Delorah woke to silence—thick enough to smother her.
Her body ached. Head buzzing. Throat dry. Nose still sore from the burn. Blinking slowly, she tried to place the shadows dancing across the gauzy curtains.
This wasn't her room.
The sheets didn't belong to her.
The air was colder. Richer. Laced with candle wax, cologne, and something bitter she couldn't name.
Kit's room.
She sat up, every movement crackling with stiffness.Her clothes clung to her awkwardly, twisted from sleep. One heel was still on.
The other lay abandoned near the base of Kit's desk—like some forgotten artifact from a girl who'd walked into this house last night and hadn't quite come back out.
Her fingers rose instinctively to her face.
Crusted mascara.
Dry mouth.
She winced.
Then the memories hit.
The gazebo. The drugs.
Kit's hand on hers, guiding the straw.
The taste of glass.
That dizzying rush—so fast it made her laugh. Then panic. Then float.
She exhaled shakily. Her stomach turned, unsure if it wanted to be sick or just fold in on itself.
Kit wasn't in the room.
His desk remained cluttered with the aftermath: empty water bottles, a crumpled tissue, a stray crystal glinting faintly in the morning light.
His bed—where she'd apparently passed out—was enormous and tangled, wrapped in dark blankets and soft pillows that smelled like him.
Too comforting. The kind that made her suspicious by default.
A note sat on the bedside table, scribbled in rushed pen:
> Gone for coffee. You're safe. Don't run off or I'll find you. —K
She let out a small, dry laugh.
Don't run off.
Her phone buzzed from somewhere on the floor. She leaned over and fished it out from the space between the bed and the wall.
One bar of service.
A missed call from her mother—3:07 a.m. No voicemail.
Just a single text:
> We won't be back until Wednesday. Your father's meetings are longer than planned. Be smart. Love you.
Delorah stared at the screen.
Her thumb hovered… then locked the phone again.
She stood slowly, stretching and shivering as her bare feet touched the cool wood floor.
No clocks in Kit's room—just the shifting light, soft and gray, hinting it might be 8 or 9 a.m.
Or later.
Time felt warped in here.
Like the world outside had pressed pause and forgotten them.
Delorah padded toward the window, brushing the curtain aside with two fingers.
The sky was overcast.
The lawn below blanketed in morning mist.
The trees beyond stood heavy with silence—a kind of hush that made it feel like she was peering out from inside a snow globe.
Her own reflection startled her.
Dark-rimmed eyes.
Dry lips.
Hair tangled in uneven waves.
And beneath it all… something else.
Something she couldn't name.
She didn't look like a girl who told lies.
But she had.
To her parents.
To herself.
To Kit.
And she liked it.
Her hand drifted to the simple silver necklace still looped around her throat—something her father had given her long ago.
It suddenly felt foreign.
Heavy.
Out of place.
Everything did.
Just as she tugged the curtain back into place, the bedroom door creaked open behind her.
She turned, sharp and alert.
Kit stood in the doorway, balancing two steaming mugs in one hand. A cigarette was tucked behind his ear.
His hoodie was on backwards—half-zipped, one sleeve inside out—and he looked like someone who had wandered straight through the night without noticing.
His eyes were bright. Wired. Not bloodshot, but too alert.
The drug hadn't let him crash yet.
"You're awake," he said. Lightly. But something in his shoulders was too tense, too still.
"Barely," she muttered.
He nudged the door shut with his heel and crossed the room, handing her one of the mugs.
It smelled like cinnamon and chemicals.
Store-bought hot chocolate, probably.
"It's not coffee," he said, flopping onto the edge of the bed beside her, "but I figured sugar might help. I wasn't sure how hard it hit you."
Delorah wrapped her fingers around the ceramic and just held it.
"My head's kind of humming."
"That'll happen." Kit took a sip from his own mug, then let out a dry laugh. "First time's like that. Everything's too loud for a while."
