POV: Sebastian
The street was empty, washed in the cold blue light of sodium lamps. Across from the sprawling house, Sebastian sat behind the wheel of his car, shrouded in leather and shadow. The engine was off, leaving only the faint tick of metal cooling beneath his palm and the soft, expensive hush that came with neighborhoods like this—where no one looked out their windows, where secrets cost as much as the art on the walls.
He had been parked there long before Kit's taillights drifted into view, painting slow, uncertain arcs across the hedges. Long before Delorah stepped out, clutching Kit's hoodie like it was a shield, a claim, a brand. She moved quietly, chin tucked, the night wind catching loose strands of her hair and dragging them across her cheek. Sebastian watched her—eyes trained and unblinking, every line of his body taut with patience.
She paused at the foot of the driveway, fumbling for her keys, head bowed against the hush. The porch light cut a halo around her, softening the sharpness of her features, tracing a line of gold across her collarbone. She didn't look back. Didn't check the shadows. Didn't know she was being seen, measured, memorized.
Typical. Trusting. Careless.
Sebastian's phone sat silent on the dash, screen dark, waiting. He picked it up with practiced grace, thumb gliding across glass. One tap—the camera app opened, the lens catching a bead of condensation in the air. He framed her through the windshield, breath barely moving.
Click.
The shutter was silent, but inside him, something cracked—sharp, electric, echoing up through his ribs.
He stared at the photo. Delorah, mid-step, caught between worlds: porch light glazing her eyes, hair still damp from someone else's shower, Kit's hoodie draped around her like an afterthought. There was a hint of a smile on her mouth, the kind she never wore around him. The kind he'd always wanted to see. The sight of it stung, familiar and infuriating all at once.
He saved the image, pressing it into memory, into the private gallery no one else would ever see.
It should have been me.
He didn't speak the words aloud, but they thudded through his mind, heavy as stone. Inevitable as gravity. Every muscle in his body coiled tight around the truth of it.
He stayed there long after her door closed, after the house swallowed her whole. Let the silence fill him. Let the need and the resentment and the ache twist together in his chest. He let himself imagine what it would feel like if she had looked back, if she had seen him, if she had come to him instead.
When he finally let the thought go, a slow, bitter smile crept across his lips. It felt like victory. It felt like loss. And for tonight, that was enough.
---
Delorah stirred beneath linen sheets, the softness foreign after a night spent curled on Kit's floor. Light bled through the curtains in thin, gold ribbons. She blinked up at the ceiling, throat dry, her pulse skipping with nerves and some feeling she refused to name.
Her phone lay beside her, cold and silent. The last texts from her parents scrolled at the top of the screen:
Flight delayed again. We'll be back Friday. Behave, darling. Have Monica check in if you need anything.
She didn't need anything from them—not now.
What she wanted was to talk to Kit. To know if last night had meant as much to him as it did to her.
She rolled onto her side, clinging to the hoodie she still hadn't returned. Kit's scent lingered in the cotton—cigarettes, cologne, that sharp chemical note underneath. Somehow, it comforted her more than the bed, more than any words her parents could send.
Unlocking her phone, Delorah found herself staring at his name in her contacts.She smiled despite herself.
She hesitated, thumb poised to type.
How did I end up with his number anyway?
The memory flickered up—soft and blurry, a scrap of the night she almost forgot:
---
—Flashback, Friday Night—
The sharp edges of the buzz had dulled by the time Delorah burrowed into Kit's oversized hoodie on his bedroom floor. The stereo played low, something slow and dreamy, barely audible over their breaths.
She felt weightless. Distant. Limbs tangled in the folds of borrowed fabric, mind trailing somewhere between sleep and starlight.
Kit leaned back against the wall, one knee up, eyes a little sunken but gentler than before. The manic shimmer had faded, replaced by something quieter, something almost vulnerable.
"You good?" His voice was softer than usual.
She nodded, too tired for words.
He reached for his phone, tapped the screen, and held it out. "Give me your number," he said.
