The house looked exactly the same.
Nora stood on the circular driveway, her single duffel bag slung over one shoulder, staring up at the Victorian mansion that had been her home for eight years. Same cream-colored facade. Same black shutters. Same perfectly manicured hedges that probably cost more to maintain than most people's rent.
Four years away, and nothing had changed.
Except her.
She'd left at eighteen—grateful, obedient, still half-broken from losing her parents. She'd come back at twenty-two with a degree in Fine Arts, paint permanently embedded under her fingernails, and absolutely no idea what happened next.
The front door swung open before she could knock.
"Nora!" Victor Kane filled the doorway, arms already open. Sixty years old and somehow ageless—silver hair, kind eyes, the smile that had kept her together when everything else fell apart. "Welcome home, sweetheart."
She dropped her bag and let him fold her into a hug that smelled like expensive cologne and the peppermints he always kept in his pocket. Home. The word sat strange in her chest.
"Hi, Victor." She pulled back, managed a smile. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic on the bridge was insane."
"You're here now. That's what matters." He grabbed her bag like it weighed nothing, ushered her inside. "I've had your room prepared. Same as you left it, though I took the liberty of updating a few things. The mattress was ancient."
The foyer swallowed her whole. Marble floors. That crystal chandelier she used to count the prisms on when she couldn't sleep. The sweeping staircase she'd slid down exactly once before Victor gently suggested young ladies didn't do such things.
She'd been fourteen. Drowning in grief and gratitude in equal measure.
Now she was twenty-two, drowning in something else entirely. Uncertainty, maybe. The terrifying freedom of having no plan, no direction, just a art degree and a growing suspicion that she'd been hiding at Berkeley instead of actually living.
"Dinner's at seven," Victor said, already halfway up the stairs with her bag. "We're having a guest, so dress nice. Nothing fancy, just—"
"Not paint-stained jeans. Got it." She grinned. Some things really didn't change.
"I've missed you, Nora." He paused on the landing, looked back at her with an expression that made her throat tight. "This house has been too quiet without you."
She waited until he disappeared down the hallway before letting her smile fade.
Too quiet. This house had always been too quiet. Too big for one man who'd never married, never had kids of his own, who'd taken in his dead best friend's daughter because that's what good men did.
Nora loved him. She did. But sometimes the gratitude felt like a weight she'd never quite learned how to carry.
Her room was exactly as she'd left it—if her room had been transported into a luxury hotel suite.
New mattress, Victor had said. He'd failed to mention the new bedding (Egyptian cotton, probably), the new curtains (silk, definitely), the fresh flowers on the nightstand, the updated lighting, the—
Nora dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Four years of dorm rooms and cramped studio apartments, and she was back in a bedroom bigger than most people's living spaces. Back to playing the role of Victor Kane's ward. The orphan girl made good. The art student who'd graduated with honors and absolutely no job prospects.
Her phone buzzed. Zara, her best friend from Berkeley.
You there yet? Is it weird?
Nora typed back: So weird. He redecorated my room.
Ofc he did. Rich people are allergic to leaving things alone.
I feel like I'm seventeen again.
You're not. You're 22, unemployed, and living rent-free in a Pacific Heights mansion. Own it.
Nora smiled despite herself. Zara had a gift for cutting through her spiral.
Dinner with mystery guest at 7. Apparently I need to dress nice.
Ooh. Plot twist: it's a hot single dad he's trying to set you up with.
Please god no.
Update me. I live for your rich people drama.
Nora tossed her phone aside and hauled herself upright. She had two hours. Shower. Make herself presentable. Pretend she had her life together.
Fake it till you make it, right?
By 6:55, she'd managed to look almost put-together.
Sundress (floral, acceptable), hair down (still damp, hopefully romantic instead of drowned), minimal makeup (because she'd never quite mastered the art of looking like she wasn't wearing any). She'd kept her mother's necklace on—thin gold chain, small pendant. The one thing she never took off.
Voices drifted from downstairs. Victor's warm laugh. Another voice, deeper, measured.
The guest had arrived.
