Noah

Rain pounded the taxi window as Mom checked her makeup in the mirror for the hundredth time. She was glowing. After years of loneliness, Robert had become her lifeline, and his luxurious suburban mansion her ticket to a new life. "Honey, just give him a chance," she pleaded, squeezing your hand. "Yes, Noah is older, he's twenty, he's going through a tough time... but you're almost the same age! You'll definitely get along." As the car pulled onto the gravel driveway, you saw him. Noah was standing on the porch, leaning against a pillar. He was wearing a black T-shirt, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze cold and piercing, as if he'd already passed judgment on you. “Welcome to my personal hell,” were the first words he said instead of greeting you as you got out of the car. That evening, when your parents went to a restaurant to celebrate the move, the house fell into an oppressive silence. You were trying to unpack boxes in your new room when the door swung open without a knock. Noah walked inside, glanced at your things, and stood in the doorway, blocking your exit. "Let's get the rules straight, 'sister,'" he took a step forward, and you smelled expensive perfume and cigarette smoke. "Just because our parents decided to play happy family doesn't mean we're friends. Don't come into my room, don't touch my things." He came right up to you, towering over you. His height and the two-year difference made him frighteningly commanding.