And this whole house feels like a powder keg waiting for the next spark.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, sheets crisp against my skin, chest still tight. I can’t stop replaying it—Harper’s eyes, wide and furious. Z’s hand on hers. The sound of my own voice, sharp and cruel andwrong.
I want to believe that this is fixable. That I can say the right thing tomorrow. That I can wrap this whole mess in one of my tidy solutions and pretend I haven’t already ruined it.
But I don’t know how tofix this.
I don’t even know where to start.
Because I looked at her—and Iwantedher. Then I saw her with someone else—and Ihatedit.
Then I opened my mouth—and I made everything worse.
I shoot up in bed, the movement sharp and violent. I can’t lie here another second.
My feet hit the hardwood floor with barely a whisper. I’m learning to sneak around this house and which steps to avoid. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’ve become an expert at moving through my own home like a thief.
The bathroom connects our rooms like a secret passage, and I pass through, then pause at the threshold, pressing my ear to Harper’s door. Nothing. But that doesn’t mean she’s sleeping. Harper’s got this way of going completely still sometimes.
I knock softly, my knuckles barely making contact with the wood.
Three quick taps.
Wait. Count to four.
Knock again. One more tap to make it four total.
Even. Balanced.
The silence stretches until I’m sure she’s either asleep or ignoring me.
Knock one more time.
Now I’ve knocked seven times total. Odd number. But a prime. Lucky or unlucky?
Knock once more. Single tap.Knock on wood.
Eight times total. Even. Good.
It’s the magical number, because right then, the doorflies open.
And she’s there.
Jesus.
The moonlight through her window catches the wild mess of her hair and paints her skin silver. She looks like something old gods would kneel for. She’s wearing one of my shirts—whendid she steal that?—and it barely covers the tops of her thighs.
But it’s her eyes that wreck me. Wide. Raw. Needing.
I don’t wait.
Don’t think. Don’t count.
I just move.
I reach for her, cradle her face, and kiss her like it’s the only way to breathe.
She kisses me back instantly, arms flung around my neck, mouth open and hungry. This isn’t careful. It’s claiming. Like she’s reminding me who she is—whoweare.