It was the third morning of cohabitation, and Becky Rivera was already testing her limits.
The kitchen clock read 10:43 a.m. She was barefoot, hair in a mess of curls atop her head, wearing a baggy vintage tee that barely hit mid-thigh and sipping coffee straight from the oversized mug Ethan had warned her not to use—it was part of a limited edition set, or some obsessive adult thing like that.
She sat on the marble counter, swinging one leg lazily as music played low from her phone. The track was moody indie rock, the kind that sounded like heartbreak under rain.
Ethan walked in just as she was finishing the last sip of coffee.
He was dressed like always—immaculate. Charcoal gray slacks, a crisp white shirt rolled up to his forearms, his tie draped around his neck, not yet knotted. He moved like he was always late, even when he wasn't.
His eyes flicked to her on the counter. Then the mug. Then back to her bare thighs.
Becky caught the glance, held it, then smirked. "Good morning, husband."
He raised an eyebrow. "We're not playing house, Becky."
"No, but it's fun watching you squirm like we are."
Ethan said nothing, just walked past her to pour himself a glass of water.
The air between them had shifted since the storm. Becky hadn't forgotten their quiet conversation by the window, the way his voice had cracked ever so slightly when he spoke about his father. But she didn't know what to do with that moment now. So, like always, she covered discomfort with sarcasm.
"You know, most stepdads at least pretend to care if their stepdaughters eat."
Ethan didn't look up. "You're not twelve."
"Wow. Way to dodge parental instinct."
He set the glass down. "I'm not your parent."
She tilted her head. "Right. You're just the guy who married my mom and set house rules like this was a military base."
That got his attention. He turned toward her, face blank but voice edged. "House rules exist so everyone can live in peace. Curfews, no slamming doors, no eating on the couch. They're not difficult."
Becky crossed her arms. "They're controlling."
"They're respectful," he said firmly. "This isn't a college dorm. And you're not a guest—you live here now."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, I didn't realize I had to become a monk to coexist with you."
Ethan's eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tightening. "I'm trying to establish structure."
"Well, you're doing a great job playing the cold dictator," she snapped, sliding off the counter. Her bare feet hit the polished tile, and she grabbed her mug like a shield. "Maybe instead of policing where I sit or how I walk, you could try being human."
She brushed past him toward the sink, shoulders tense, pulse racing.
Then she heard it—the clink of ceramic behind her.
When she turned, Ethan was holding a second mug, pouring coffee into it. He said nothing, but grabbed a skillet and cracked two eggs into it. A slice of rye bread went into the toaster. The scent of butter hit the air.
"What are you doing?" she asked suspiciously.
"Feeding you," he replied.
Becky stood frozen. "Because I threw a tantrum?"
"Because you look like you haven't eaten in sixteen hours, and sarcasm burns calories."
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. "That supposed to be a joke?"
"It's observational commentary," he said, still focused on the pan.
She hovered awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen. "You don't have to play nice."
"I'm not. I'm cooking breakfast. That's different."
The toaster clicked. Ethan plated the toast, slid the eggs beside it, and sprinkled a bit of black pepper with a flourish that suggested he actually cooked often—not just made bruschetta for show.
He set the plate on the island.
Becky looked at it like it might explode.
He finally met her eyes. "Sit."
She sat.
He placed a fork beside her, then returned to his own mug of coffee. They didn't speak as she began eating. The eggs were perfect—soft in the middle, seasoned just right. The toast had just the right crunch.
After a few bites, she said, "You really don't smile much, huh?"
Ethan looked over his cup. "Does that bother you?"
She chewed, then shrugged. "Little bit."
"I'm not here to entertain you, Becky."
"No. But you are stuck with me."
There was a long pause.
He said, "I'm aware."
Becky tilted her head. "Do you regret it?"
"Regret what?"
"Marrying her. Moving me in."
Ethan didn't answer immediately. He set down his mug, his fingers drumming lightly on the granite.
"I don't regret marrying your mother," he said slowly. "She's… vibrant. Hopeful. Something I don't have much of."
That answer was too carefully constructed. Too safe.
"But me?" Becky pressed.
He met her eyes again. This time, the honesty stung.
"I didn't expect you to live here full time."
She blinked. "Right. Because I'm baggage."
"Because I don't know how to do this," he said calmly. "I've never lived with a twenty-two-year-old who challenges everything I say and walks around like she owns the place."
"You're not the only one adjusting," Becky snapped. "You think I like being uprooted into some luxury glass box where no one talks and everything smells like wood polish and unspoken rules?"
Ethan stood straighter, his expression unreadable again. "Then we both have work to do."
Becky stood, pushing the plate slightly away.
"I'll clean this up," she said.
He shook his head. "Leave it. I've got it."
"You always need to be in control, don't you?"
"I need order."
"Well, I'm not part of your order," she said softly.
Ethan's gaze held hers. "That's becoming increasingly obvious."
The quiet hit them like a gust of cold wind.
Becky turned away, retreating down the hall to her room, the unfinished taste of eggs and tension lingering in her mouth.
She didn't cry.
She didn't slam the door, either.
But she wanted to.
---
The rest of the day passed in silence.
Her mother called around 6 p.m. to apologize for working late again and promised to take her to lunch soon. Becky murmured through the conversation, not wanting to explain the growing tension with Ethan.
She spent the evening binge-watching a crime series in the media room, curled up on the oversized suede couch she technically wasn't supposed to eat on, holding a bowl of popcorn like a middle finger.
At 10:17 p.m., Ethan walked by.
He paused.
Becky looked up, daring him to say something.
But he just raised an eyebrow. "Popcorn?"
She crunched loudly in response.
He smirked—just a flicker—and kept walking.
And for some reason, that annoyed her more than if he'd scolded her.
---
The next morning, Becky woke up to a sheet of paper slid under her door.
She pulled it in sleepily, squinting at the typed text.
---
HOUSE EXPECTATIONS – ETHAN CROSS
1. Curfew: No loud entry or exit past 1 a.m.
2. Kitchen: Clean up after use. No sitting on counters.
3. No food on couches. (Popcorn included.)
4. Lock up when you're last to leave.
5. Be decent—robe in shared spaces, please.
6. Respect the workspace. Office and studio are private.
7. If you have an issue, speak it. Don't sulk.
8. You're not a guest. You're home. Behave like it.
---
Becky stared at it for a solid minute.
Then she grabbed a red pen from her desk drawer and scribbled across the bottom:
> 9. Maybe try smiling more than once a week?
She slid the note back under his office door.
Thirty minutes later, a fresh cup of coffee sat on the kitchen counter when she walked in.
The mug read: Control Freaks Anonymous.
She stared at it, then laughed out loud.
---
That night, she heard the soft click of his studio door unlocking.
And for the first time, she wondered what was behind it.
Not just the sketches.
But the man.
---