It was 11:38 p.m. when I gave up pretending I could sleep. The guesthouse was quiet, and though the bed was comfortable and the sheets smelled like lavender fabric softener, my thoughts kept spiraling.
I wandered through the softly lit corridor, careful not to make noise. The main house loomed quietly, still but not entirely asleep. As I reached the connecting foyer, I heard something, soft clinks and low thuds, like... balls clanking together?
I followed the sound down another hallway and peered through an open doorway. Hoping it might be someone who wouldn’t mind a late-night request, I stepped closer.
It was Alex.
She stood at the billiards table, barefoot, wearing a faded tee and joggers, cue stick in hand. She had just made a shot when she spotted me in the doorway.
The color drained from her face, then rushed back in a slow flush that crept up her neck. Maybe even something that looked dangerously close to panic.
“It’s… it’s you!” she exclaimed, voice breathless, words tumbling over each other. “Of course it’s you,” she groaned, eyes widening as it clicked.
I raised an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re accusing me of something.”
Alex tilted her head, blinking a few times like her brain was trying to catch up. “No! I—I just… can’t believe my mom didn’t bother to tell me this.” She chewed her lip, cheeks warming. “So… you’re… actually staying at our guest house?” The words came out uneven, stumbling over themselves like her brain was still buffering.
It was subtle, the slight hitch in her tone, the way her hand fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, but for someone who’d built a reputation on being unreadable, it wassoobvious.
“Yes, Amelia’s been hospitable. The guest house is amazing,” I said, stepping carefully into the room, trying to keep my grin in check. “So, you can thank your mom for putting me up.” I tilted my head toward the shelves. “Also, nice room. Very… you.”
It wasn’t at all what I’d imagined her space to look like. A pool table sat in the center, and the walls were lined with books and DVDs, rows and rows of them, everything fromfilm classics to obscure documentaries. A soft lamp glowed in the corner, giving the whole place a warm, secret sort of charm.
She followed my gaze, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “It’s my library-slash-comfort room,” she said. “Technically supposed to be a games room, but I never liked the wordgames.”
I raised a brow, scanning the shelves. “Right. Because nothing sayscomfortlike six-hour French art films.” My eyes landed on a suspiciously large row of pastel DVD covers. “Though I must say, for someone who claims not to watch romcoms, you’ve got quite the collection.”
She snorted. “Those aren’t even mine. Archer’s the romcom addict. Every time he thinks he’s in love, he raids this shelf like it’s therapy.” She gave a helpless little shrug. “I just let him have his moment. I’ve never actually watched any of them.”
I smiled, trying not to look too amused. “Good to know the Cadiz household has decent taste, well, except for one of you.”
She gave me a look, amused. “Says the one haunting hallways at midnight like a Victorian ghost.”
That earned me a laugh. She was cute like this. Softer, almost shy beneath the dry humor. There was something disarming about her in this setting, surrounded by her quiet little world.
“I was looking for milk, actually,” I said, folding my arms.
“Milk? At nearly midnight? What are you, seven?”
I shot her a look. “It helps me sleep, alright?”
She opened her mouth, probably to fire back another quip, but something in my tone must’ve landed. Her faceshifted and softened, just slightly. “You can’t sleep without it?”
I hesitated. “Not really.”
There was a pause. Then she placed the cue stick on the table with a quiet thunk and jerked her head toward the door. “Come on.”
I followed her through the darkened hallways, footsteps soft against the tile. In the kitchen, she moved with surprising ease, then opened a cupboard, pulled down a mug, poured the milk in the kettle, and set it on the stove to warm.
She didn’t say anything, and neither did I, not right away.
“So,” I said lightly, “is this your usual midnight routine? Playing billiards while the rest of the house sleeps?”
She shrugged, still facing the stove. “Sometimes. Helps me think.”
“Very mysterious of you,” I teased. “Most people journal. Or I don’t know... sleep.”
She turned around to look at me. “Sleep’s overrated.”
