Harper looks surprised but shifts so Sox is within my reach. I hold out my hand, letting the kitten sniff my fingers before I scratch under her chin. She leans into the touch, purring even louder.
“She likes you,” Harper says, and there’s something in her tone I can’t quite identify. Not quite resentful, but close.
“Well, we’re family now, right?” I keep my eyes on Sox, but I can feel Harper watching me.
She makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be something else. “Family. Right.”
“She’s going to need food. Litter. Has she been to a vet?”
“I swiped some cans of tuna from the cupboard downstairs. And I made a litter box out of a cardboard box and some dirt from the garden.” Harper’s voice has taken on a defensive edge again. “I know it’s not perfect, but?—”
“I can help,” I interrupt. “There’s a pet store about fifteen minutes away. I’ve got my license, and Silas lets me borrow his truck sometimes. We could go tomorrow after school.”
Harper’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “Why would you help me?”
Because you kissed me in a parking lot and stole my wallet, and somehow I can’t stop thinking about you, even though I know I should.
Because watching you hold that kitten like she’s made of glass makes you look less like a criminal and more like a girl who’s had to survive on her own for too long.
Because I want you to stay, even though I shouldn’t.
“Because Mom will notice if you keep stealing all her tuna,” I say instead.
She studies me for a long moment. Sox chooses that moment to leap from Harper’s shoulder to mine, tiny claws digging through my shirt.
“Ow—”
Harper laughs—that real, unguarded laugh—and carefully plucks Sox off me. Our hands brush, and there it is again. That electric jolt.
Our eyes meet. Hold.
The air between us feels charged, heavy with all the things neither of us is saying.
“Okay,” Harper says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow. Pet store. But you can’t tell anyone about her. Not yet.”
“Deal.”
Our eyes hold for a moment. Caught in each other.
I should leave. I should definitely leave her room right now.
Instead, I hear myself ask, “So these ‘people’ you have to get back to... is it like a boyfriend?”
“A boyfriend?”
Fuck. Why did I ask that?
Stepsister.
“No.” She shakes her head, and my heart lifts a little.
At least until she corrects, “Fiancé.”
“What?” I choke.
She laughs—a deep-in-her-chest noise that sounds so warm and inviting—as she sits down on her bed. The cat leaps down and starts playing in a pile of her shirts. “Not really. I mean, it’s sort of a joke.” Then her eyes narrow as she looks out into the night. “Sorta not. But sorta.”
“So you sorta have a fiancé?” I clarify.