She blinked, eyebrow raised.
"Not like that," he mumbled, awkward now. "Just… in case. I dunno. Maybe you ghost me after this. I'll want to know why."
A faint smirk tugged at her lips. "I won't ghost you."
"You say that now." He managed a lopsided smile.
She took the phone, fingers fumbling the keys, the letters swimming a little. When she finished, she handed it back. "Don't save me as just 'Delorah.' That's boring."
He quirked a brow. "How about 'Trouble'?"
"Bet you already have someone under that name."
Kit grinned, that rare, unguarded laugh breaking the hush. "Alright—'Del the Menace.'"
"Better," she murmured, nestling deeper into the hoodie, her smile hidden in the collar.
She didn't feel like a menace. She felt small, safe, flickering under the heat of his attention.
---
—Present—
The memory faded as her thumb hovered over the message thread. She shook her head, smiling to herself.
You alive? she typed, sending it before she could overthink.
The waiting began all over again—Kit's hoodie still tight in her grip, the room too quiet, her heart thudding out a restless rhythm for whatever came next.
Delorah flopped onto her back, limbs heavy, and stared up at the ceiling. The silence in her bedroom was thick enough to muffle thought, a hush padded with money and expectation. Everything in here gleamed with purpose: sheets perfectly tucked, a row of designer perfume bottles standing at attention on her dresser, a candle with a gold label she'd never dared burn. The air itself was staged. Not a single picture out of place.
It all felt like a dollhouse.
A room designed for someone who didn't exist.
She rolled onto her stomach, cheek pressed to the cool pillow, and thumbed her phone again. Still no reply from Kit. The screen glared back, too bright in the soft gray morning.
He's probably still awake. Still wired. Or finally asleep. Maybe both.
A knot tightened in her chest.
Unable to stay still, she slid out of bed and padded to the full-length mirror. Her reflection stared back—hair wild, eyes a little red, skin washed out by the pale light. The shadows beneath her lashes looked like the ghost of last night, too faint for anyone else to notice. She dragged her fingers through her hair, but made no effort to fix it.
Makeup could hide the evidence.
She could paint herself into something passable.
But today, she didn't care to try.
Her gaze dropped to the hoodie swallowing her frame, sleeves falling over her hands. The fabric was soft with wear, and every inch of it clung to Kit's scent—cigarettes, that sharp edge of cologne, a note of something chemical and forbidden. She tugged it closer, almost hugging herself, letting the memory of danger settle over her like armor.
For a second, she let herself pretend the room belonged to her, that she was a girl who made her own choices, who could leave the mess on the floor and the candle burning down to nothing.
For a second, she pretended Kit was still with her, laughing in the dark.
The feeling faded, but the ache didn't.
Her phone buzzed, the sound startling in the hush. Delorah's heart kicked, fingers fumbling as she snatched it up.
Kit:
Alive. Just barely. Missed your chaos already. You okay?
A grin threatened, bright and involuntary, tugging at her lips before she could stop it. Her thumbs danced, hesitated, erased. She read his message again—each word a tiny spark—and finally let herself answer:
Delorah:
Everything's so boring without you.
The seconds dragged, slow as honey. She stared at the glowing screen, caught between hope and nerves.
Kit:
Careful. That sounds like a compliment.
She snorted, rolling her eyes, but her fingers moved with new steadiness.
Delorah:
Don't get used to it.
She tossed the phone gently onto the tangle of blankets, a blush blooming high on her cheeks. For a moment, the world felt lighter—like color returning to a faded photograph.
Delorah drifted toward the window, hoodie sleeves pushed up over her hands. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, staring down at the perfect, empty driveway. The street below looked untouched, not a single car out of place. Even the trees seemed too neatly pruned, the whole neighborhood polished to a sterile, breathless shine.
Not a soul in sight.
Not a sound.
It was the kind of silence that gnaws at your bones, hungry and restless.
There was no one to lie to today.
No roles to play, no parents hovering, no teachers peering over her shoulder.
