“Yeah. Fresh start. Let’s just live in peace while we’re here.”
“All right. While we’re here.” I crossed my arms. “And how long is a while?”
He hesitated—just long enough for me to notice.
“A few weeks. Maybe a couple months.”
“No.”
He blinked. “No?”
“You don’t get vague timelines in my house.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Natalie, we don’t have anywhere else right now. Vanessa’s stressed. The pregnancy—”
“I just found out about the pregnancy tonight.”
“Exactly. It’s a lot.”
I studied his face carefully. Trevor was charming when he wanted something. That was his real talent. He’d worked in sales before bouncing between marketing jobs. He knew how to soften his tone, how to tilt his head just enough to look sincere.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“A truce.” A small shrug. “No more fighting. No more threats. We’ll keep to ourselves. You keep to yourself.”
“And my rules,” I said quietly.
He gave a cautious smile. “What rules?”
“You ask before using anything. You don’t invite anyone over. You don’t touch my office. You clean up after yourselves. And you contribute financially.”
He shifted his weight. “We’re tight right now.”
“Then you’re motivated.”
He let out a breath through his nose. “You’ve always been intense, and you’ve always confused that with unfair.”
Silence stretched between us. From downstairs, I heard Vanessa open the refrigerator. A cabinet door slammed.
Trevor glanced back, then lowered his voice further. “She feels like you look down on her.”
“I don’t look down on her. I expect her to grow up.”
He gave a dry half laugh. “That’s the same thing in her mind.”
I didn’t smile.
He straightened. “Okay. Your rules. We’ll follow them. All of them.”
“All of them. And this is temporary,” I added. “Very temporary.”
He nodded. “Fine.”
I searched his face for defiance, for sarcasm. Instead, he extended his hand like we were closing a business deal.
“Truce.”
I looked at his hand for a long second, then I shook it. “Truce,” I said. “But understand something, Trevor.”
“Yeah?”
“If either of you crosses a line again, there won’t be another conversation.”
He held my gaze. “Understood.”
Vanessa’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Trevor, where’s the good wine opener?”
My jaw tightened. Trevor gave me a tight smile. “We’ll work on it.”
He walked away, and I closed my bedroom door slowly.
For a moment, the house went quiet again. Not peaceful—just suspended, like fog settling over the lake before a storm. We each claimed corners that night: Vanessa in the guest suite, Trevor on the couch temporarily, me in my bedroom with the door locked. Under one roof, pretending we weren’t at war.
But as I lay awake listening to their muffled voices downstairs, I understood something I hadn’t admitted yet.
A truce only works when both sides respect the battlefield.
And my sister had never respected mine.
Three days after the so-called truce, I was standing barefoot in my kitchen at seven in the morning, staring at an empty almond milk carton like it had personally betrayed me. I always buy two—one for coffee, one backup. Both were gone.
Vanessa sat at the island, scrolling through her phone, wearing silk pajamas that definitely hadn’t been in her suitcase when she arrived.
“Did you finish the almond milk?” I asked evenly.
She didn’t look up. “Yeah, I needed it for smoothies.”
“All of it?”
“It’s just milk, Natalie.”
“It’s not just milk. It’s mine.”
That made her look up.
“There it is,” she said, lips curving slightly. “The possessiveness.”
“It’s called ownership.”
Trevor walked in behind her, already dressed, carrying his muddy boots in one hand. He dropped them directly on my foyer bench. Wet dirt sprinkled onto the hardwood.
I closed my eyes for half a second.
“Trevor,” I said calmly. “Boots stay on the mat.”
He glanced down. “Oh. Right.”
He didn’t move them.
Vanessa smirked. “You could relax a little, you know.”
“And you could wipe your feet.”
She leaned back on the stool. “You act like this is a hotel.”
“No,” I corrected. “I act like this isn’t.”
Silence.
Then Trevor cleared his throat. “We’re looking at places.”
“Oh?” I folded my arms. “Where?”
“Just around.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He shrugged. “It’s a process.”
Everything with them was a process. A delay. A foggy maybe.
By the end of the week, the house felt smaller. Music thumped past midnight from the guest room one evening—some low, bass-heavy playlist that rattled the hallway frames. I knocked. Vanessa opened the door halfway, mascara slightly smudged like I’d interrupted something deeply important.
“It’s midnight,” I said.
“So?” She rolled her eyes.
“I have work.”
“You always have work.”