Nothing that means anything.
I stand there longer than I should, staring at the horizon like it might give me answers if I wait long enough.
It doesn’t.
Eventually, I turn back.
Didn’t look like mine.
The house is already awake when I get home.
Kai’s at the counter, shirtless and smug, elbow-deep in a cereal box like he owns the place. Koa’s sprawled on the sofa, scrolling his phone. Finn leans against the window, eyes tracking the beach.
All three of them look up when I walk in.
“Morning, sunshine,” Kai says. “You look like shit.”
“Feel like it too,” I mutter, kicking my boots off by the door.
Koa squints at me. “You sleep?”
“Enough.”
Finn doesn’t smile. His gaze lingers, sharp and assessing. “You were next door.”
It’s not a question.
“Helping with plants,” I say flatly.
Kai snorts. “Didn’t know begonias got you this worked up.”
I glare at him. He shuts up.
Finn tilts his head. “You alright?”
“I’m fine.”
It comes out too fast.
Something flickers in his expression, but he lets it go, nodding like he’s filed it away for later. I don’t like that look. I don’t like him seeing past the edges I show.
“I’m showering,” I say, already turning toward the stairs.
“Try not to wrestle the foliage this time,” Kai calls after me.
I flip him off without looking back.
Five minutes later, the water’s hot enough to sting.
I brace my hands against the tiles and let it run, head bowed, breath slow and controlled.
That mark.
Couldn’t be mine.
It didn’t look like mine.
I tell myself again: she wouldn’t be on the app if she wasn’t a beta. Systems don’t get that wrong. They can’t. People don’t slip through cracks like that.