The Smile That Wasn't Meant For Me

Arthur wasn't spying.

That's what he told himself as he slowed near the terrace window, drawn by the soft spill of light and the faint sound of a laugh that didn't belong to this house, didn't belong to them.

He glanced through the glass, expecting silence. But instead, he found her.

Becca.

And beside her, Albert.

Arthur stiffened.

She stood near the railing, moonlight brushing her features like something out of a dream. Albert was just a step away, his arms crossed, gaze settled on her like she made sense. Then Albert said something, low and casual, and she laughed again.

That sound didn't belong here.

Arthur's breath cooled in his chest.

Then Albert smiled.

Not just a polite nod or tired smirk, a real, unguarded, subtle smile. Arthur hadn't seen it in years, not since before their mother's death and their father's brilliant new marriage to the struggling woman with tearful eyes and a daughter in need of a heart.

He stepped back, jaw clenched.

Of course she'd find her way in. Of course she'd work her way under Albert's skin. Just like her mother did with their father, quiet, calculated, careful. Like they'd both studied exactly how to soften the right edges, press the right wounds.

And Albert, idiot that he was, had smiled.

A knot twisted hard in Arthur's stomach.

She hadn't even been here a month. She didn't know what this house was built on, didn't care about the silence, the fractures, the weight their mother left behind when she had left their dad. She hadn't lived the coldness. She hadn't buried it. She was just... benefiting from it.

He turned sharply from the window, walking away without a sound.

Let her charm his brother. Let her wrap her cunningness in innocence and quiet little smiles. Arthur wasn't fooled.

But what made his chest ache wasn't the smile itself, it was that Albert hadn't looked at him like that in years.

And now he had... for her.

Arthur didn't sleep.

He lay in bed for hours, staring at the dark ceiling, the image of Albert's smile playing over and over again like a film reel he couldn't tear down. Becca's voice. Her laugh. The way Albert looked at her like he saw something worth stepping out of his silence for.

It shouldn't have mattered.

But it did.

And by morning, Arthur had no patience left for pretending it didn't.

He found Albert where he usually was after breakfast, out by the side garden, near the old stone bench where no one else ever went. A place to vanish. Avoid questions. Avoid their father. Avoid the truth.

Albert looked up when Arthur approached, but didn't move. He was always too calm, too unreadable.

"Can I help you?" Albert asked, voice flat.

Arthur didn't answer right away. He just crossed his arms and stared at him for a moment, like trying to recognize the brother he used to understand.

"What are you doing with her?"

Albert blinked once, then looked back out toward the trees.

"I'm serious," Arthur pressed. "Becca. What are you doing?"

Albert didn't flinch. "Talking."

"Right," Arthur muttered with a bitter smile. "Because you talk to everyone, don't you?"

Still no reaction.

Arthur stepped closer, his voice low but sharp. "She's not what you think."

"And what do I think?" Albert asked.

"You think she's different. That she gets you, or whatever story you're telling yourself. But she's not. She and her mother came here with nothing but a contract and good timing. You know what that makes them?"

Albert turned slightly, finally meeting his eyes.

Arthur didn't hold back. "Opportunists. Parasites. They saw a chance to latch onto a broken family and took it."

For a moment, Albert said nothing. But his jaw tightened, barely, but enough.

"You don't know her," he said quietly.

"And you do?" Arthur challenged.

Albert's eyes narrowed. "You hate her because you need someone to blame. You hated Clarice the second Dad brought her into the house. You didn't even let Becca breathe before you decided she was a threat."

Arthur scoffed. "You think this is about Becca? You think I care that she's sick or quiet or has a tragic past? No. I care that you! You looked at her like she belonged here. Like she hasn't taken a spot someone else should've earned."

"Someone like who?" Albert asked, his voice suddenly harder.

Arthur's throat tightened. He looked away, jaw flexing. "Mom."

The silence between them stretched long and heavy.

Albert finally spoke, quieter. "She's not trying to replace anyone."

Arthur didn't answer.

"She makes this house feel less like a tomb," Albert said. "And for what it's worth, I haven't felt that in a long time."

Arthur turned back to him slowly, eyes dark. "Then you're more lost than I thought."

Albert didn't flinch. "Maybe. But at least I'm not angry at the wrong people."

Arthur's hands curled into fists, but he didn't raise them. He just stared at his brother, the same brother who used to follow his lead, who used to need him, and realized, with a slow, sinking ache, that Albert didn't need him at all anymore.

Becca had found her way in. Without trying. Without asking.

And Arthur had never felt so... replaceable.

Without another word, he turned and walked off, each step heavier than the last.

Behind him, Albert remained still.

Clarice wasn't eavesdropping.

Not intentionally, anyway.

She'd stepped into the garden with a basket of folded towels on her hip, hoping for five minutes of quiet. But she paused just as she reached the edge of the stone path, spotting Arthur's figure stalking away from the side garden, jaw clenched, strides too sharp for morning calm.

Albert remained behind, standing near the old bench like a statue left out in the cold.

She didn't hear the words, but the silence afterward said more than enough.

Clarice set the basket down slowly, watching the distance between the brothers widen like a crack in the foundation.

She knew Arthur didn't like Becca. He never pretended to.

From the first week they moved in, Clarice had caught the way his eyes cut across the room when Becca entered. The polite tone that barely masked his suspicion. The tension in his jaw when Edward spoke kindly to her.

Arthur had never hidden his resentment. He just dressed it in cold civility and silence.

But this morning… something was different.

It wasn't just the usual disdain. It wasn't directed at her or Becca. It was between him and Albert.

And that was new.

Clarice picked up the towels and continued toward the house, her steps slower now. She passed Albert in the hallway, and he barely lifted his eyes. Not angry, just shut off.

He looked like someone holding in too much.

She reached the kitchen and set the towels down with care, staring out the wide window above the sink.

She had promised herself she wouldn't interfere with Edward's sons. That she'd stay out of the way. But she'd spent too many years learning how to read the room, how to read men, brothers, silence.

And she recognized this kind.

The type that starts small, a glance, a word, a silence, and then grows.

It didn't surprise her that Arthur was angry. What surprised her was that Albert was, too.

That Albert looked... hurt.

Clarice folded her arms and leaned against the counter, trying to shake the unease curling in her gut.

This wasn't about her. And it wasn't about Becca, not entirely.

This was something deeper.

Whatever it was, it was pulling the brothers apart.

And in the middle of it stood Becca, whether she knew it or not.