That afternoon, I walk out of my bedroom and find them in the living room. Tigerlily’s curled up in the armchair, Zephyr’s book open in her lap as he explains something he’s studying. Their heads are bent together, almost touching, and the afternoon sun catches in her hair.
She laughs at something Zephyr says and the sound punches through my chest.
I clear my throat. They both look up.
“Hey.” Tigerlily’s smile is soft, welcoming. “We were just—”
“I can see what you were doing.” I don’t move from the hallway.
The smile fades. “Jax—”
“I need to talk to you. Alone.”
Zephyr closes the book slowly, deliberately. “I’ll go fuck off in my bedroom then.”
Sounds like a good plan to me.
When we’re alone, Tigerlily sets the book aside and stands. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” My voice exposes too much. “You’re sitting here with him like nothing changed.”
“Nothing did change.” She steps closer. “I told you—”
“We fucked.” The words come out too loud. “You let me have you in front of them. You said—”
“I said I chose you publicly.” Her voice is steady but her hands twist together. “I meant it.”
“Then what the fuck is this?” I gesture at the chair, the book, the space where Zephyr was sitting.
“This is me living my life, Jax.” Something hardens in her expression. “You don’t get to dictate every interaction I have.”
“With them, I do.”
The silence stretches. She stares at me and I watch her decide something. I watch the softness drain away.
“No,” she says finally. “You don’t.”
She walks past me and I’m left standing there feeling like I can’t read a single word.
She doesn’t come to my room that night. Or the next.
The house is too small. That’s the problem. I can’t escape the sound of her laughter drifting from the kitchen, can’t avoid seeing Callum’s hand on her lower back as he guides her through the doorway, can’t miss the way Zephyr tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating.
I watch them from the hallway, from the corner of my eye, from the goddamn shadows like the stalker that I am. And I hate myself for it. I hate them for making this so fucking hard.
I’m in the garage a few days later, hands buried in the engine of one of the bikes, when I hear footsteps.
“You’re avoiding her,” Callum says.
I don’t look up. “I’m working.”
“You’ve been in here all day.”
“Bike needed to be fixed, remember? It’s been sitting for too long.”
Callum’s quiet for a moment. The smell of oil and metal hangs heavy between us. “She asked about you at dinner.”
My wrench slips, barking my knuckles against unforgiving steel. “Good for her.”
