Sam waits a moment in the doorway, watching me with a look that makes me want to tell him to stop. He always studiesme like he knows when I am close to breaking. He must decide not to call me out this time, because he only sighs and walks in after us.
Inside, the house feels too small for all the things I refuse to talk about. The quiet settles thick and heavy in my chest. Hazel sets her bag down on the counter and hops onto it, watching me move around the kitchen like I am an interesting lab experiment.
“You cooking or pacing like a paranoid raccoon?” she asks, swinging her feet.
I give her a weak glare. “I’m getting ingredients.”
“For what?” Sam asks, already sounding unimpressed, his little smug ass face beaming as he looks up at me.
I open the fridge, praying that I actually have enough food in here for the three of us. “Food.”
Hazel snorts. “Wow. Very descriptive.”
I gather pasta, tomatoes, and the leftover chicken I meant to use days ago. It is not a plan, but it’s something. My hands are steady, but everything inside me is not. I can feel them both staring at me, reading me, trying to pull answers from the silence.
I look at Sam, then Hazel. My little brother who has been through hell. This woman who somehow has already seen more of me than most people ever do. The woman who looks like she belongs in places I do not deserve to go. And I know, without any real logic to explain it, that even though this is dangerous—and even though I am not a good person to drag her into this mess—something in my chest refuses to let her be hurt.
I will not let anything happen to her. Even if she is the one thing that could break me open without trying.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ACHILLES COME DOWN
HAZEL
My life is a literal joke. It’s a whirlwind, and I honestly have no idea what is happening anymore. I stand in Zack’s kitchen with his little brother, and I watch as the two of them work to keep their interactions civil. But coming from a foster home where I had to teach myself to be hidden and make sure I wasn’t in anyone’s way, I know when people are hiding shit.
And they were definitely hiding shit.
I distract myself by watching Zack cook. He had joked the food might be “barely edible,” but the way he moves is careful—practiced—like he’s done this a thousand times. The pasta water is salted correctly. The sauce is simmering at exactly the right temperature. He chops basil with the quick precision of someone who knows exactly how sharp his knife is—like he knows how to use that knife in ways that would get him put on some sort of list. I tilt my head as his practically-silver eyes glance at me.
“Okay,” I say finally, pushing off the counter so I’m standing instead of swinging like a kid. “I need to know something.”
Zack looks up from the pan, one eyebrow raised, wooden spoon in hand. His brother glances at me, too, like he’s relieved someone else is breaking the tension.
“What do you want to know?” Zack asks.
“A lot,” I say, laughing because the alternative is letting the confusion swallow me whole. His look is cutting, but he lets me continue. “But let’s start simple. How do you know how to do…literally everything? You cook, you fix things, you know all this random technical stuff. You knew where to find me, and I know you did more regarding everything with Ley and Cameron. What is your job, actually?”
He freezes for a half second—again, so small most people wouldn’t notice, but I do. His brother looks away, suddenly fascinated by the spice rack.
Zack sighs, like he’s deciding whether to tell me the truth or put up another wall, and trust me, the guy is an impenetrable fortress. Then he sets the spoon down and leans back against the stove, mirroring the way I’d been leaning against the counter, a perfect black brow lifted.
“I’m a computer engineer,” he says. “That’s the official title, anyway.”
I narrow my eyes. “And the unofficial one?”
He huffs out a soft scoff, one that may be considered a laugh, knowing him how I do now. “Persistent, aren’t you?”
“You’ve been with me for days now. I’d think by now you’d know that I don’t take no for an answer.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. The words I know are swimming around in his disgustingly beautiful head are at the tip of his tongue, but he does something that shocks me: he turns around to stir the sauce and actually answers me.
“Okay,” Zack says. “Unofficially? I…solve problems. Digital ones, mostly.”
“That sounds suspicious,” I say.
“That was intentional.” He pushes a hand through his hair, suddenly looking younger, or maybe just more honest. “Look, I’ve been working with computers since I was a kid. By the time I was twelve, I could take apart a system and put it back together blindfolded. When I was fifteen, I started…exploring.”
