This isn’t going to stay contained.
And when it blows, it won’t be the bet that ruins everything.
It’ll be the thing I’m absolutely not ready to admit is getting under my skin.
TWENTY-NINE
LANI
Sleep comes in pieces.
Not the clean kind that pulls you under and lets go gently, but the fractured sort – thin, drifting layers I slip through without ever fully surfacing. Time loses its edges. I stop knowing when night becomes day, when one hour bleeds into the next.
There are moments.
Warmth settling over me, heavy and careful.
The press of a palm at my back when I shiver.
A glass touching my lips, tipped just enough that I don’t choke.
Voices pass in and out of focus – low, controlled, sometimes tense. I can never quite tell who belongs to which. They blur together, a hum beneath my thoughts, steady enough that my body stops panicking even when my mind doesn’t know why.
I should be afraid of that.
Instead, every time I drift close to waking, something in my chest loosens, as if I’ve been gently anchored. As if whatever waits for me on the surface will keep me upright.
I don’t remember pain so much as heat – feverish and crawling under my skin. I remember shaking, and then not. I remember the weight of blankets being adjusted, tucked tighter around my shoulders, like someone thought I might disappear if they didn’t keep me contained.
I don’t remember being alone.
When I wake properly, it’s hunger that does it.
Real hunger. Sharp enough that it pulls a sound from my throat before I can stop it. My eyes crack open, squinting against light that feels too bright but not cruel. The room smells different – cleaner. Like soap and warm fabric and something deeper underneath that makes my stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with food.
My body feels heavy, but not wrong. Weak, yes. Sore in that deep, aftermath way. But the fever has broken. The buzzing under my skin is gone.
I blink, taking inventory.
I’m in bed. But notmybed. This is not my grandmother’s house. The sheets are fresh – different from the ones I vaguely remember climbing into. I’m wearing an oversized shirt, the cotton soft and worn thin. My hair is braided loosely over one shoulder.
I didn’t do that.
The realisation lands quietly.
Before I can chase it, the door opens.
Koa steps in carrying a tray, moving carefully, like he expects the floor to betray him if he isn’t respectful enough. He stops short when he sees my eyes are open.
“Hey,” he says, softly.
My throat feels like sandpaper. “Hey.”
He smiles faintly, relief flickering across his face before he schools it away. Sets the tray down on the bedside table and pulls the chair closer without asking. The tray smells incredible –toast, eggs, something sweet and buttery that makes my mouth water.
“You’ve been asleep a while,” he says. “Figured you’d wake hungry.”
“Is that a guess,” I mumble, “or are you psychic?”