Just the endless ache of stillness, stretching between the walls.
She pressed her palm against the window, craving something—noise, chaos, trouble. Anything to shatter the dollhouse calm.
All she had was Kit's words, humming quietly in her pocket.
And suddenly, it didn't feel like quite enough.
.
.
.
.
Kit woke to gray light slanting through blackout curtains, the room thick with old air and yesterday's ghosts. His back ached, a punishment for sleeping half-off the mattress, one leg tangled in a sheet, the other sprawled across a carpet littered with receipts, bottle caps, and a half-crushed pack of cigarettes.
The place stank of sweat, smoke, and something sour—an unmade bed, a hoodie missing, a silence that hummed against the walls like static. He blinked up at the cracked ceiling, trying to orient himself. Memory blurred and snapped back: Delorah's laugh, the echo of her body pressed next to his, the soft, startled way she'd looked at him in the morning light.
The ache in his chest surprised him.
He rolled over, face buried in a pillow that didn't smell like her. For a second, he hated himself for noticing. For wanting more.
Kit groaned and sat up, rubbing the grit from his eyes. He found his phone wedged beneath a dog-eared copy of Norwegian Wood, thumbed it to life. The battery was nearly dead, the screen crowded with missed alerts—none of them from anyone who mattered.
He almost put the phone down.
Then he saw her message:
You alive?
His lips quirked. He could hear her voice in his head, teasing and warm, the edge of challenge hidden in the words.
He typed back, hands a little shaky.
Alive. Just barely. Missed your chaos already. You okay?
He tossed the phone onto the mattress, watched the screen go dark. For a moment, he just sat there, listening to the house creak around him, the quiet more honest than he wanted to admit.
He wondered what Delorah was doing—if she felt as out of place in her world as he did in his.
He wanted to ask, but didn't want to seem desperate.
Kit got up and stumbled into the bathroom, splashing cold water over his face, watching it bead on his skin in the mirror. The bruises under his eyes were deeper this morning, like something blooming beneath the surface.
He wiped his mouth on a towel and stared at his reflection, searching for something—bravery, maybe, or just a reason to pretend the day was normal.
When his phone buzzed again, he snatched it up, relief punching a hole through his chest.
Everything's so boring without you.
He laughed, a sound rough with hope.
Careful. That sounds like a compliment.
When her answer came, he shook his head, smiling into the empty room.
Don't get used to it.
Kit let the phone drop onto the counter, savoring the tiny warmth she left him.
The silence still pressed close, but now, somewhere inside it, a little spark caught fire and refused to die.
.
.
.
.
His mood soured the moment he opened his door. The brief warmth from Delorah's text faded as the house asserted itself—polished wood underfoot, the hush of too many closed doors, a silence that belonged to someone else.
He made his way downstairs, bare feet skimming the cold marble, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands. The kitchen was all stainless steel and glass, harsh with morning light.
Sebastian sat at the long, gleaming island, a laptop open in front of him, hands folded neatly beside a mug of something dark and expensive. He wore a crisp button-down, tie half-loosened, eyes already sharp with the day's business. There was no mess, no warmth, nothing out of place.
Kit stood in the kitchen's doorway, every instinct screaming to turn back, but pride forced him forward. He opened the fridge, grabbed a yogurt, then busied himself with the coffee machine, not trusting his hands to stay steady.
Sebastian sat at the island, laptop open, sipping coffee like a man with nowhere better to be. He didn't look up at first, just let the silence build, then finally:
"Late night, Adrian?"
Kit didn't answer.
Sebastian's lips twitched. "You should be careful who you bring into this place. Some people don't understand the rules around here."
Kit stabbed his spoon into the yogurt. "She's not your business."
"Isn't she?" Sebastian closed his laptop with a deliberate snap, gaze settling on Kit. "You barely know this girl. The Delorahs of the world—" he paused, letting her name hang between them like a dare, "they don't tend to stick around once they see what's behind the curtain. Not for long."
Kit glared at him. "Maybe you don't know her as well as you think."
