Redwood Hills had a way of making you feel small, no matter how confident you walked in.
But this morning, I didn't feel small.
I'd pulled my hair into a sleek low bun, added a light gloss, gold studs, and wore black high-waisted trousers with a champagne-toned satin blouse tucked in clean. Understated but sharp—like I was learning to dress for a place that didn't wait for you to catch up.
Adrian noticed.
He was waiting in the driveway again, arms crossed by the Audi. He didn't speak when I got in, but his eyes flicked toward me—a glance that lingered a little too long.
Halfway through the drive, his voice broke the quiet. "You look… different."
I arched a brow. "Different how?"
He shrugged, eyes still on the road. "Like you're not trying to impress anyone—but they'll stare anyway."
I stared out the window to hide the blush rising in my cheeks.
"Was that a compliment?" I asked after a beat.
"Call it what you want."
That was Adrian—never giving you more than necessary, but always just enough to keep your thoughts tangled.
Classes dragged that day, mostly because I kept noticing things.
Like how people still looked at me sideways, like I was a new painting they didn't understand.
Like how Liam—a guy in my Lit class—always managed to sit beside me now, dropping soft compliments like they were casual. "That color looks great on you, by the way," he said during break, tapping his pencil against his notebook. "It's giving rich mystery girl energy."
I laughed. "I'm not mysterious."
"You don't talk much. That's mysterious by Redwood Hills standards."
Naomi slid into the seat in front of us. "What's mysterious is how you're already sitting next to Liam every class, Claire. Popular girls work months for that spot."
I rolled my eyes, but Naomi grinned. She was bold, overly chatty, and already acting like we'd been friends since middle school.
At lunch, I sat with them. Liam, Naomi, and a few others I was slowly learning names for. Adrian, like always, was across the quad—perched on a bench with his usual crew, sunglasses on, one leg stretched lazily out.
I caught him looking once.
Just once.
But it was enough.
He didn't smile.
Didn't nod.
Just looked.
And then looked away.
That night at dinner, Mom was glowing again. She'd made lasagna herself—well, sort of. The housekeeper plated it, but I could tell from the slightly uneven crust that it was her handiwork.
"So," she said, pouring herself a glass of white wine, "How's school?"
"Fine," I said, stabbing a piece of pasta.
James smiled politely. "Adrian, I trust you've been showing Claire around properly?"
Adrian looked up from his plate, barely meeting his father's eyes. "She's capable."
"Translation," I said under my breath, "He dropped me at the gate and vanished."
Mom laughed. "That sounds about right."
Adrian's gaze flicked to me then—one of those glances that felt like an inside joke we hadn't shared out loud.
The rest of dinner passed in harmless conversation. James talked about a board meeting. Mom mentioned redecorating one of the guest rooms. And I sat there pretending I wasn't analyzing every single shift in Adrian's posture.
Afterward, I passed him once in the hallway. He was heading to the music wing, headphones around his neck, quiet as always.
He didn't speak.
Just gave me one last glance.
And kept walking.
That night, I curled up by my window in an oversized sweater and watched the city lights flicker below the hills.
There was a loneliness in this place that I hadn't prepared for. A kind of silence that looked beautiful from the outside—but inside, it pressed down on you.
But the weirdest part?
Every time it started to feel too much… I thought about Adrian.
And somehow, that silence didn't feel quite so unbearable.
************
I didn't expect him to be waiting for me.
But there he was. Again.
Adrian leaned against the sleek black Audi like he belonged in a cologne ad. One arm folded, the other holding his phone. Dark shirt, sleeves lazily rolled. Hair still slightly wet from a rushed morning shower. He didn't look at me as I stepped down the front steps, but I felt his attention before he moved.
His eyes flicked toward me once I reached the passenger side. He didn't say anything for a second.
Then, quietly:
"You look… different."
I blinked. "Different how?"
His gaze traveled slowly—methodically—from the soft low bun at the nape of my neck to the silky tucked-in blouse and wide-leg tailored trousers. It wasn't leering. It was observant. Like he was dissecting my choices, wordlessly.
"Like you're not trying to impress anyone," he finally said, "but they'll stare anyway."
I faltered. Not because it was a compliment—he never gave direct compliments—but because it was true.
