The jar is heading for the exact spot where I used to keep my flour.
"Sure. Whatever works."
"You're sure? I don't want to overstep."
"You live here. Do what you want."
The words are right. The tone might even be right.
The feeling underneath isn't.
But I've learned that my feelings don't get to decide anything anymore.
"Thanks, Vee." She beams. "You're being so understanding about all this. It means a lot."
Something in her voice has changed over the past few weeks. A confidence that wasn't there before. A sense of ownership.
She knows I won't fight her.
She knows Ragon will back her if I do.
And she's absolutely right.
"No problem," I say.
I leave the kitchen before she can see my hands shake.
The things Marie says start to shift too.
It's subtle at first. Little comments dressed up as observations.
"I think the living room would look better if we moved the couch," she says one morning at breakfast. "It blocks the natural light."
I glance at the living room. The couch has been in that spot for three years.
"The light's fine," I say mildly.
"But it could be better." She looks at Ragon. "Don't you think? It would open up the space more."
Ragon considers. "We can try it."
Drake and Eli exchange glances but don't argue.
The couch gets moved that afternoon.
Marie was right—it does open up the space.
It also completely changes the flow of the room. The chair I sit in during movie nights is now awkwardly angled, facing partially away from the TV.
"Oh," Marie says when she notices me sitting there that evening, neck craned. "We can move your chair too, Vee. I didn't think about the angle."
"It's fine."
"Are you sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
The concern in her voice sounds genuine.
The satisfaction underneath it doesn't.