Sebastian smiled, cold and clinical. "Maybe you don't either. Or maybe you're just hoping she'll like the story you've told her better than the truth."
Kit bristled, voice low. "That's rich, coming from you."
Sebastian's eyes flicked briefly to the hoodie Kit wore—similar to the one he had seen Delorah in last night, though he pretended not to notice. "You're welcome to try. But just remember, people in this family who get attached usually end up bleeding for it. Or worse."
Kit's breath stilled. "Is that a threat?"
Sebastian stood, mug in hand, steps slow and measured as he circled the island. He leaned in just enough for Kit to feel the chill of his words.
"It's advice, Adrian. Don't make a mess you can't clean up. Dad hates stains." He glanced at the floor, then at Kit's hands. "And you're already wearing her scent."
He walked away, shoes silent on the tile, the echo of his words hanging in the gleaming, empty kitchen.
Kit stood there, pulse pounding, appetite gone.
POV: Sebastian
The kitchen door closed behind him with barely a sound, but the echo of his brother's stare lingered like smoke on his skin. Sebastian moved through the house with measured ease, his every step a choice, not a habit. He paused at the base of the stairs, casting a glance over his shoulder, then slipped away into the hush of his private office.
The space was as precise as a museum ,polished mahogany, floor to ceiling windows veiled in gauze. Bookshelves lined with leather and first editions. A single lamp glowed on the glass desk, cool light spilling over the keys of his laptop.
Sebastian sat, loosening his tie with a practiced flick. He set his mug down, pulled the laptop closer, and woke the screen with a touch.
A marriage contract filled half the display—crisp black text, legal headers, signatures left unsigned.
The other half was a file:
LaRoche, Delorah May.
A high-res yearbook photo looked up at him, all school-uniform neatness and haunted eyes. Below it, details:
Birthdate. Parents' names and occupations. Academic records. Known associates. A cross-referenced social feed, a log of her movements over the past week.
Notes in his own hand: sharp, efficient, intimate in the worst way.
He scrolled through the data, his jaw set. Next to Delorah's name, he'd written a single word: Reserved
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
No one was untouchable. Not in this house.
On another tab, the draft contract glimmered. His name, her name, a nest of legal clauses and stipulations. He'd rewritten it twice already, erasing softness, carving in leverage, until the whole thing felt like a knife pressed to his own throat.
For a moment, Sebastian just stared at the two windows. The life he'd mapped out for her. The web he was weaving for himself.
He closed the file, stood, and gazed out into the grey afternoon.
Somewhere across the city, Delorah was laughing. Kit was spiraling. The world spun on, oblivious.
Sebastian touched the edge of the desk, steadying himself.
He'd learned long ago that love was a contract too. All that mattered was who signed first.
Sebastian's gaze lingered on the marriage contract for a moment longer. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he minimized the window, pulled up his contacts, and dialed.
Sebastian waited, fingers tapping an idle rhythm on the edge of his desk, as the call connected. The hush on the line was velvet-thick, punctuated by the faint sound of his father's breathing.
Finally, Mr. Honey's voice came through—clipped, impatient.
"Sebastian. Give me the rundown."
"House is in order," Sebastian replied, voice smooth as glass. "No issues."
"And your brother?"
The question carried weight. Suspicion, expectation, threat—all hidden under civility.
"Kit's under control," Sebastian said, choosing his words carefully. "He's… distracted."
A pause, then the lazy venom:
"I heard about your guest. The LaRoche girl. Is she really worth the trouble?"
There was no curiosity in his tone. Just the disinterested air of a man scanning a wine list.
Sebastian's jaw tensed. He glanced at the file on his laptop, Delorah's photo glowing in the blue light.
"She's the best option," he replied, tone crisp, measured. "Clean record. Good reputation. Her parents' influence is growing in the city. It's a smart alliance."
Mr. Honey hummed, bored. "There are other girls. Safer choices. The Patel daughter. The Griffins' niece."
