Nothing.
I press my palm to the door, listening—not for movement but for the kind of silence that’s too deliberate, too complete.
“Lucky, it’s me. Open up.”
Still nothing.
My gut twists. She wouldn’t ignore me—not after last night, not after everything that passed between us. That closeness wasn’timagined. It wasn’t a mistake. And she sure as hell wouldn’t shut me out unless something inside her broke.
I try the windows beside the door, but the curtains are sealed edge to edge, taped almost, like she didn’t want a single crack of the world getting in.
Her car’s still parked out front. No broken glass. No forced lock. No footprints in the dirt leading up to the house except mine.
Something is very, very wrong.
I step off the porch and circle around the side of the house, heart in my throat, until I reach the back stairs leading to the patio. The boards creak under my weight as I climb, and the hair on the back of my neck lifts. The sliding doors are barred by the blinds, drawn straight to the floor, unmoving.
I knock on the glass, voice low but urgent.
“Lucky, sweetheart? Talk to me.”
Silence.
That’s all I need.
I crouch beside the sliding door, fingertips brushing the lower track. No anti-lift locks. She probably never even knew she needed one.
Most people don’t.
I hook my fingers under the frame, brace my shoulder, and lift. The panel shifts enough to slip from the track. A small metallic click, and it’s free.
I slide it open and step inside, closing it quietly behind me.
Her house hits me like a punch.
Cold. Still. Lifeless.
The coffee mugs from yesterday are still exactly where I left them. The coffee maker is untouched. The blankets we wrapped ourselves in lie folded on the couch, as if she placed them there gently… then never came back to them.
But on the dining table, two mugs of tea sit half-finished. One knocked slightly askew, as though her hand shook.
Something happened. Right after I left earlier.
I draw a slow breath, force myself to move. Every step is silent, deliberate. I check the kitchen, the front hall, and the living room. No signs of forced entry, no overturned drawers, no broken frames. Just a strange emptiness, like Lucky evaporated from the rooms without disturbing a thing.
Then—
Water.
Running.
Upstairs.
My pulse spikes, every muscle locking tight. I take the stairs fast but controlled, every instinct ready for the worst. Steam curls beneath the bathroom door, dense and hot enough to fog the hallway mirror.
I knock once, sharply.
“Lucky? It’s Ethan. Answer me.”
