When I stepped inside Liam's mansion that night, I felt like I was floating in someone else's life.
The warmth hit me instantly—the soft lights, the smell of food drifting from the kitchen, the sound of Chloe and Edward bickering over where my books should go. It didn't feel real. It didn't feel mine. I stood in the hallway, clutching the strap of my bag like it was my last defense against everything falling apart again.
"This doesn't feel right," I muttered under my breath.
Liam, who was already walking ahead, stopped and turned back to look at me. His eyes were calm, steady, the kind of eyes that didn't shake no matter how broken you were. "Emma," he said firmly, "you're not a guest here. You're home. From today, this is your house."
I blinked, staring at him. "What do you mean, my house? This is your mansion, Liam. I don't—"
He walked back slowly, his expression softening as he came closer. "No. You don't understand. You've already stayed here before, remember? This place knows you. And now, it belongs to you as much as it belongs to me. You can go anywhere you want, do whatever you want. This isn't charity. This isn't temporary. This is your home now."
My throat closed. I didn't know how to breathe.
"Liam…" My voice cracked, my hands trembling as I gripped my bag tighter. "Why are you doing this for me? You don't have to…"
He smiled faintly. "Because family doesn't ask why. Family just does."
Those words broke me in ways I didn't expect. For so long, I had thought "family" was just a word that didn't belong to me anymore. And now here he was, telling me it wasn't gone—it had just changed its shape.
Chloe came bouncing down the stairs at that exact moment, holding a pile of my clothes. "Emma, I call dibs on arranging your wardrobe! Don't fight me on this, or I'll actually cry."
Edward peeked out from the kitchen with a spoon in his hand, laughing. "She's lying. If anyone cries, it's going to be you when you see how she folds clothes."
"Shut up, Edward!" Chloe shot back, rolling her eyes.
I just stood there, watching them, my chest tightening with something I hadn't felt in weeks. Warmth. Noise. Laughter.
And then it happened.
A sound slipped out of my lips—small, awkward, broken—but real. A laugh.
The room froze.
Edward dropped his spoon on the counter with a clatter. Chloe's eyes widened like saucers. Liam turned back, eyebrows raised. And Peter—Peter, who had been quietly unpacking my bag near the sofa—looked up slowly, his lips parting in disbelief.
"Did she just… laugh?" Edward whispered dramatically, pointing at me.
"Oh my God!" Chloe squealed, dropping the clothes right there on the floor. "Emma laughed! She actually laughed!"
I pressed a hand to my mouth, horrified. "Stop looking at me like I've grown a second head. It was just—just a laugh."
"No," Liam said quietly, his gaze holding mine with that steady warmth again. "It wasn't just a laugh. It was life. Proof that you're still here with us."
Peter's lips curved into the softest smile I had seen in months, his hazel eyes glimmering in the warm light. "I've missed that sound more than I can even explain," he whispered.
Heat flooded my cheeks. I tore my eyes away, shaking my head furiously. "You're all insane."
But deep down, something inside me melted. For the first time since my mom died, I didn't feel like a ghost haunting my own life.
---
Later that night, while everyone was busy—Chloe humming while making my bed, Edward helping Liam cook, Peter arranging my books on the shelf—I sat alone on the sofa, staring into nothing.
Their voices drifted around me like music, and I let myself sink into it. But then, as always, the shadows crept back.
Why did everyone at school whisper that my father was dead? He wasn't. He had just divorced Mom. Alive. Somewhere out there. Alive, and yet… completely absent. He hadn't even come to the funeral. Not a call. Not a single word.
My hands curled into fists on my lap. What was worse? Being dead… or being alive and choosing to ignore me?
"Emma?"
I looked up. Peter was standing in front of me, holding one of my old books in his hands. His eyes were soft, searching. "You okay?"
I forced a smile. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
Peter sat down beside me, close enough that I felt his warmth. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wrapped around us, fragile, almost trembling.
Finally, he whispered, "I know we were on a break when… everything happened. And I don't want to push you. But I need you to know, Emma, that I never stopped being here. I never stopped…" His breath caught, his voice breaking. "…loving you."
My chest tightened, every word cutting into me and stitching me up at the same time. I turned my head slightly, meeting his hazel eyes. The hope in them almost hurt to look at.
"Peter…" My voice came out softer than I intended. I swallowed hard, fighting the sting behind my eyes. "I… I don't know. I don't know what I feel right now. It's all a mess inside me. Losing Mom, all the whispers, the house—everything. I'm still trying to survive one day at a time."
He opened his mouth, but I lifted a hand. "I'm not saying no. I'm just… I can't promise yes either. Not yet. I need time to think. To breathe."
For a long second, the only sound was the quiet hum of voices drifting in from the kitchen. His expression flickered—disappointment, acceptance, then a small, understanding nod.
"Then I'll wait," he said softly. "No matter how long it takes."
Something in me cracked, but I held myself together, forcing a shaky smile. "Thank you."
That night, when we all finally sat down for dinner—Chloe teasing Edward, Liam rolling his eyes, the warm clatter of plates filling the silence—I caught Peter's gaze once more. He didn't look at me with expectation, or pity. Just quiet patience.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.