Beck: so? you alive?
Beck: sophie says you better not fumble whatever you’re doing.
I stare at the message. My thumb hovers over the screen.
What am I doing?
I don’t even know.
I text Beck back:
alive. not doing anything.
He replies instantly.
Beck: coward.
Beck: also…fair. timing’s brutal.
I exhale hard and set my phone down.
Timing is brutal.
Everything in this house is brutal in quiet ways. The way Pops’s nap is longer than it used to be. The way Sloane moves like she’s trying not to make noise. The way Cameron’s jokes have thinned out around the edges, like he’s rationing them.
I listen.
The house hums softly. The fridge. The clock. A distant car passing outside.
From down the hall, a floorboard creaks.
I go still.
Sloane’s door opens a crack.
She doesn’t come out fully, like she’s testing the air first. Like she’s deciding whether it’s safe to exist in the same space as me.
Then she steps into the hallway, hoodie on, hair pulled back looser than earlier. She pauses when she sees me on the couch.
Her eyes flick to my leg, then up to my face.
“You’re still here,” she says flatly.
I lift a brow. “It’s my house, too, remember?”
She rolls her eyes. “Unfortunately.”
I smirk because it’s safer than the truth. “What do you need?”
“I didn’t say I need anything,” she snaps, walking toward the kitchen.
I watch her go, trying not to stare.
She’s not wearing makeup. Her cheeks are a little flushed, like she just washed her face. She looks…soft.
Which is terrifying.
She opens a cabinet too hard, the door thunking. Grabs a glass, filling it with water like she’s punishing the faucet.
