The Packhouse

Sasha

“Are you sure you don’t need help with that one?” The voice is warm, like honeyed tea on a cold day. It belongs to Liam, a man built like a lumberjack but with the gentle eyes of a kindergarten teacher.

I clutch the cardboard box tighter to my chest. It’s the one labeled ‘Sentimental Crap,’ and it feels heavier than all the others combined. “I’ve got it. It’s the last one.”

He smiles, a genuine, crinkle-eyed thing that makes me instantly trust him. It’s the same smile from the housing ad interview, the one that convinced me this whole situation wasn’t a scam to harvest my organs. “Alright. Just don’t want our new housemate breaking a nail on her first day.”

I manage a weak laugh and follow him through the ridiculously grand oak door. The entryway is bigger than my entire last apartment. Polished hardwood floors gleam under a high ceiling, and a wide staircase curves elegantly toward the second floor. It smells like lemon polish and old, happy wood. Not a hint of the damp, musty despair I’m used to.

“I still can’t believe this place is real,” I say, setting the box down by the stairs. I run a hand along the smooth, cool banister. “Or that my share of the rent is less than my weekly grocery bill.”

The ad had been a joke, I’d thought. ‘Room for rent in spacious heritage home near campus. Utilities included. Must be clean, quiet, and okay with a few house rules. $300/month.’ Three hundred. I paid more than double that for a glorified closet with a leaky ceiling and a neighbor who practiced the trombone at three in the morning. I’d applied out of sheer, broke desperation, never expecting a reply.

Liam just shrugs, his broad shoulders moving easily under his t-shirt. “The landlord is an old family friend. He’s more interested in keeping the house full of good people than making a profit. We get to be picky.”

“And I made the cut?” I ask, a little amazed.

“You made the cut.” His grin widens. “Maya loved you.”

As if summoned, a woman emerges from a doorway down the hall. She’s wiping her hands on an apron tied around her waist, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. This is Maya. During my interview, she’d felt like a warm hug in human form, asking me more about my favorite foods than my credit score.

“Sasha, you’re here! Leave the boxes, you must be starving.” She heads toward me, her expression a mix of welcome and concern. “You look exhausted. Did you eat today?”

I feel my cheeks flush. I skipped lunch to finish packing, a habit born from a budget that rarely stretched to three meals a day. “I was going to grab something later.”

“Nonsense.” She waves a dismissive hand. “I made pot roast. There’s more than enough. The boys eat enough for a small army.” She glances back toward the living room, where two other guys are lounging on a massive sectional sofa, watching TV. They’d been introduced as Ben and Marco. They’d just nodded at me, their eyes watchful but not unfriendly. It seems to be a house of quiet, ridiculously fit young men and one den mother.

“I really appreciate it, but I should probably just start unpacking,” I protest weakly.

“The unpacking can wait. Food can’t,” Maya insists, her tone leaving no room for argument. She steers me toward the kitchen, which is, of course, spectacular. Stainless steel appliances, a huge island, and a window overlooking a sprawling, green backyard. My last kitchen had a hot plate and a mini fridge.

Liam follows us in. “Maya’s right. Rule one of this house: you don’t turn down Maya’s cooking. Your stomach will never forgive you.”

“Speaking of rules,” Maya says, her voice turning a little more serious as she pulls a plate from a cabinet. “Liam, did you go over the important one?”

Liam leans against the counter, his easy smile tightening just a fraction. “I was getting to it.” He looks at me. “It’s a bit weird, Sasha. But it’s not negotiable.”

I brace myself. Here it is. The catch. Maybe I have to participate in a multi level marketing scheme or join a cult. For three hundred a month, I’d probably consider it.

“A few nights a month, we have a strict curfew,” he says. “From sunset to sunrise, everyone stays inside. No exceptions. No visitors. Doors and windows locked.”

I blink. “Okay. Like, a security thing? Is the neighborhood bad?”

“The neighborhood is fine,” Maya says quickly, piling potatoes and carrots onto my plate. The sheer amount of meat she adds is startling. “It’s just… a precaution. A family thing. It’s usually around the full moon, for three nights.”

I try to process that. A full moon curfew. It’s bizarre. “What happens if I have a late class? Or work?”

“You’ll have to rearrange your schedule for those nights,” Liam says, his tone gentle but firm. “We’ll give you plenty of notice. We’re all really serious about it. It’s for everyone’s safety.”

Something in the way he says ‘safety’ makes a little shiver run down my spine. But then Maya sets the plate in front of me, and the rich, savory smell of the roast hits me, and all my suspicions are drowned out by the rumbling of my empty stomach. It’s weird. So what? I can handle weird. I’ve been handling weird my whole life.

“Okay,” I say, picking up a fork. “Full moon curfew. Got it.”

