The door creaked shut behind her, sealing them into a house that smelled like fresh paint and old wood. It was mostly empty—boxes stacked like towers, furniture half-unwrapped in the living room.
Julian dropped his notebook on the kitchen counter and grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge, tossing one to her. "Sorry. No lemonade."
Penelope caught it. "Tragic."
He smiled again. It was quiet, crooked. Like it didn't know how to stay on his face for long.
Outside, rain tapped against the windows. Inside, the silence curled between them, soft and unsure.
"You live here alone?" she asked, twisting the cap off.
Julian shook his head. "With my brother. He's... not around much."
There was something in his tone that made her want to ask more—but not yet. Not now.
Instead: "You're not what I expected either," she said.
He leaned against the counter. "And what did you expect?"
She pretended to think. "Someone moodier. With worse hair."
Julian laughed. Really laughed. It was short, sudden, and completely real.
Penelope felt something shift in her chest.
"So, what now?" he asked.
She looked around the bare kitchen, at the storm outside, at the boy in front of her who somehow felt familiar after ten minutes.
"Now," she said, "you tell me something true."Julian blinked. "What?"
"One true thing. About you."
He studied her for a second, like he was weighing the risk.
Then: "I don't know how to stay in one place without messing it up."
Penelope's smile faded—but she didn't look away.
"Then maybe you need someone who doesn't run when things get messy."
He looked at her like she might be dangerous.
Maybe she was.