Chapter 1 — Embers of Conflict

Marisa Bennett

The faint scent of smoke clung to Marisa's coat like a stubborn ghost, tickling her nose and dredging up memories she’d rather leave behind. She awkwardly juggled the armful of belongings she had managed to salvage from the fire. Her keys dangled precariously between her fingers, the metal edges digging into her skin as she fumbled with the lock to her new, temporary apartment. The door gave a reluctant creak as it opened, revealing a space so sterile and orderly it felt like stepping into a doctor’s waiting room instead of a home.

Marisa hesitated on the threshold, her arms beginning to ache under the weight of her salvaged art supplies and mismatched assortment of clothes. The living room was painfully neat: a threadbare gray couch sat in front of a secondhand TV, the coffee table so polished it almost gleamed under the dim lighting. Even the corners of the room, where one might expect forgotten dust bunnies or haphazardly placed items, were conspicuously empty. Beige walls stretched unbroken, devoid of personality, and the faint scent of cleaning solution hung in the air, sharp and artificial.

It was everything she wasn’t. A pang of unease flickered in her chest, but she shoved it down. She didn’t have time to wallow. Her life—like her belongings—was a little singed around the edges, but she was still standing. That had to count for something.

Stepping inside, she set her belongings down with a heavy thud. A few paintbrushes spilled out of an open bag, rolling onto the meticulously polished hardwood floor. Her eyes instinctively darted to the left, where a door—presumably to one of the bedrooms—stood slightly ajar. From inside, there was a distinct sound of movement: the shuffle of footsteps, the creak of a chair, then silence.

Marisa sighed, brushing a stray strand of auburn hair from her face as she surveyed the room again. "Well," she muttered under her breath, "home sweet home."

She crouched to pick up the runaway paintbrushes, placing them back into the bag before tackling the rest of her belongings. One box contained a mix of art materials—paints, sketchbooks, a half-finished canvas with smudges of burnt sienna and cerulean blue. She paused over the canvas, her fingers brushing the edge of the frame. It was one of the few pieces she’d managed to save, and looking at it now reminded her of everything else she’d lost. Her studio. Months of work. The space where she felt most like herself, now reduced to ash. Marisa swallowed hard and placed the canvas aside, forcing herself to focus on what she still had.

Another box was filled with clothes that still bore the faintest trace of smoke. She opened one of the larger boxes and unearthed a small potted plant, its leaves slightly singed but otherwise intact. Holding it carefully, she stepped toward the narrow window near the balcony, searching for a spot to place it. The plant was a survivor, just like her—a little battered, but still alive.

The plant was barely on the windowsill when the door to the other bedroom swung open fully, and Marisa startled slightly, turning to face her new roommate for the first time.

He was tall, lean, and sharp-edged, his dark hair just messy enough to look unintentional. He wore a plain gray sweater and dark jeans that fit a little too perfectly, his entire appearance exuding a kind of effortless precision. His brown eyes, however, were not nearly as composed. They tightened with a flicker of irritation as they scanned the room—the scattered boxes, the paintbrushes threatening to spill out again, the potted plant precariously perched on the windowsill.

Dylan Carter. Marisa had caught his name during the chaotic blur of insurance paperwork and phone calls, but she hadn’t known what to expect beyond "another displaced tenant." Now, under his scrutinizing gaze, she felt like a misplaced puzzle piece in his carefully constructed world.

"You’re Marisa, right?" His voice was calm, measured, but there was a clipped edge to it that told her he wasn’t thrilled about her presence.

"That’s me," she said with forced cheerfulness, brushing her hands against her paint-splattered jeans. "And you must be Dylan. Great to finally meet my partner in post-fire exile." She gestured vaguely to the boxes around her. "Don’t mind the mess. Everything smells like the world’s worst barbecue, but it’s all I’ve got."

He blinked, his expression unreadable. "I just have a couple of house rules to go over," he said, completely ignoring her attempt at levity. "Since we’re sharing this space, it’s important to establish boundaries."

Marisa bit back a groan. Of course, he was the "rules" type. She gestured for him to continue, leaning slightly against one of her boxes.

"First," Dylan began, stepping further into the room, "I prefer things to stay clean and organized. Shared spaces should be kept tidy at all times. That includes putting away personal items—" He glanced pointedly at her paintbrushes. "—and not leaving anything in common areas when you’re not using them."

Marisa raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt. He continued.

"Second," he said, his tone firm, "noise levels should be kept to a minimum. I work from home most days, and I need quiet to focus."

Work from home? Marisa’s curiosity piqued at that, but she kept her expression neutral as he rattled off the rest of his expectations: no unannounced guests, no strong-smelling foods in the kitchen, no rearranging furniture without mutual agreement. By the time he finished, her smile was more strained than sincere.

"Anything else, or should I sign a contract in blood?" she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm.

Dylan’s jaw tightened. "I’m serious. This arrangement will only work if we respect each other’s space."

"Right. Respect. Got it." Marisa crossed her arms. "But just so we’re clear, this space isn’t just yours, okay? I’m not some houseguest you can boss around. I live here too, and I’m not about to tiptoe around like I’m walking on eggshells."

Dylan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his gaze drifted toward her belongings again, his brow furrowing briefly. Marisa caught the flicker of something—disapproval, sure, but also unease? It was gone before she could figure it out.

"If you’re planning to use the living room as an art studio, it might be better to reconsider," he finally said, his tone carefully neutral.

Marisa bristled at his tone. "I wasn’t aware the living room was off-limits."

"It’s not." He exhaled sharply, as though already exhausted by the conversation. "But I’d prefer if it stayed usable for both of us."

"Okay, fine," she shot back. "But let’s get one thing straight, Dylan. I’m not going to live out of boxes to keep your pristine aesthetic intact. My stuff’s going to be here. It’s going to be colorful and maybe messy sometimes. You’ll survive."

For a moment, the two of them stood in tense silence, the air between them thick with unspoken frustration. Dylan’s posture was rigid, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, while Marisa’s hands itched to grab a paintbrush and break the monotonous beige of the room with a single, defiant streak of color.

Finally, Dylan turned away. "Let’s just keep things manageable," he muttered, retreating toward his room.

Marisa rolled her eyes as his door clicked shut, muttering under her breath, "Welcome home, Marisa." She shook her head and focused on unpacking, deliberately spreading her things out as she worked. If Dylan wanted to play house dictator, well, he’d have to deal with her rebellion in the form of unapologetic creativity.

As she placed the last of her paints on the small table she’d claimed as hers, she glanced at the beige walls. They felt stifling, like they were closing in on her. "Officially my enemy," she declared under her breath. She’d already survived one fire—she wasn’t about to let a beige box smother her.

Let the battle begin.