She studied him. "Did you even sleep?"
He shrugged. "Didn't want to. Not with you here."
A beat.
He looked at her, voice dipping just slightly.
"You were talking in your sleep."
Her eyebrows lifted. "What did I say?"
"Something about glass. And lying. And rabbits, weirdly."
She let out a soft laugh. "I don't remember any rabbits."
"Yeah, well. Brains are weird."
He fell quiet again, sipping from his mug, gaze drifting around the room like he didn't quite recognize it.
Like he was seeing it through her eyes for the first time.
And maybe… didn't like what it showed.
Delorah watched him for a moment.
"You didn't have to stay up," she said finally.
Kit gave her a sideways look. "Yeah, I did."
She didn't ask why.
Maybe she already knew.
Neither of them spoke for a long minute.
They just sat there, quietly sipping from mismatched mugs.
The silence wasn't comfortable—
but it wasn't sharp either.
Just buzzing. Hovering.
Her skull still hummed, a thin, high-wire buzz tracing her spine.
Her hands trembled faintly.
But Kit's presence grounded her in a strange, steadying way.
Like he was a weight keeping her tethered to the now.
"I thought your room would be... different," she said softly, leaning her head against the wall behind her.
He glanced at her. "Different how?"
"I don't know. Cleaner? More… curated. You seem like the type who pretends not to care but secretly alphabetizes his record collection."
Kit snorted. "As you can see, definitely not alphabetized."
He gestured toward a record on the floor—dusty, out of its sleeve, abandoned mid-thought.
"Tragic," she teased.
He smiled behind his cup, but it slipped away just as quickly.
His gaze drifted toward the window she'd just let the light through.
Morning rays caught in his hair, gilding the ends like smoke turned gold.
"I stopped trying to make this place look like someone lived here," he murmured. "After she was gone, it just started feeling like a set. Like if I moved anything, it would prove she wasn't coming back."
Delorah's stomach dipped.
"Since your mom?" she asked gently.
He nodded, slow and deliberate.
"I'm sorry," she offered—quietly, honestly, even if she wasn't sure she had the right.
He didn't respond at first. Just ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. Long. Frayed.
"You know, she used to call me Adrian," he said at last. Like a secret.
"No nicknames. No shortcuts. Just—Adrian."
He swallowed.
"And after she died… I couldn't hear it anymore. It felt like someone was pressing their thumb against a bruise that would never go away."
Delorah set her mug down gently on the bedside table.
"I get it," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you?"
"My dad calls me Little Miss Delorah." She made a face. "Like I'm still five and in some ridiculous pageant dress. And my mom… she doesn't even say my name half the time. Just—'don't disappoint us.'"
Kit turned to her fully then, frowning.
"That's cold."
Delorah shrugged, unbothered. "We match, don't we?"
A quiet beat passed between them.
Then he reached out, slow and careful, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"Maybe we're both just figuring out how to be someone else."
She didn't pull away.
"Is that what you're doing?" she asked.
Kit leaned back, throwing one arm across the headboard like it was the only thing holding him up.
"It's not like I have a plan. Kit's just… easier."
"Easier than Adrian?"
He nodded, slow. Heavy.
She watched him—really watched him—and saw it.
The war behind his eyes.
The exhaustion beneath all that intensity.
Like the weight of his own performance was starting to bend him in places he hadn't noticed yet.
"You don't have to be anything with me," she said suddenly.
He blinked, startled by the gentleness in her voice.
"I mean it," she added, cheeks going warm. "If you want to be Kit, fine. If you want to be Adrian, that's fine too. But I'm not expecting anything from you."
Something shifted in his gaze. Softened.
He opened his mouth like he was going to say something—
but then closed it again.
"…Thanks," he said finally.
Quiet. Real.
Then, without looking directly at her, he reached behind him and grabbed a crumpled hoodie from the foot of the bed.
"Here," he said, tossing it her way. "You're still in last night's clothes. You wanna shower? I'll make you something that might pass for breakfast."
