“What caused it. What was damaged. Whether we’d noticed anything suspicious beforehand.” He shakes his head. “But the whole time she’s just looking at me like we did it to ourselves.”
The room goes quiet.
I look up. Rane’s jaw is tight. Trey’s gone still beside me. Beckett’s watching me again—that steady gaze that sees too much.
“What did you tell her?” Locke’s voice comes from the kitchen doorway. I didn’t hear him come in.
“What we decided. Overloaded outlet. Room was damaged, part of the ceiling collapsed. We’re still living here, just avoiding that area.” Kyron exhales, jaw tight. “She was already writing her report before I even finished talking.”
“Think they bought it?”
“Who knows.” He sounds tired. “She wrote everything down. Said they’d be in touch if they needed anything else.”
Vaelor appears behind Locke, dish towel over his shoulder. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
We migrate to the kitchen. It’s become routine now—Vaelor cooks, someone sets the table, we eat together like a family that chose each other.
It feels almost normal now. I don’t hate it.
I end up between Trey and Beckett, across from Kyron. The food is good—some kind of pasta with vegetables and chicken—and for a few minutes wejust eat.
“I’ve been looking into some options,” Kyron says eventually. “Places we could go if things get worse.”
“Like what?” Rane asks around a mouthful of bread.
“There’s a property not too far from here. Off the main grid, but close enough that we could still get to campus if we needed to.” He spears a piece of chicken. “It’s not ideal, but it’s something.”
“What about asking the school?” I hear myself say. “There are other cluster houses, right? Empty ones?”
Locke snorts. “They’d never give us another house. We’re already flagged.”
“We could tell them about Trey,” Rane says. “Make it official. Say we need more space.”
Trey shifts beside me. “Would that even work?”
“Probably not.” Kyron shakes his head. “They already know something’s happening with him—orientation made that clear. But asking them to acknowledge it means more scrutiny. More questions about why our cluster keeps expanding when it was supposed to finalize two years ago.”
“Any attention we draw right now just makes things worse,” Locke adds. “Better to have our own backup plan.”
Under the table, Trey’s hand finds my knee.
It’s light at first. Almost casual—just his palm resting against my leg, warm through the fabric of my pants. A small point of contact that shouldn’t mean anything.
My pulse picks up anyway.
I take another bite. Try to focus on the conversation—something about sleeping arrangements and who’s taking which nights—but Trey’s thumbis tracing a slow circle against my knee and my skin is starting to feel too tight.
It’s just attraction. That’s all. The same pull I’ve been feeling since I got here, the one I’ve been trying to ignore.
Except it’s getting worse.
The heat starts low, spreading up from my chest into my throat. I reach for my water glass, drain half of it. The cold helps for about three seconds before the warmth rushes back, stronger than before.
Trey’s hand stills on my knee. Shifts from casual to concerned.
“—and if the Order starts asking questions about the fire, we need to have our story straight,” Kyron is saying. “Everyone says the same thing. Outlet overload. Nothing suspicious.”
I nod along but I’m not really listening. My shirt is sticking to my back. There’s sweat at my hairline and I don’t know when that started. The chair feels wrong against my skin—too close, too much contact.