Sebastian's grip tightened on the phone, his lips barely twitching, the only sign of disquiet before he smoothed them into silence. "Delorah is the right one. The others don't compare. She has… a certain quality. The kind we want associated with our family."
A long silence. Sebastian could almost see his father weighing the names like stock prices, nothing human in it.
"If you say so," Mr. Honey replied at last, indifferent. "Just don't let your personal preferences cloud your judgment. This is about the family, not your feelings."
Sebastian's mouth twisted into a polite, practiced smile—a mask no one could see.
"I understand. Trust me, Father. She's exactly what we need."
Another beat, the line crackling.
"I expect you to finalize the paperwork soon." Mr. Honey said. "No delays. No drama. If anything jeopardizes this arrangement, I'll expect you to clean it up."
Sebastian's eyes flicked again to Delorah's file, a single note highlighted: Reserved.
"Of course. You won't be disappointed."
Mr. Honey hung up first, the final authority.
Sebastian set the phone down, the office suddenly colder. He let his hand linger over Delorah's name, possessiveness flickering in his eyes—a hunger that had nothing to do with business.
The day dragged on, bright and empty. Delorah wandered from room to room, trailing Kit's hoodie over polished hardwood, every surface reflecting light in hard, unforgiving angles. Her parents' house was full of echoes: her own footsteps, the hush of the HVAC, the ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall. Nothing else.
She tried to distract herself. Turned on music—too cheerful, so she turned it off. Flipped through the TV channels but couldn't focus on any of them. Stood at the kitchen counter, staring at a bowl of apples until the shapes blurred.
She grazed through the pantry, chewing a handful of stale granola, the taste so dull it barely registered. She poured herself water and left the glass sweating on a coaster.
Back in her room, Delorah sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly through social media. Photos of parties she didn't attend, friends she didn't miss, updates from people who wouldn't notice if she disappeared. She wanted to text Kit again, but couldn't bring herself to be the one always reaching first.
A new message lit up her screen, the glow slicing through the hush:
Mom: We'll call later. Keep yourself presentable.
Presentable.
The word stung—more command than advice. It echoed through her ribs like a slap.
What if she didn't want to be?
What if she wanted to snap her pretty porcelain smile in half, scatter the pieces on these cold floors and let them stay broken?
She tossed the phone aside, curled up on the couch in the living room. The afternoon light stretched long and golden across the carpet, dust motes turning in the stillness. The house pressed in, suffocatingly neat.
She pulled Kit's hoodie tighter, burying her face in the worn collar. Cigarettes, cologne, a whiff of something chemical and wild—proof she hadn't dreamed him up.
She tried to doze, but her thoughts looped, restless. Kit's laugh, the heat of his hand over hers, the way his walls came down when he thought she wasn't looking.
Her phone buzzed, sharp and insistent. She jerked upright.
Incoming call: Mom.
She hesitated, spine tensing, and let it ring twice before forcing herself to answer.
The smile she put on was perfect. Practiced. Unbreakable—until she heard her mother's voice
She let out a hard breath, steeling herself.
Then she pressed accept and lifted the phone to her ear.
"Hi, sweetheart!" Her mother's voice trilled across half the world, brittle-bright, stretched thin by time zones and distance. It had the hollow cheerfulness of someone auditioning for concern. "You look tired."
Delorah tucked her knees up, curling tighter on the couch. "It's been a long week."
"Well, don't waste the weekend glued to a screen. Get some fresh air. I hope you've at least showered today."
The implication was a familiar slap.
"Of course I have."
A lie. Her hair was a nest, her skin scented with Kit's hoodie and a day's restlessness. But she didn't feel dirty—just… blank. Untouchable.
A pause stretched between them, just long enough to sting. Then her mother's tone softened, a rehearsed switch in the script—sweetness now, practiced gentleness.
"Is everything alright at the house? Monica said she restocked the fridge yesterday."
"Yeah. Everything's fine."
Delorah let her eyes drift to the high ceiling, following the cracks in the plaster like the lines in her own story.