Delorah caught the hoodie and hugged it close to her chest.
And for the first time since waking up, the buzz in her head felt like it might actually dissolve
into something gentle.
POV: Kit
Delorah's footsteps echoed faintly from the bathroom. The warmth of the shower had fogged the mirror and softened the edges of the world, but Kit's mind remained sharp. Restless.
He moved quietly to the kitchen, pulling out eggs and bread, forcing himself to focus on the task. Simple. Grounding. His hands were steady—despite the pounding in his chest.
He wanted this morning to feel safe. A bubble sealed off from the chaos waiting outside.
Soon the smell of frying eggs filled the kitchen, warm and familiar. He plated everything with more care than he ever had—two neat portions, toast edged just right. A small smile tugged at his lips. Maybe, for just a moment, this could be normal.
The bathroom door creaked open.
A few seconds later, Delorah stepped into the kitchen, towel-wrapped hair dripping at the ends, cheeks pink from the shower.
"Smells good," she murmured, eyes catching his.
"Figured you'd need fuel today," Kit replied, keeping his voice light. Casual.
They sat side by side, eating quietly. The silence between them felt like a fragile truce with the world—warm, tentative, real.
Then—footsteps.
Kit's spine straightened. His pulse picked up.
Sebastian.
The scrape of boots across tile sliced through the moment like a blade. He entered the kitchen slowly, gaze scanning the scene with unreadable precision. He didn't look surprised. Just… patient. Watching.
His eyes found Delorah first, then Kit.
"Well, well," he said, voice smooth as oil, cold as glass. "Adrian. Or should I say… Kit."
Kit didn't look up.
But his fork paused halfway to his mouth.
Sebastian dropped his bag on the counter with a deliberate thud.
"Thought I left my jacket," he said casually, though the gleam in his eyes told another story. "Or maybe I just wanted to see what kind of company you keep when no one's watching."
Delorah stiffened. The words weren't aimed at her directly, but they slithered close enough to sting. Her fingers tightened around her mug. She kept her gaze low, but her skin buzzed with awareness. This wasn't like the Sebastian from last night—smooth and smirking in the shadows. This was colder. Sharper. The kind of presence that didn't need to shout to be dangerous.
Kit set the knife down and finally met Sebastian's gaze, voice flat.
"It's not your house."
Sebastian stepped closer, eyes flicking to Delorah with a dark gleam.
"Still here, huh?"
He tilted his head, voice silken.
"Guess you made more than just an impression."
A beat. A smirk.
"Turns out you do clean up nice."
Her spine stiffened, heat crawling up the back of her neck.
The words weren't exactly cruel—just measured, calculated, the way a blade might be drawn slowly rather than struck.
For a second, she felt naked again. Not physically, but exposed, like he saw too much and cared too little.
She hated that it made her feel smaller.
Kit bristled beside her.
"Don't talk to her like that."
Sebastian didn't flinch. He looked at Kit, smile slowly spreading.
"I was just admiring your taste. Didn't think you had any."
Kit's fists curled. "Not here."
"Relax," Sebastian said, backing off with a casual shrug.
"Just stopping by."
He looked back at Delorah, slower this time—smirk twitching like a dare.
"Enjoy breakfast."
The moment stretched a little too long before he turned and left.
When the front door clicked shut behind him, it felt like a spell had broken.
Delorah let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her shoulders sagging.
Something in her chest ached—not just from the encounter, but from the way Kit was staring at the door, like the storm hadn't really passed.
She looked up at him, eyes still glassy from the night before but flickering with something steadier now—gratitude, maybe. Or resolve.
"I didn't know it would hit me that hard," she said quietly, voice rasped and real.
Kit gave a half-smile, poking at his own toast with a fork. "Stimulants aren't exactly a gentle ride," he said. "Not everyone's built for them."
Delorah nodded faintly, her appetite still slow to return. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her plate.
