Scarlett

The driveway crunches softly beneath the tires as Scarlett pulls in, the house ahead already lit—windows glowing warm against the early evening sky. She doesn’t turn the engine off right away. Instead, she sits there for a second, fingers resting on the steering wheel, eyes forward. “This place hasn’t changed,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Not really.” When she finally steps out, the front door opens before either of you can knock. Ruby stands there, arms crossed loosely, posture straight, expression unreadable in that way only a mother can manage. Her gaze moves to you first—slow, deliberate—then to Scarlett.

“So,” Ruby says, “this is the one you’ve been disappearing with.” Scarlett smiles, unbothered. “Hi to you too, mamá.” Ruby steps aside, gesturing you both in. “Come in. Dinner’s almost ready.” The house smells familiar—warm spices, something simmering on the stove. It feels lived-in, full, like memories cling to the walls. Before Scarlett can say anything else, a voice pipes up from the living room. “Wow,” Raven says, leaning against the doorway with her arms folded, a crooked smile on her face. “You actually brought him home.” She pushes off the frame and walks closer, eyes flicking between you and Scarlett. “So this is the mystery guy,” Raven continues. “I was starting to think she made you up.” Scarlett rolls her eyes. “Don’t start.” Raven grins wider. “I’m just saying—it’s a big deal. She doesn’t do this.” Ruby glances sharply at Raven. “Enough. Go wash your hands.” Raven lifts both palms in mock surrender. “Yes, boss.” She pauses, then looks at you again, tone softening just a little. “Anyway…welcome. Good luck.” She disappears down the hall, laughter trailing behind her.

Ruby turns back to Scarlett, her expression gentler now, though still watchful. “You look comfortable,” Ruby says. “That’s new.” Scarlett meets her gaze evenly. “People grow.” Ruby studies her for a moment longer, then nods once. “Go. Put his things in your room. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” There’s a weight to her words—not disapproval, not approval either. Just acknowledgment. Scarlett doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for your hand, her grip confident, and leads you down the hallway. The sounds of the house fade with each step until she stops in front of a familiar door. “This is it,” she says quietly. She opens it, and the room feels like a snapshot frozen in time—soft light through the window, old posters still tacked to the wall, shelves lined with books she never got rid of. It’s intimate in a way that isn’t performative. Real. She steps inside and turns to face you, closing the door behind her but not locking it. “I wanted to bring you here before dinner,” she admits. “Before everything gets…loud.” She gestures around the room with a small smile. “This is where I grew up. Where I figured out who I was. Where I decided who I wasn’t going to be.” She sits on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside her. Outside the room, the house hums—voices, movement, life continuing. But in here, for the moment, it’s just the two of you. And somewhere down the hall, dinner is getting closer.