"Good. We'll be back Friday—make sure the house doesn't look lived in when we get there."
Delorah's jaw clenched. "Sure."
"You know how important next week is. Your father has a series of meetings, and we may have guests. I expect you to be presentable. No chipped nails. Nothing that makes people wonder."
"Right."
A silence bloomed, thick and sharp, pressing at the edge of Delorah's patience.
Her mother didn't fill it. She let it sit there, weighty and intentional, like a test.
Then, lightly, almost as an afterthought:
"We're trusting you, darling. Don't disappoint us."
The call ended. No goodbye, no warmth.
Just a click.
Delorah stared at the phone, her own face faint in the black mirror of the screen—blurry, distant, almost unrecognizable. She almost laughed. Almost.
She let the phone slide from her hand and rolled onto her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if she could will it to collapse, just to break the spell.
Outside, a sudden wind rattled the glass. Shadows from the trees stretched and danced across the hardwood floor, flickering like ghosts she couldn't banish.
For a moment, the house felt less like a home than a stage—a place where she'd been cast to play the part of the perfect daughter, forever auditioning for love that always seemed a continent away.
Kit had tried to fill the afternoon—half an hour pretending to read, twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling, an aborted attempt at music that only made the silence louder. The Honey house was always too big on weekends, all the empty rooms echoing with ghosts and money. He'd caught a glimpse of Sebastian's office door, closed tight, and didn't bother knocking.
He drifted to his bedroom, shut the door, and lay on his back on the unmade bed, thumb skimming his phone's cracked screen. For a while he just scrolled, numb to everything—news, photos, the flicker of other people's lives that didn't feel real.
He thought about Delorah, about the way she laughed at his dumbest jokes, the way her voice had sounded all breathless and raw last night. He wondered if she was bored too. Or if her parents were still gone. Or if she'd already forgotten him, slipping back into her perfect world.
The impulse hit, sharp as a pinprick.
He pulled up her contact—Del the Menace, the name still making him smirk—and typed:
You survived the boredom yet, or should I come rescue you from suburbia?
He hovered over send for a second, thumb tapping the screen. Then, with a half-shrug to nobody, he sent it.
Kit tossed the phone onto his chest and let his eyes slip closed, waiting for the little thrill of her reply to jolt him awake. The quiet pressed in, heavy as ever, but for a moment he felt almost lighter. Like maybe this day wasn't just a hole to be filled.
She was still sprawled sideways on the couch, Kit's hoodie pooled around her shoulders, phone balanced on her chest. She'd nearly dozed off, floating in the gentle hum of late afternoon, when the screen buzzed again.
She reached for it—half-expecting her mother, bracing for another command.
But it was Kit.
You survived the boredom yet, or should I come rescue you from suburbia?
A helpless smile crept onto her lips, warmth flaring up just beneath her skin. For a second, the day felt brighter, the world less sharp.
She was about to reply when a new notification lit the screen.
Lana V.—the kind of friend who only called when there was drama to dissect, always hungry for the juiciest scraps.
Lana: hey… you were at the Whitmore party Friday right?
Delorah sat up, pulse flickering. She hesitated, then typed back:
Delorah: yeah why?
The reply was instant—photos, grainy and chaotic. Shadows, faces, party lights. But there it was:
The gazebo.
A mess of bodies, frozen mid-chaos.
And Kit—crouched over James, jaw set, one hand on the other boy's chest, the other gripping a joint. In one shot, a faint red glow sizzled at James's cheek. In another, Kit's face was half-lit, eyes wild, the flame caught mid-flick.
Lana: this real? 👀 ppl saying that guy freaked the hell out. were u there?
Delorah's stomach dropped. She could feel the air turning thick, smell the scorch and the smoke. The party came rushing back, electric and dangerous.
Lana again: he your bf or smth?? 👀
Her fingers moved before her brain could catch up.
Delorah: i barely know him it was nothing
The lie stung. But it came easy.