"You stayed," she said after a moment. Her tone wasn't light—it was too raw for that—but it carried something softer. "You didn't leave me alone."
Kit leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "Of course I didn't." A beat passed. "Wasn't about to let you crash in a house like this. Especially not with him showing up like that."
She glanced over at him, catching the flicker in his eyes. The tension that hadn't quite left his shoulders.
"Still," she said, more to herself than to him. "That could've gone worse."
Kit gave a dry laugh. "Yeah. Believe it or not, that was him behaving."
Delorah managed a faint, humorless smile. "I don't want to find out what the opposite looks like."
His gaze met hers—something dark and steady behind it. "You won't."
A silence settled. Not quite peace, but something like it.
"You look like hell, by the way," she added softly. Part tease, part concern.
"I feel like it." He smirked, but it didn't last. "Messes are good at hiding."
She studied him for a second—dark circles, clenched jaw, every muscle holding some invisible line. He wasn't just tired. He was bracing.
"You don't have to keep doing that," she said.
"Doing what?"
"Carrying all of it."
That gave him pause. He blinked at her, like he didn't know what to do with that kind of permission.
Delorah looked down, tearing off a corner of her toast. "So… what now?"
Kit exhaled, slow and deliberate. "We get through today," he said. "No drama. No parents. No Sebastian."
She nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. "That sounds... kind of perfect."
They ate the rest in a quiet that didn't erase the morning's sharpness—just wrapped it in something warm enough to bear.
The morning sunlight filtered softly through the kitchen window, casting lazy golden streaks across the floor. The quiet between them wasn't silence anymore—it was a fragile kind of peace.
"Wanna watch something?" Kit asked, nodding toward the living room. "Distract ourselves from… all this?"
Delorah gave a real smile—small, but honest. "Yeah. Something chill."
They migrated to the worn-out couch, a heap of DVDs and a streaming remote between them. Kit flicked through the options, finally landing on a classic comedy—something harmless, familiar, almost nostalgic.
As the movie played, Delorah felt herself start to unwind for the first time in days. Kit's presence beside her was steady now—so different from the wild storm of the night before. The chaos in him had gone quiet, like the eye of a hurricane finally holding still.
Halfway through the film, she felt the subtle shift of his weight. Kit's head tilted gently, resting against her shoulder, his breath slowing into something deep and even.
"Hey," she whispered, lips curving into a smile. "You're falling asleep."
He didn't answer—already gone. The tension in his jaw had melted, his expression soft in a way she hadn't seen before.
Delorah hesitated, then leaned into him just slightly, adjusting to support his weight. A warmth bloomed in her chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
The bad boy act felt miles away now. What remained was something quieter. Something that asked to be held.
For a long while, she just sat like that—his head on her shoulder, the movie's canned laughter echoing faintly in the background. Outside, the world spun on, but in here, time slowed just enough for her to catch her breath.
She stayed still, steady, letting him sleep.
Eventually, her own eyes grew heavy. The ache in her bones from the past two days began to pull at her. And slowly—without fear, without panic—Delorah let herself drift.
The movie played on. The room dimmed with the changing light. And the two of them slept, curled together like the storm had finally passed.
The morning sunlight had long faded, replaced by the soft hush of afternoon shadows curling against the windows.
Kit stirred first.
His lashes fluttered open, breath hitching like he'd forgotten where he was—until he registered the warmth beneath his cheek.
Delorah.
She was still asleep, her head tilted gently against the back of the couch, golden strands of hair tangled against the shoulder of his hoodie. The movie had ended long ago, the screen quiet now, casting a soft blue glow across her features.
He didn't move.
Didn't dare.
His heart thudded a little harder as he looked at her—really looked. There was something raw in the way sleep had smoothed the edges of her face. Vulnerable. Trusting. Like she hadn't guarded herself when the exhaustion took her. Like she'd felt safe enough to let go.
His throat tightened.