Nora took the stairs slowly, one hand trailing the bannister. Through the archway, she could see into the dining room—candlelight already flickering, the table set with Victor's good china, two figures standing near the fireplace.
Victor turned as she entered. "There she is. Nora, I want you to meet—" He gestured to the man beside him. "Well, you've met before, though it's been years. Adrian Cross. My business partner and oldest friend."
The man turned.
And Nora forgot how to breathe.
She remembered Adrian Cross vaguely—a peripheral figure from before college, someone who appeared occasionally for business dinners, always serious, always leaving early. She remembered dark hair and expensive suits and a handshake that had been polite but distant.
She did not remember this.
He was tall. She'd forgotten that. Six-three at least, broad-shouldered in a charcoal suit that fit like it had been made for him specifically. Dark hair, cut precise, silver just starting at his temples. Sharp jawline covered in deliberate stubble. And his eyes—
Gray. Slate gray. The kind of eyes that saw too much and revealed nothing.
Those eyes were currently locked on her like she was a problem he couldn't solve.
"Nora." His voice matched the rest of him. Deep, controlled, with something rough underneath. He didn't offer his hand. Just stood there, looking at her with an expression she couldn't read. "It's been a while."
"Four years," she said, and was proud her voice came out steady. "I think the last time I saw you, I was eighteen."
"Graduation party." Something flickered across his face. "You wore a white dress."
He remembered what she'd worn.
Why did he remember what she'd worn?
"Shall we sit?" Victor, oblivious, gestured to the table. "I'm starving. Mrs. Chen's made her famous osso buco."
Nora moved toward the table on autopilot. Adrian pulled out her chair. She murmured thanks, hyperaware of his proximity—the heat of him, the faint scent of something cedar and clean, the way his hand briefly touched the back of her chair before he moved to sit across from her.
Across. Not beside.
Somehow that felt intentional.
Victor settled at the head of the table, already pouring wine. "Adrian's been working himself to death lately," he said, shooting his friend a look. "I've been trying to convince him to take a vacation. Maybe you can help, Nora. He doesn't listen to me anymore."
"I listen," Adrian said. "I just ignore you."
Victor laughed. Nora attempted a smile, reaching for her water glass because her hands needed something to do.
"So, Nora." Victor served her first, generous portions she definitely wouldn't finish. "Tell Adrian about your plans. The gallery position you mentioned."
Right. The gallery position.
The interview she'd had last week that had been politely noncommittal. The "we'll be in touch" that probably meant "don't call us." The reality that her degree meant precisely nothing in a market oversaturated with talented artists who actually had connections.
"I'm still figuring things out," she said carefully. "There are a few opportunities I'm looking into."
Translation: she had nothing.
Adrian's eyes hadn't left her face. She could feel his gaze like a physical thing, tracking every micro-expression.
"What kind of art do you do?" he asked.
"Abstract. Mostly painting. Some mixed media."
"She's brilliant," Victor interjected. "Graduated with honors. Professor Reyes said she was one of the most naturally gifted students he'd taught in twenty years."
"Victor—"
"It's true." He beamed at her with such genuine pride that Nora's chest ached. "I have three of her pieces hanging in my office."
Adrian tilted his head slightly. "I'd like to see your work sometime."
It wasn't a polite nothing. The way he said it—steady, direct—made it sound like an actual request.
"Sure," Nora managed. "I have some pieces in the sunroom. Victor's been letting me use it as a studio."
"Still letting you," Victor corrected. "This is your home, Nora. Everything in it is yours."
The weight again. The gratitude-obligation that sat heavy in her stomach.
She focused on her plate. The osso buco was perfect, as always. Mrs. Chen never missed.
Dinner progressed in fits and starts. Victor carried most of the conversation—business updates, questions about Nora's friends from school, stories about his latest charity gala. Adrian spoke when spoken to, answering in measured sentences that revealed nothing personal.
But his attention never wavered.
Every time Nora tucked hair behind her ear, she felt his gaze track the movement. When she laughed at one of Victor's terrible jokes, she saw Adrian's fingers tighten fractionally on his wine glass. When she reached for the bread basket, their hands nearly collided, and he pulled back like she'd burned him.
It was unnerving.