The relief on their faces is palpable. Maya beams, and Liam’s relaxed posture returns. It’s almost as if they were afraid I’d say no and walk out. For this rent, they could tell me I had to howl at the moon and I’d probably do it.

“Good,” Maya says, patting my shoulder. “Now eat. Welcome home, Sasha.”

Home. The word feels foreign and wonderful. I take a bite of the roast, and it melts in my mouth. I’m so focused on the best meal I’ve had in years that I don’t hear the front door open and close. I don’t notice the sudden silence from the living room.

I only notice when the temperature in the kitchen seems to drop by ten degrees.

A presence fills the doorway. It’s not just a person entering a room; it’s an invasion. The air thickens, charged with a low hum of energy that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

Liam, who was just joking about Maya’s portion sizes, straightens up, his body going rigid. Maya freezes, her hand hovering over a pitcher of water. All the warmth and ease drains from the room, replaced by a tense, heavy silence.

Slowly, I turn my head.

He stands there, framed by the doorway, like a painting of some dark, fallen angel. He’s tall, taller than Liam, with a lean, powerful build that his simple black shirt and jeans do nothing to hide. His hair is the color of midnight, and his face is all sharp angles and unforgiving planes. He is, without a single doubt, the most beautiful man I have ever seen. And he is looking at me with absolute, undisguised hatred.

His eyes, a startling, cold gray, sweep over me once. It’s not a glance. It’s a dismissal. An assessment and a verdict delivered in a single, chilling second. I feel my skin shrink, my posture crumble. I suddenly feel like a bug he’s considering crushing under his boot.

“Owen,” Liam says, and his voice is tight, strained. “You’re back early.”

Owen doesn’t look at him. His glare is still locked on me. It’s so intense, so personal, that it feels like a physical blow. What did I do? I’ve never seen this man before in my life.

“What,” Owen says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates through the floorboards, “is that?”

He doesn’t say ‘who.’ He says ‘that.’ The word hangs in the air, dripping with contempt.

My face burns with a humiliation so sharp it brings tears to my eyes. The fork in my hand trembles.

Maya steps forward, placing herself slightly between us. A protective gesture. “This is Sasha, our new housemate. I told you we found someone.”

Owen’s eyes finally flick to Maya, but the coldness doesn’t recede. “You brought a human into this house.” It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A sin laid bare.

Human? What else would I be? The word sounds like an insult coming from his lips. Like he’s saying ‘vermin’ or ‘infestation.’

“She needed a place, Owen,” Liam says, his voice taking on a placating tone I haven’t heard from him before. He sounds like someone trying to calm a wild animal. “She’s a student. She’s quiet.”

Owen’s jaw clenches. A muscle jumps along the sharp line of it. He ignores Liam completely and takes one step into the kitchen. I flinch, instinctively pulling back in my chair. His gaze drops to the plate of food in front of me, and a look of pure disgust twists his perfect features. Then his eyes snap back to mine, and for a second, I see something else under the rage. Something that looks like raw, agonizing pain. It’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that wall of ice.

Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. A moment later, we hear the heavy slam of a door somewhere upstairs, a sound so violent it makes the silverware on the counter rattle.

The silence he leaves behind is thick with unspoken things. I stare down at my plate, my appetite completely gone. The delicious roast now tastes like ash in my mouth.

Maya lets out a long, slow breath. “Don’t,” she says, her voice soft but strained. “Don’t mind him. He’s… not good with new people.”

Liam comes over and rests a hand on the back of my chair. It’s meant to be comforting, but I can feel the tension thrumming through his fingers.

“That wasn’t about you, Sasha,” he says, but his words sound hollow. It felt exactly like it was about me.

“He called me a human,” I whisper, looking from Maya to Liam. “What was that supposed to mean?”

Maya forces a brittle smile. “It’s just Owen. He’s… intense. He grew up in the middle of nowhere. He’s not used to the city. Or strangers.”

It’s a terrible lie, and we all know it. That wasn’t about being bad with new people. That was a deep, primal animosity aimed directly at me. He looked at me as if my very presence here was an insult, a contamination in his home.

I push my chair back and stand up, my legs feeling unsteady. “I think I will go unpack now.”

“Sasha, please, eat something,” Maya pleads.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. I can still feel the burn of his stare on my skin. I walk out of the kitchen, past the now silent living room, and up the grand staircase. My room is at the end of the hall. It’s beautiful, with a big window and a four-poster bed that looks like it belongs in a fairy tale.

But as I close my door, the silence of the big, perfect house feels different now. It’s not peaceful. It’s watchful. And I know, with a certainty that settles like a cold stone in my gut, that one of my housemates wishes I was anywhere else but here. The question, the one that echoes in the sudden quiet of my new room, is why.