Silence the part that wants.
Silence the part that remembers.
By the time I start the engine again, my pulse is level.
Face blank.
Thoughts cold and ordered.
Whatever almost happened on that porch—whatever would have happened if I hadn’t stepped back—it won’t happen again.
I won’t let it.
By the time I reach home, everything is locked down tight.
Emotionless.
Controlled.
The house is dark when I pull up. Good. I’m not in any shape to handle questions or Charlotte’s teasing smirk.
The porch creaks under my boots.
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
The silence settles like armour, fitted and familiar.
I move through the house in practiced motions.
Check the windows.
Check the locks.
Switch the hall light on, then off.
Routine. Predictable. Safe.
I avoid the places that might make me think—Mara’s photo in the hallway, Lily’s drawings on the fridge, the chair where Lucky sat earlier, as if she belonged there.
Bathroom. Cold water on my face. Toothbrush. Lights off.
Everything mechanical.
Everything controlled.
I slide into bed without letting my mind drift anywhere dangerous. The sheets feel too big, too empty, but I ignore them. I’ve ignored worse.
Sleep comes in fragments.
Somewhere in the dark, I hear the fridge hum. At some point, my mother’s voice murmurs downstairs.
And somewhere in between, Lucky slips into my dreams—eyes bright, hair wild, that sharp half-smile—leaning toward me again.
I wake before she reaches me.
Chapter 11
Ethan
