“She seems like…she’s doing her best,” Weston says, and there’s no joke in it. “Your sister. That’s all.”
Kai doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drops to the counter, to the clean lines, to something he can control.
“She is,” he says finally. Quiet.
Weston nods once like he understands the part Kai didn’t say. “Okay.”
Then he snatches the last soda from the fridge, grins, and bolts. The door shuts. And now it’s just Kai and me in our too-clean kitchen, surrounded by the remains of a barbecue that was somehow both normal and not normal at all. I tie off anothertrash bag and haul it toward the door. Kai watches me like he’s trying to decide whether to say something. I beat him to it.
“You okay?” I ask.
Kai’s gaze sharpens. “I’m fine.”
I snort. “Liar.”
Kai’s jaw ticks. He looks past me toward the hallway, then back. “She’s?—”
“Okay,” I supply.
Kai’s brows draw together. “Is she?”
I hesitate. Not because I don’t think she’s okay. Becauseokayis a loaded word. It means different things depending on what you’re afraid of.
“She seemed…” I search for the right word. “Steady.”
Kai exhales through his nose. “She’s good at looking steady.”
Something in my chest tightens—not pity. Recognition.
I hook my thumb toward the kitchen. “You want to talk about it?”
Kai’s stare goes flat. “No.”
Of course.
I don’t push.
I take the trash out.
Outside, the October air is cooler than in the apartment. The sun is dipping low, turning the parking lot gold. Somewhere across campus, people are yelling about something meaningless and important. Normal college noise. I dump the bag and stand there for a second, letting my brain settle. Because my brain doesn’t settle easily. It likes to pace. It likes to pick at things.
Like the way Harlow mapped the room when she walked in—fast, sharp, like she needed to know where every door was.
Like the way she stayed near the edge and didn’t apologize for it.
Like the way she laughed at my taped-stick joke, even though she tried to swallow it.
And yeah—like the way she flinched when Kai called her name. That one sticks. Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s small. And small is where the truth lives.
I head back upstairs before my thoughts can turn into a spiral. Kai’s in the living room now, collecting cups. He’s calmer. Still tense, but less. I toss my keys into the bowl by the door and peel off my hoodie.
Kai glances up. “You hungry?”
I blink. “Is that a real question? We literally just ate.”
Kai shrugs. “I eat when I’m stressed.”
I flop onto the couch, letting it swallow me. My muscles are the good kind of heavy—the kind that comes from practice and lifting and being used up in the way I know how to be used up. Kai sits in the armchair across from me, phone in his hand, scrolling with that focused expression like he’s reviewing game film.
