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The knock came sharp and immediate.

Claire’s head snapped toward the door.

Three quick raps. Familiar in their precision. Measured, not hesitant.

Her stomach dropped.

Rowan looked up from her bed. “Are you expecting—”

The handle turned.

Claire moved before the door fully opened.

“Wait.”

The word came out low, urgent.

Rowan stilled.

The door pushed inward.

“Claire?”

Her mother’s voice carried cleanly into the room—controlled, composed, already filling the space.

Claire stepped forward, blocking the line of sight.

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“We were in the area,” her mother said, stepping inside without waiting to be invited. Her gaze moved quickly, assessing. “We thought we’d stop by.”

Behind her, her father hovered in the doorway, quieter, watchful.

Claire’s pulse climbed.

“Of course,” she said. “I just—wasn’t expecting—”

Her mother’s eyes swept the room again.

They paused.

Not on Claire.

Beyond her.

Claire felt it before she saw it—the slight shift in focus, the narrowing of attention.

Rowan.

Standing.

Visible.

Everything tightened at once.

“Bathroom,” Claire said under her breath, not turning, not looking directly at her. “Now.”

Rowan didn’t move.

“What?”

“Please.”

It came out sharper this time. Thinner.

Rowan’s expression didn’t change.

But something in it closed.

A beat.

Then she moved.

Not quickly. Not reluctantly either.

Just deliberate.

She crossed the room without looking at Claire again, disappearing into the bathroom. The door shut with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have.

Claire exhaled once.

Turned back.

“Sorry,” she said, already adjusting her tone. “Roommate. She’s just—”

Her mother stepped further in.

The air shifted again.

Different this time.

Heavier.

Claire moved automatically—straightening the edge of her desk, nudging a book back into alignment, smoothing the blanket on her bed as if it had been out of place.

“It’s a bit small,” her mother said, her gaze lingering on the rug. “But you’ve done well with it.”

Claire nodded.

“I wanted it to be organized.”

“Yes.” Her mother’s eyes flicked to the line dividing the room. “I can see that.”

Claire forced a small smile.

Behind her, the bathroom remained silent.

Too silent.

Her mother moved closer, fingers brushing lightly over the surface of the desk. “You’re keeping up with your schedule?”

“Yes.”

“And your courses?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Each question landed like a checkpoint. Each answer, expected.

Claire kept her posture steady.

Controlled.

Her father stepped inside at last, closing the door behind him. His gaze moved more slowly, less exacting—but it followed the same path.

The room felt smaller now.

Compressed.

Not by proximity.

By presence.

Claire’s awareness sharpened around the bathroom door.

Closed.

Holding.

Her mother’s attention followed her gaze.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Claire said quickly.

Too quickly.

A pause.

Her mother tilted her head slightly. “You seem tense.”

“I’m fine.”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Claire forced her shoulders to relax. Loosened her hands.

Behind her, something shifted.

Barely audible.

The faintest movement from the other side of the door.

Claire’s breath caught.

Her mother’s eyes flicked toward the sound.

Claire stepped forward, intercepting the line of sight.

“I’ve been working a lot,” she said, filling the space before anything else could. “It’s just been—busy.”

Her mother studied her for a moment.

Then nodded.

“You always manage.”

The words should have steadied her.

They didn’t.

Claire swallowed.

“Yes.”

The conversation continued—questions, answers, adjustments—but Claire barely tracked it.

All of her attention stayed fixed on the closed door.

On what was behind it.

On what she had put there.

Invisible.

Contained.

Managed.

When her parents finally left, the silence that followed felt louder than anything that had come before.

The door clicked shut.

The room held still.

Claire didn’t move right away.

Then—

The bathroom door opened.

Rowan stepped out.

She didn’t look at Claire.

Didn’t say anything.

She crossed the room slowly, stopping just short of the rug line.

Claire turned.

Their eyes met.

Everything that had been contained—pressed down, hidden, controlled—sat between them now, exposed in a way the dark had never managed.

Claire opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Rowan’s expression stayed steady.

But her voice, when she spoke, was flat.

“So that’s how it works.”