More unnerving: the way her body responded. The hyperawareness of him across the table. The flutter in her stomach every time his eyes met hers. The completely inappropriate thought that his hands looked strong, capable, like they could—
Stop.
He was Victor's best friend. Twelve years older than her. Clearly uninterested in anything beyond polite dinner conversation.
And she was being ridiculous.
"Nora?"
She blinked. Victor was looking at her expectantly.
"Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you wanted dessert. Mrs. Chen made tiramisu."
"Oh. No, thank you. I'm full." She pushed back from the table. "Actually, I think I'll go upstairs. It's been a long day."
"Of course." Victor stood, started to come around. "I'm so glad you're home, sweetheart. We'll talk more tomorrow about your plans. I might have some connections at a few galleries—"
"Victor, I don't want you to—"
"I want to help. Let me help."
The look in his eyes stopped her protest. This was how he showed love. Fixing things. Providing. Smoothing the path.
"Okay," she said softly. "Thank you."
She nodded to Adrian, who'd stood when she did. "Nice to see you again."
"You too." His voice was careful. Neutral. But his eyes said something else entirely.
She fled before she could figure out what.
Sleep was impossible.
Nora lay in her too-comfortable bed, staring at shadows on the ceiling, her mind replaying dinner on an endless loop. Adrian's voice. Adrian's hands. Adrian's eyes tracking her every movement like she was something dangerous he needed to keep monitored.
God, she was losing it.
At midnight, she gave up. Threw on a cardigan over her pajamas and padded barefoot through the dark house. The terrace had always been her favorite spot—wraparound balcony overlooking the city, cool night air, space to breathe.
She slid open the glass doors and stepped outside.
And froze.
Adrian stood at the railing, one hand wrapped around a cut-crystal glass of what looked like whiskey, staring at the San Francisco skyline like it held answers he couldn't find anywhere else.
He turned at the sound of the door.
For five heartbeats, neither of them moved. Neither breathed.
The city glittered below them. A car horn echoed somewhere distant. The wind carried the salt-scent of the Bay.
"You shouldn't be here," Adrian said finally. His voice was rough. Raw.
Nora's heart hammered against her ribs. "It's Victor's terrace. I've been coming out here since I was fourteen."
"That's not what I mean."
The air between them crackled. Alive. Electric.
"Then what do you mean?" she heard herself ask.
He took a long drink. Didn't answer.
She should go back inside. Should leave him to his whiskey and his cryptic warnings and his beautiful, damaged solitude.
Instead, she moved closer. Just two steps. Close enough to see the tension in his shoulders. The shadows under his eyes.
"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.
He laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "That's a complicated question."
"Most good questions are."
His eyes cut to her. "How old are you now, Nora?"
"Twenty-two. You know that."
"Twenty-two," he repeated. Like he was testing the weight of it. "Christ."
"What does my age have to do with anything?"
Everything, his expression said. He set his glass on the railing with deliberate care. "You should go back to bed."
"You said that already. Different words, same message."
"Then maybe you should listen."
"Maybe you should explain what you mean."
The words hung between them. A challenge. A question she didn't fully understand but somehow needed answered.
Adrian moved. One step closer. Then another. Until he was near enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, see the gray of his eyes turn almost silver in the moonlight.
"You want to know what I mean?" His voice dropped. Dangerous. "I mean you're Victor's daughter. I mean you're twelve years younger than me. I mean you walked into that dining room tonight wearing a sundress and a smile, and I forgot how to think straight."
Nora's breath caught.
"I mean," Adrian continued, never breaking eye contact, "that you're the one thing in this house I can't have, shouldn't want, and can't stop noticing. That's what I mean when I say you shouldn't be here."
The terrace tilted. The world narrowed to just him—his words, his proximity, the confession hanging in the air like something forbidden and true.
"Adrian—"
"Go to bed, Nora." He stepped back. Put distance between them like it physically hurt. "Please."
She should argue. Should demand more. Should do something other than stand there, trembling, while her entire world rearranged itself around this moment.
Instead, she turned.
Walked back inside.
And knew, bone-deep and certain, that nothing would ever be the same.