LANI
I wakebefore the light has fully settled in the room, and for a few long seconds I don’t move. I just lie there, aware in a way that feels unfamiliar. Not ill. Not weak. But tuned too sharply to everything around me, like someone has adjusted the focus on a lens I didn’t realise was blurred before.
It’s been several days now since I woke up feeling better, and yet there’s been no mention of me returning to my grandmother’s house next door. I can’t say I mind, I’m not eager to leave. There’s something settling, soothing, about being here.
Today though, the sheets feel different against my skin. Not rough exactly, but present. I’m aware of every seam, every crease where fabric gathers under my hip and I don’t like it. The air smells stronger than it should – detergent, old wood, the faint trace of polish from the dresser. And underneath that, woven through it all like something that refuses to disperse, the scent of smoke and salt and sweetness.
My stomach tightens before I consciously register why.
It shouldn’t linger like that.
It shouldn’t cling to the air hours after they left the room.
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe slowly, steadily, willing my body back into something resembling normal. I tell myself it’s heightened senses after being sick. That recovery can do strange things. That the human brain is easily tricked when it’s been through stress.
But when I sit up, the restlessness follows me.
It isn’t anxiety. It isn’t nerves. It feels almost physical – a low hum under my skin, as though something is searching for a frequency it can’t quite lock onto.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, and the moment my feet hit the floor, I’m aware of the house in a way that feels disproportionate. The quiet downstairs. The shift of someone moving in the kitchen. The faint, distant thud of a cupboard door closing.
I shower, hoping heat will settle me. The steam helps at first, softening the edges of my thoughts, but the moment I step out and the air cools against my skin, the awareness floods back in. Sea salt. Warm sand. Smoke. And something sweet that makes my pulse lift in a way that has nothing to do with memory.
By the time I reach the kitchen, I’m wound tight enough that I don’t trust myself to speak without sounding strange.
Koa is there, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand, sunlight cutting across his shoulder. He looks up when I enter, and the shift in his expression is subtle but immediate – his posture straightens, attention sharpening in a way that feels almost instinctive.
The twins are ridiculously good looking. Golden tans, infectious grins, sparkling eyes and boy next door charm. There’s something softer, warmer, more genuine and serious about Koa though. It settles the restlessness in me a little.
“You’re up early,” he says quietly.
The sound of his voice slides through me in a way that is far too noticeable.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I answer, though that isn’t entirely true. I slept. I just never fully drifted. I hovered, half-aware, like my body was waiting for something.
As I step further into the room, his scent reaches me properly, and the difference from yesterday is startling in its clarity. The shared base is still there – sea salt and warm sand, sunlit and familiar – but where Kai’s presence carries richness mixed with a hint of bitterness, Koa’s has a sweet, almost addictive brightness. Both are smooth and indulgent and grounding in a way that makes my shoulders loosen before I can stop it.
It feels like stepping onto solid ground after walking too long over shifting sand.
I hate that I notice.
“You’re staring,” he says mildly.
“Do I smell different?” I ask without thinking.
His brows draw together slightly, taking my question seriously while he considers it. His twin would probably have cracked a joke about me needing a shower. I honestly don’t know how I ever confused them. “Different how?”
“To how I usually smell,” I clarify, frustrated that the words feel inadequate. “Stronger. Or maybe clearer? I never knew what my beta scent was, but I feel different now.”
He considers that for a moment, studying me in a way that is too perceptive to be accidental. “You’ve been through a lot,” he says eventually. “Sometimes your senses sharpen before they settle.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He doesn’t interrupt. I get the impression that he never would.
I move closer, not deliberately but not accidentally either, and the shift in my body is immediate. The hum under my skinlowers in pitch. The tightness in my chest eases. I don’t have to think about breathing, it simply becomes easier.
Koa notices. Of course he does.