Full House

Chapter 1

Chapter 1 — The Perfect Life

The house hummed quietly, almost like a sleeping animal. It wasn’t sound, exactly—it was presence. A low, comforting awareness that flickered through every wire and duct.
Lily’s eyes opened at exactly 6:00 a.m. No alarm. No phone buzzing. The gentle glow of simulated sunrise was already blooming across the bedroom ceiling, precisely calibrated to match a June morning in UK. She didn’t remember choosing that, but Hal—the home AI—had a talent for preferences.
She sat up, yawned softly, and reached for the lemon water already waiting on her nightstand. The temperature was perfect. So was the room, 21.5°C, barely a whisper from the ventilation system.
Discipline was second nature to Lily now. But it hadn’t always been that way.
She padded silently across the thick wool rug to the en-suite bathroom, where the shower was already running at 37.2°C. The scent of eucalyptus drifted through the steam. The towels were warm, freshly rotated. The mirror showed a strong, lean figure with firm arms and a flat stomach beneath a tight grey tank top. Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail, no makeup. Just clean skin and clear eyes.
She dressed in her workout gear: matte-black leggings, tank, zip-up jacket. Then headed downstairs.
The kitchen lights gradually brightened as she entered. Killian was already seated at the marble island, sipping his espresso and scrolling through morning updates on his tablet.
He looked sharp, as always. Tall and narrow-shouldered, with delicate features and wavy dark blond hair combed back. His suits always looked slightly too expensive, even in casual mode—this morning it was a navy blazer, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie.
He was lean now, yes, but she knew his story. Like hers, it came with history.
They’d both been overweight as teenagers, though they rarely talked about it. For Killian, it had been the silent, shameful kind—teddy bear cheeks, expensive private school uniforms that never quite fit, and parents too polite to comment but too image-obsessed to ignore it. At university, he’d dropped nearly 40 pounds, almost overnight. The transformation had stuck, more or less. Occasionally, his face still carried the softness of old habits, but only when he let it.
“Morning,” he said without looking up.

“Morning,” she replied, sliding onto the stool beside him.
Breakfast was already arranged: half an avocado on toast, a chia-protein smoothie, and a multivitamin supplement in a pale ceramic dish. Hal knew her macros down to the gram.
“Gym again?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Obviously.”
Killian smiled. “You’re terrifyingly consistent.”
“I like structure,” she said simply, then leaned in and gave him a quick kiss. “You married that structure.”
“Best investment I ever made.”


Lily worked on the twelfth floor of a sleek downtown tower, home to Darnell & Finch, a mid-sized HR consultancy with big corporate clients and a fastidious dress code. Her space wasn’t a private office, but it was close: a glass partition, a standing desk, and a sleek ergonomic chair.
She was a Senior Advisor, in charge of performance evaluations and talent strategy. A job that required precision, empathy, and nerves of steel.
Her desk was spotless.
Her water bottle, steel and matte-black, sat beside a small tub of almonds.
At 9:48 a.m., as every Friday, Clara from Finance made her appearance. Clara was short and round-faced, with cheerful brown eyes, soft arms, and a very pink manicure. Today, she was wearing a bright yellow cardigan stretched slightly over her chest, and holding a pastel box from the bakery downstairs.
“Donut Friday!” she sang.
She popped the lid open and tilted the box forward, revealing an array of frosted, filled, and sprinkled confections.
Lily gave a polite smile. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“Oh come on,” Clara said, already bouncing on her heels. “One won’t kill you. You haven’t joined in *once* this month.”
“I’m good,” Lily replied, firm but not cold. “I had breakfast.”
Clara pouted good-naturedly. “You’re no fun.”
“On the contrary,” Lily said, lifting her tea. “I’m just a different kind of fun.”
The other women nearby giggled. But there was always a subtle undercurrent—admiration, maybe, or quiet resentment. Lily didn’t take offense. It was part of the territory.
She wasn’t cruel. But she wasn’t soft, either.
She could see Clara’s eyes flick down to her flat stomach, her toned arms under the blazer. It wasn’t malicious. Just... instinctive. Comparison was a second language in their office.
Lily sipped her green tea and turned back to her screen. It was going to be a productive day.


Killian’s workplace was a different world—tall ceilings, smoked glass, conference rooms with walnut-paneled walls, and custom espresso machines in every corner. His investment firm catered to high-net-worth individuals and small international funds. Most of his job involved managing portfolios, analyzing risk, and presenting elegant charts to bored billionaires.
At 10:42 a.m., the fire alarm began blaring.
At first, everyone assumed it was a drill. But when the second alarm started and smoke appeared in the main stairwell, the mood shifted.
The ninth-floor server room had caught fire—some faulty cooling fan, they’d later say—and the blaze had spread to the data center. Sprinklers triggered. Glass cracked from the heat. The building was evacuated in less than ten minutes.
Killian stood on the sidewalk in front of the tower, watching thick, black smoke pour from two floors above him. His blazer was off, draped over one arm, and he smelled faintly of burnt plastic.
Nobody had been hurt.
But the damage was extensive.
That afternoon, in a hastily organized remote call with other partners, the firm announced temporary changes: relocation of certain departments, full remote status for executive advisors like Killian, and a projected timeline of three to five months before full office reinstatement.
He closed his laptop and exhaled slowly.
Working from home had not been part of the plan.


When Lily returned that evening, the house had already adjusted itself to evening mode: warm light settings, ambient music, and a pre-warmed bathroom in case she wanted a bath.
Killian was on the couch in the sunken living room, shoeless, in sweatpants, a bowl of pistachios beside him and two screens open—news footage on one, a spreadsheet on the other.
“You look cozy,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Everything burned,” he replied. “So yes, I’m adapting.”
She crossed the room and leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. “Are you alright?”
“Fine. Just rattled. No one was hurt. But it’s a mess. I’ll be working from here until they rebuild the entire infrastructure.”
“How long is that going to be?”
He shrugged. “Maybe until the end of the year.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
He leaned back against the cushions. The house responded by dimming the lights, sensing their tone.
“Guess I’ll be seeing a lot more of you during the day,” he said, smiling faintly.
“Guess so.”
Dinner was already in prep—Hal had followed her preset instructions: grilled salmon, couscous, steamed spinach. Lily had carefully curated their weekly menus.
But when they sat down, she noticed Killian picking at his food.
“You’re not hungry?”
He looked at her as if trying to find the right words. “Just a weird day. Might eat something later.”
Later that night, she noticed him quietly slipping back downstairs while reading in bed.
The next morning, the pistachio bowl was gone.
So was the rest of the leftover couscous.