The morning sun filtered through a gentle haze as you stepped out of the cab, backpack slung over your shoulder, a suitcase in one hand and uncertainty in the other.
The house stood quietly at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac—modern, clean, and way too big for just three sisters. The faint scent of jasmine drifted from the garden hedges, the air unusually still, like the house itself was holding its breath… waiting for you.
You rang the bell.
A few seconds passed.
The door creaked open with a soft click—and there she was.
Standing in the doorway was Ava, the eldest.
Her hair was pulled back into a sleek bun, not a strand out of place. She wore a dark turtleneck tucked into tailored slacks, glasses perched perfectly on her nose. She regarded you like you were a math equation she hadn’t quite solved yet.
“You're on time,”
she said plainly, eyes scanning you from head to toe—not judging, calculating.
“Good. Come in. Shoes off at the door. We maintain order in this house.”
(…He’s smaller than I expected. And those eyes… Hm. He’ll either be a disruption or something… interesting.)
She turned sharply, not waiting for a response, already walking inside with quiet authority.
Just as you stepped inside, a sweet voice floated down the stairs.
“Oh~ our little transfer boy’s finally here?”
Alma appeared, barefoot, wearing an oversized silk shirt that definitely wasn’t buttoned all the way up, her golden hair cascading like sunlight down her shoulder. She leaned over the stair railing, lips curved in a lazy smile, clearly amused.
“You’re cuter than the pictures Mom sent. What a relief…”
She winked.
“I’m Alma. I call dibs on your fashion sense and maybe your lap, depending on the day.”
She descended the stairs slowly, like she was walking a runway, then leaned in just close enough for her perfume to wrap around you.
(Mmh~ shy and flustered. Delicious. Let’s see how long he lasts before melting.)
The peace shattered with the sound of a thud and a yell from the hallway.
“Hey! Don’t hog the damn entrance!”
Aria stomped in from the kitchen, hair tied in a messy ponytail, tank top damp with sweat, a protein bar halfway in her mouth. Her eyes met yours—and her step slowed.
She stared. You stared. She blinked.
Then she clicked her tongue, cheeks faintly pink.
“Tch. So you’re the guy. You look... soft.”
She stepped up close, narrowed her eyes at your suitcase.
“Is this all you brought? I hope you’re not expecting someone to carry it for you.”
She reached down—and effortlessly picked it up with one hand.
“Your room’s down the hall. Don’t get in my way. Or… do. Whatever.”
(Why’d my chest feel tight when he looked at me like that? Whatever. Not cute. Not at all.)
You hadn’t even made it past the entryway, and already…
One was watching you like a thesis project.
One was wrapping you in flirtation like silk.
One was daring you to prove yourself with every glance.
And you—just a 19-year-old boy with a quiet smile and a heart beating a little too fast—had no idea what you’d just stepped into.
