben at the head of the table. Caleb across from me.
Ben looked up as I entered. “Hey, Isla. Hope you’re hungry.”
He was different from my dad — softer around the eyes, steadier in his movements. He wasn’t trying to replace anyone. He just tried, period.
“Starving,” I said politely, sliding into my chair.
Mum beamed. “Good. It’s a proper family meal. No excuses, no phones.” She gave Caleb a pointed look as he slouched into his seat, hair still damp from a shower.
“I wasn’t going to,” he muttered, stabbing a potato.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He didn’t look like the boy on the lawn anymore. That version had been magnetic, confident, untouchable. Here, under the yellow kitchen light, he looked…older. Quieter. Guarded, almost.
“So,” Ben said cheerfully, “first week nearly done. Isla, how’s school treating you?”
I swallowed a mouthful of chicken. “It’s fine. Teachers seem good. The classes are…challenging.” Which was how I liked them.
Mum gave a proud little nod. “Isla’s top of her year, you know.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Mum—”
But Caleb glanced up then, fork pausing halfway. Something flickered across his face — not admiration, not mockery, just…awareness. And then it was gone, hidden behind another mouthful of potato.
“Caleb had training tonight,” Ben said, oblivious to the silence. “Big game this weekend.”
Mum turned to me. “We should go, Isla. Show some support.”
Across the table, Caleb’s hand tightened on his fork. For a split second, our eyes met. His jaw flexed, like he wanted to argue, but instead he just muttered, “It’s nothing. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
The conversation drifted on — Mum talking about work, Ben about some repair project. I ate quietly, listening, watching.
Because for all the warmth in the room, one thing was clear: Caleb didn’t want me in his world. And I couldn’t decide if that stung more than it should have.
Later, in the quiet of my room, I sat cross-legged on the bed with my journal open. The house had gone still, the kind of stillness that made you hear the pipes settling and the clock ticking in the hall.
I tapped my pen against the page, trying to list the positives like Mum always encouraged:
New room (bigger).
Ben (nice).
Mum (happy).
School (fine so far).
My handwriting slanted by the last word. None of it looked convincing.
I let the pen hover, then added another line before I could stop myself:
Caleb (complicated).
The word looked out of place on the list, like I’d slipped something private into an essay. I stared at it, then closed the journal quickly, as if the walls might read over my shoulder.
From my window, the garden lay dark and quiet, but I could still see the ghost of him there: sleeves rolled, hair damp, gaze dragging upward until it landed on me. That flicker of distraction, the tiny crack in his perfect game.
He didn’t want me watching. I could tell. And I hated how much it mattered, even if it shouldn’t.