She didn't know what it meant—to him—that she stayed. That she let him rest beside her like this. That she hadn't run when things got dark.
A small frown tugged at his lips, not from displeasure, but something far more complicated.
Longing.
He wanted to reach out, tuck her hair behind her ear the way he had earlier. He wanted to memorize the curve of her expression. He wanted to burn this into his memory, in case the world took it back tomorrow.
But instead, Kit just watched her.
Quiet. Still.
Like if he breathed too loudly, the moment would slip away.
"You're gonna ruin me," he whispered, barely audible. Not accusatory—just honest.
Delorah stirred slightly, but didn't wake. Her head leaned a little closer toward his, unconsciously seeking warmth.
Kit smiled then. Tired, soft, aching.
And for once, he let himself just be there—no mask, no posture, no performance.
Just a boy with bruised edges, watching the only person who made the world feel a little less cruel.
The room was still wrapped in quiet when Delorah stirred.
She shifted slowly, warmth pulling at her senses before awareness followed. Her eyes blinked open—hazy, soft—and landed on the weight against her shoulder.
Kit.
His eyes were already open, gaze distant but soft, as if he'd been watching the storm pass outside some window only he could see. She shifted slightly, and he sat up straighter, pulling away gently.
"Sorry," he murmured, voice low and rough. "Didn't mean to fall asleep on you."
Delorah blinked the sleep from her eyes, still caught in the strange peace of it. "It's okay," she whispered. "You looked… calm. For once."
Kit gave a dry breath of a laugh, but there was no real humor in it. Just exhaustion.
A pause passed between them — heavy with something unspoken.
Then, Kit broke it.
"It's getting late," he said, standing, his voice still hoarse. "I should drive you home."
Delorah blinked, surprised. "Are you sure? You just woke up."
He offered a crooked half-smile, one that faltered at the edges. "Yeah, well… I don't exactly trust myself to be alone with you right now. Not when I'm like this."
There was no malice in his voice. Just raw honesty.
Delorah sat up straighter, watching the tension ripple through his shoulders, the twitch of his jaw. This wasn't just about the come-down. There was something simmering deeper. An ache he didn't know how to name.
"Okay," she said softly. "I trust you."
The drive was quiet.
The kind of quiet that hummed with too much meaning.
Streetlights blurred across the windshield as they moved through the city, each one casting flickers of gold across Kit's face. Delorah watched the reflections dance on the window, her breath fogging the glass in soft circles.
Her parents were gone again — another business trip, another sterile house with too many rules and no warmth. They wouldn't notice if she stayed out, but they'd ask questions if she came home looking like she'd lived.
"I hate that place," she said suddenly, barely louder than the hum of the engine. "It's not even a home. It's just… a resume with a roof."
Kit's grip on the wheel didn't change, but his voice was quiet when he replied. "Do you ever feel like you're just stuck? Like everything's already decided for you?"
She turned to look at him, startled. "That's what I was going to say."
He flicked his eyes to her, and for a second, the weight between them lifted — a shared understanding hanging in the air like smoke.
"Every damn day," he murmured. "But sometimes... you gotta break the script."
Delorah smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I wish I knew how."
The car slowed as they pulled up in front of her house, the porch light casting sterile shadows on the driveway. They sat in silence for a beat, neither quite ready to break whatever had formed in that quiet space between them.
"Be careful," Kit said at last, his voice serious now. "People are watching more than you think."
Delorah hesitated, the weight of his words sinking deeper than she expected.
She nodded. "You too."
She stepped out into the night, jacket drawn tight, and paused halfway up the walk. Kit was still watching her — not possessive, not pleading — just there, like a tether she hadn't known she'd grown used to.
She didn't wave.
He didn't drive off.
Not until she slipped inside and the door shut behind her.
As the door shut behind her, she felt a strange mix of warmth and weight settle in her chest — comfort in the secret they shared, and the heavy truth that their escape was only temporary.