I'd stood in my walk-in closet for twenty minutes this morning, touching fabrics, questioning what kind of girl I needed to be today. I'd settled on clean lines, soft elegance. Understated gold hoops, dewy skin, neutral lips. Not flashy. Not invisible. Just… precise.
"You think they'll stare?" I asked as I got into the car.
Adrian shut the door, slid into the driver's side, and said with that low, maddening voice:
"They already do."
Redwood Hills was colder today.
Not the weather. Just the air. Sharper, somehow. Like everyone had collectively decided to look better, walk faster, and talk louder.
I walked through the school gates with my head held higher than usual. I'd dressed for armor, not attention—but attention came anyway.
And still, people moved around me like I was mist. Like I didn't quite exist—yet they noticed enough to whisper.
"That's her."
"Adrian's stepsister."
"She wasn't even here a week ago."
"She doesn't look like the rest of them."
I kept walking.
Adrian disappeared into the building with barely a glance back. As usual. He didn't walk with me. Didn't offer directions. But I never got lost.
Because I'd memorized his movements.
Literature was first.
Liam was already there.
He had that disheveled, artsy charm—messy curls, paint smudges on his sketchpad, mismatched rings on two fingers.
"Claire," he said, gesturing to the empty seat beside him. "Sit. Save me from Cam's third retelling of his protein shake journey."
I smiled and dropped into the chair, thankful for someone who actually invited me into a room.
"You look expensive today," Liam said, scribbling something on the edge of his page. "Like you just stepped out of a fashion blog for heiresses who read Nietzsche for fun."
I laughed under my breath. "It's just a blouse."
"No such thing at Redwood," he replied. "Clothes talk louder than people here."
"Great," I muttered. "What are mine saying?"
He tilted his head, considering me like I was a living sculpture.
"That you know you don't belong," he said softly, "but you'll still walk in like you do."
It was too close to the truth.
Lunch found me at Naomi's table.
She waved me over like we'd made a pact in a past life. Her ponytail was too tight, her smile a little too sharp, but she'd decided I was part of her orbit—and I didn't have the energy to float elsewhere.
"So Liam's totally into you," she said casually, unwrapping a yogurt she clearly had no intention of eating.
I blinked. "What?"
"Don't play dumb, new girl. I saw him staring at your earrings like they whispered poetry."
"He stares at everything like it whispers poetry."
"Exactly. That's his flirting."
I shook my head, but I didn't say no.
Across the quad, Adrian sat with two guys from the swim team and a girl who laughed too loudly. His posture was lazy—one leg stretched, hand tapping against his thigh—but his eyes weren't on her.
They were on me.
For a second too long.
He looked away the moment I met his gaze, like it was nothing. Like he hadn't been watching.
But I felt it.
The way you feel a door opening behind you in a silent room.
After school, I climbed into the Audi before he even reached it.
He slid in seconds later, tossing his bag in the back.
"Nice earrings," he said after a beat, pulling out of the lot.
I turned. "You noticed my earrings?"
"I notice everything."
His voice was calm. Not bragging. Just stating.
I looked down at my hands. "That's… unsettling."
"It's meant to be."
The drive was quiet after that.
But it wasn't empty.
It buzzed with the same quiet that always stretched between us. Not quite tension. Not quite ease. Just... the space between things that could happen—but haven't.
Dinner was unusually calm.
My mom had made risotto, the kind she only used to cook on her birthday or when she was trying to apologize for something. James poured wine and asked about school with mechanical politeness.
I gave vague answers. Let my mom do the talking.
Adrian didn't say a word.
Until the last bite.
"She dressed differently today," he said suddenly, not looking at me. "It suits her."
My fork froze in mid-air.
Mom smiled. "She's adjusting."
James nodded. "You're adapting well, Claire. It's a lot, I know. But we're all trying."
Adrian stood without another word and left the table.
I didn't finish my risotto.
Later that night, I sat curled by the window in a blanket, sketchbook in hand.
I didn't draw Adrian. I didn't dare.
But I did draw the bench in the quad where he always sat. The slope of his elbow, ghosted in charcoal. A faceless silhouette beside it—mine. Not touching. Just... near.
The space between us was a character of its own.
And it always said more than either of us did.