Every time it happens, my body flinches.
I sit in my chair because I don't know what else to do with myself. I stare at the wall. I pick at the seam of my sleeve. I check my phone and see nothing.
Ragon's voice had been firm.Stay in the house. I'll check on you.
He hasn't.
Maybe he will later. Maybe he's too busy. Maybe he's pretending the problem can be handled by taking care of Marie and dealing with me afterward like an errand.
Afterward.
Like I'm something that can be scheduled.
Another moan slips down the hall and my stomach twists hard.
It's not Marie's fault that her body is doing what it's doing.
It's also not my fault that the sound of it makes me feel like I'm choking.
I stand abruptly, restless energy snapping through my limbs. My heart is pounding. My room feels too small. The whole house feels contaminated by that scent.
I pace once. Twice.
The window shows the neighbor's porch light in the dusk, warm and steady. Finn's place. The quiet house next door that has always felt like a pocket of air when mine becomes too heavy.
Ragon told me not to leave.
My hand trembles as I grab my hoodie off the bed.
I don't think. If I think, I'll stop. If I stop, I'll go back to sitting in my chair listening to sounds that make my chest feel like it's collapsing.
So I move.
I slip out of my room and into the hallway, keeping my steps light. The house is loud in all the wrong ways, but the noise is concentrated in one direction. No one comes out. No one calls my name.
I unlock the front door and step out into the cool evening air.
The quiet hits me like a wave.
I draw in a breath so deep it aches, filling my lungs with cold and night and the clean smell of wet grass.
I cross the lawn quickly, hood up, hands shoved into my pockets.
Finn's door opens before I can even knock properly.
He's there like he was waiting, his expression softening the moment he sees me.
"Vee," he says, and then he pulls me inside without hesitation, wrapping me in a hug that is all warmth and solid safety.
I freeze for a second—my body always freezes now, even when it's something good—then my shoulders sag and I let myself lean in.
Finn smells like clean soap and smoke, muted under blockers but still distinctly him. His arms tighten for a heartbeat, and the steadiness of it makes my eyes sting.
"Hey," he murmurs near my hair. "You're okay. Come on."
He guides me into the living room. This house feels different—less imposing, less sharp at the corners. Softer lighting. Softer furniture. A blanket already draped over the couch.
Malcolm is on the couch, elbows on his knees, looking up the moment I enter. Alex is nearby too, standing with his phone in hand. Both of them go still when they see me, attention snapping into place.
