"She's gonna call," Noah said for, oh, the fourteenth time.
Piper hadn't responded all day. Off grid. Radio-silent. Every notification on his phone triggered false hope. Every news ping made his stomach turn.
He nodded toward the prototype in Noah's hand. "That seam's off by half a centimeter. You'll feel it."
Noah gave him a look. "And you'll feel it when your heart explodes from stressing about your girl, but cool, let's focus on the elastic."
Zach scoffed.
Noah dragged one waistband across the table with the enthusiasm of a cat inspecting broccoli. "What even is this stretch blend?"
"Lycra-poly mix. Contours like butter, irritates the skin like regret." Zach's response came automatically.
"Cool. Definitely the one to go with."
"Piper said she needed space," Zach murmured.
She'd said it while seriously trying not to cry. He could still hear it on replay in his head—space—as if she hadn't just meant air but distance.
He hadn't known what to do then, either, except nod like he understood.
But he didn't, not really.
Zach huffed a breath, then leaned back on his stool, swallowing the emotion that had tried to claw its way up. "She thinks it's her fault. But she wasn't even there. Why the hell would she blame herself?"
"Because of a photo." Noah said. "Pretty sure it's because of the photo."
"Helpful," Zach said, dryly.
"I aim to please."
"It wasn't even a real argument," Zach pointed out. "Anna said it was about orange juice and how Drake always steals the good pillow."
Noah blinked. "The good pillow?"
"Like how in every bed there's one pillow that's always the best one? Drake steals it, apparently. Anna had enough," Zach stared at a line of broken thread on the table.
"Team Anna on this one. Drake can use the flat pillow," Noah said.
Before Zach could respond, a knock scraped sharp against the metal door.
"That better be the pizza," Noah muttered, pushing to stand.
But it wasn't.
Shelby stood under the flickering warehouse bulb like she'd been blown there by desperation. Hair up in a haphazard tower-of-terror bun, hoodie half-zipped over pajamas, and that wild look in her eyes that meant somebody was about to key a car.
"She hasn't come home," Shelby said before Zach could even ask. "Her phone's off. I've called. Texted. Pinged her location. Nothing." Her voice cracked on that last word. "She did this once before," Shelby added quickly. "Back in college. Tossed her phone in the freezer and disappeared for twelve hours. I found her sitting behind the campus library. Not crying. Not mad. Just...gone, almost. Like there was a wall she couldn't climb back over."
Zach was on his feet. Keys already in hand. That was all he needed.
"Pretty much, that. She saw the pictures," Zach said. "Didn't know the context. Just believed it was her. That she caused it. She panicked. She's not herself. We're all trying to find her."
The silence that followed was thick, choking.
"She really believes it," Zach said again, slowly, like he was convincing not just them—but himself. "It's not just a fear. It's the story she tells herself, and right now, she thinks she wrote the ending."
Because this wasn't simply needing some space.