Lana: sure babe but ppl are talking
Just like that, the strange warmth of Kit's message faded, swallowed by old fear. Delorah curled tighter into the hoodie, drawing her knees up, phone clutched in one hand. For a moment, she couldn't tell what scared her more—
That people had seen.
Or that, somewhere deep inside, she didn't regret being there at all.
Kit's message was still open at the top of the thread, bright and hopeful. For a second, she thought about telling him—confessing everything, letting him be the first person to know her fear.
Instead, she flipped the phone face-down on her chest. The silence pressed in, her heart thumping hard enough to hurt.
It was just a fight, just a boy she barely knew.
So why did the memory burn brighter than anything else in her perfect little world?
She pushed up from the couch too fast, needing to move, to shake off the itch crawling beneath her skin. She paced into the kitchen, yanked open a cabinet—nothing she wanted. Slammed it shut. Tried the next. Empty glass, empty space. It was all the same.
She ripped open the fridge, half hoping to find something that would anchor her. Her hand landed on a can of sparkling water—she didn't want it, didn't even like the taste, but she cracked the tab anyway. It hissed, sharp and angry, the spray catching her wrist.
You barely know him.
That's what she'd typed to Lana. That's what she'd tried to believe.
She wasn't going to text him. She wasn't that girl—desperate, obsessed, spiraling over a boy who probably didn't—
Her eyes flicked to the phone, sitting silent and face-down on the edge of the kitchen counter. Like it was daring her. She forced herself to walk away, but found her feet circling back. She picked it up and flipped it over. Still no new messages from him.
Fine.
She set her jaw, walked the phone into her bedroom, and slid it into her vanity drawer, closing it with just a little too much force.
Then she sank into the chair before her mirror, legs crossed, water sweating in her hand, and just stared at her own reflection.
All the old discipline returned—chin up, shoulders back, mask on. The hoodie hung loose around her frame, and for a moment she didn't look like the perfect daughter. She looked like someone else entirely—caught between wanting to reach out and needing to disappear.
The silence in the house grew thick, the only sound the fizz of water in the can and the shallow tremble of her own breath.
Kit's hoodie still clung to her shoulders like a secret she wasn't ready to name.
Her reflection stared back. Red-rimmed. Raw.
"I'm not getting involved," she whispered.
And yet—
She didn't take the hoodie off.
Kit sprawled across his unmade bed, hood half-pulled over his eyes, headphones tangled somewhere by his feet. The Honey house felt heavier than usual, every shadow in his room an accusation.
He'd sent the text on a reckless impulse, thumb darting over the keys before he could talk himself out of it:
You survived the boredom yet, or should I come rescue you from suburbia?
For a while he'd felt lighter, picturing her reading it—maybe rolling her eyes, maybe grinning. The memory of her laugh kept echoing, sweet and electric.
But the minutes stretched. Then hours. No reply. Nothing but that message, bright and lonely at the top of his thread.
He tried to distract himself. Scrolled his camera roll, skipping past the usual noise—crumpled notebook pages, a blurry shot of his shoes. Then he froze at the photo from last night:
Delorah, curled on his bedroom floor in his hoodie, hair spilling wild across the pillow. Her expression half-lost to sleep, half-trust, all vulnerability. He stared until his chest tightened, some soft ache he couldn't shake.
He opened the message thread again, watched the little "delivered" hang there like a dare. He thought about double-texting, fingers hovering.
You good?
He typed it out.
Paused.
Deleted it.
No double-texts. That was the rule. Pride, or maybe just fear.
He grabbed the jacket she'd left behind—the one with her perfume still clinging to the lining. Kit pressed his face into it for a moment, the scent making him feel a little more present, a little more raw.
Delorah had seen too much already. She'd watched him spiral, watched him nearly lose it in front of everyone, and still hadn't run.
So why did her silence feel like a door closing?
He lay back, jacket balled in his arms, waiting for a reply that didn't come. The comedown was always worse in the quiet—when there was nothing left to do but feel.
And yet, he waited. Just in case.