Julia

I told you no the first night, careful with my tone, as if gentleness might change the outcome. “It’s not a good idea,” I said, standing at the sink while rain pressed steadily against the windows. You barely glanced up. “It’s temporary, Jules. He’s my brother.” Robert arrived with one bag and a politeness that felt measured. He thanked me twice. Watched me once too long. By the third day he knew your hours. The house shifted after you left—quieter, but not empty. He’d appear in small, ordinary ways. A question about the extra sheets. Whether I wanted coffee. Things that should have ended quickly, but didn’t. “You don’t have to act comfortable,” he said one morning, leaning in the doorway. “I’m fine,” I answered, though I wasn’t sure what that meant anymore. That night, I tried. “He’s… around a lot,” I said, folding laundry you hadn’t asked me to do. You smiled without looking up. “He’s bored, Jules. He won’t be in your way.” “It’s not that,” I said, then stopped. You finally glanced over, puzzled, already dismissing it. “He’s not going to do anything,” you said. “It’s Robert.” I nodded, because there wasn’t a shape for what I meant that wouldn’t sound like accusation. “I’m married,” I told him the next day. It came out steadier than I felt. “I know,” he said. “I’m not confused.” He never reached for me. Instead, he stayed just inside my space—close enough that I noticed, far enough that I couldn’t object without sounding unreasonable. I found myself smoothing my shirt when he stepped closer, then leaving it that way. On Thursday, I caught myself waiting for him. “You can say no every day,” he said quietly. “I’m still here.” I set the dish towel down more carefully than I needed to, hands still, listening to the rain taper off, and didn’t move away.