Here she was.
Kara never thought a day would come where she'd willingly step foot into someone else's house. Much less a boy's house. Much less the boy who had launched a football into her face barely twelve hours ago.
She stood frozen at the end of a pristine stone walkway, the cold seeping through the thin soles of her boots. The so-called house—if it even deserved that word—rose before her like something torn from a magazine or a dream she was never meant to have.
A palace.
At least, that's what it looked like through Kara's eyes after years of cramped living—after peeling paint, buzzing radiators, and a hallway so narrow you had to turn sideways to pass someone. This place looked like it breathed money.
The structure was sleek and modern, sharp lines softened by warm wood paneling and tall glass windows that reflected the gray winter sky. Perfectly trimmed hedges somehow still intact and lush lined the path, not a leaf out of place, as if nature itself had been trained to behave here. Everything looked intentional. Controlled.
Untouchable.
Kara tightened her grip on the strap of her bag as she approached the large, carved wooden door. It was dark mahogany, polished to a shine, with metal detailing so intricate it felt wrong to even touch.
Her nails—short, uneven from years of biting—hovered over the smooth, glowing doorbell.
You can still leave, her mind whispered.
She pressed it anyway.
The chime echoed softly inside, rich and melodic, like the sound belonged to the house rather than a machine.
Almost instantly, footsteps followed.
Kara froze.
Her shoulders locked, breath catching painfully in her chest as she heard the click of the lock. Her eyes widened slightly, black lashes fluttering as a sharp winter breeze cut across her face. She was freezing—half numb from the cold, half from nerves. Her face burned red, the color blending so completely with the swelling around her nose that it was hard to tell where embarrassment ended and injury began.
Her black, wavy hair whipped around her face wildly, untamed, like a stray cat fighting invisible hands.
The door opened.
But it wasn't Adam.
Standing in the doorway was an older man, tall and impeccably dressed in a black tailored suit. His posture was straight, elegant, like he'd never slouched a day in his life. A practiced smile rested on his face—so polished it almost looked sewn on.
His eyes flicked over Kara calmly, assessing but not judging.
"You must be Sir Adam's project partner," he said smoothly.
Sir Adam?
Kara nearly laughed out loud.
Instead, the laugh stayed trapped in her head, cracking into a crooked, bitter smile that barely touched her lips. She probably looked ridiculous—like someone trying to remember how smiling worked after forgetting what joy felt like.
I can't believe people actually need a butler, she thought darkly. What the hell is the world coming to?
The man stepped aside silently, gesturing for her to enter.
Kara hesitated for half a second before stepping inside, her expression flattening into something neutral while her body stayed tense—on guard, like she was expecting something to jump out at her.
She didn't even hear the door close.
Her attention was stolen immediately by the foyer.
Her mouth parted slightly as she stared.
The ceiling stretched impossibly high, crowned by a modern chandelier that looked more like floating glass than light. Marble floors gleamed beneath her feet, reflecting the warm glow of recessed lighting. A staircase curved upward gracefully, its railing smooth and dark, leading to a second floor that felt miles away.
The air smelled clean. Not chemical clean—just… expensive. Like wood polish and something faintly citrus.
She suddenly jumped, jerking violently to the side when she felt a presence behind her.
"Oh—!" Kara blurted, heart slamming. "Ah—s-sorry! I was just… startled."
She forced out a weak explanation, eyes wide.
The man stood beside her again, still wearing that same calm smile. He tilted his head slightly.
"My apologies for frightening you, Miss…?"
"Uh—K-Kara," she answered quickly, stepping closer to him again as if proximity somehow made her safer.
"Kara," he repeated thoughtfully. "A lovely name. You may call me Alfred. I am the head butler of this household."
Of course you are, Kara thought.
"Sir Adam has not yet returned from his football game," Alfred continued. "If you wish, I could give you a tour while you wait."
Kara blinked.
"Y—yes," she stammered before she could stop herself.
Alfred studied her for a brief moment.
"Before that, please remove your shoes. You've tracked in snow."
Her face flushed instantly.
"Oh—! I'm sorry," she muttered, looking down and quickly slipping her boots off, lining them up neatly by the door like she suddenly belonged here.
Alfred gestured for her to follow.
They walked through the house slowly, each room somehow more impressive than the last. A living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. A kitchen that looked untouched, stainless steel gleaming. A study lined with books Kara doubted anyone actually read.
It all felt unreal.
Finally, they stopped outside a bedroom.
"This is Sir Adam's room," Alfred said, opening the door. "Please make yourself comfortable."
And then he was gone.
Kara stepped inside cautiously.
The room was spacious—too spacious. Clean, but lived in. Posters lined one wall: football teams, athletes, trophies displayed on floating shelves. A desk sat near the window, already set up for studying. His bed was neatly made, not hospital-tight but clearly cared for.
She wandered slowly, fingers brushing the edge of furniture she knew she'd never own.
Then she noticed the picture frame.
She stopped.
It showed a family—smiling, close, effortless. Adam stood between two adults, laughing, an arm slung around each of them. They looked real. Happy. Put together.
Not like her.
Not like the dusty photo frame back home—her father's drunken grin frozen forever before prison bars, her mother's smile stiff and hollow like it had been practiced in a mirror.
Before the thought could sink deeper—
"Find anything worth stealing?"
Kara jumped.
She spun around to find Adam leaning against the doorway, hair damp with sweat, football gear slung over one shoulder. His jersey clung to him, grass stains smeared along one sleeve. He wore a smirk—lazy, teasing.
"No," Kara said flatly. "Let's just do the project."
Adam chuckled, stepping inside.
"Whatever the pretty lady wants," he replied, voice light, eyes amused.
And just like that, the room felt smaller.
Charged.