We’re not.
And when she climbs back onto the stool, I still it again.
Not because she can’t balance.
But because I can.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Aurora
I wakeup at 2:17 a.m. as if my body has set an alarm for anxiety and refuses to hit snooze.
The room is dark in that particular way that makes every ordinary sound feel suspicious.
The building settles. Pipes hum faintly. Somewhere below, old wood shifts like it’s remembering something. During the day, it feels rustic. At night, it feels conspiratorial.
I stare at the ceiling long enough to consider counting cracks.
Sleep is clearly not coming back for me.
With a quiet sigh, I tug on the oversized sweater I abandoned earlier. It’s soft and warm and not technically mine, which is information I’m deliberately not unpacking at this hour. Barefoot, I slip into the hallway and make my way toward the kitchen, drawn by the faint shimmer of light under the doorway.
Zane is exactly where I expect him to be. At the table, chair angled just slightly, back to the wall, line of sight clear to both the stairs and the door. There’s a mug near his hand, his phone face down, a knife within reach but not displayed as a threat. It’s just there. Practical. Prepared.
He looks up the second I enter.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he says quietly.
“I tried,” I reply, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “My brain declined the invitation.”
His gaze moves over my face, not my bare legs, not the sweater slipping off one shoulder. Just my face. Always my face.
“You okay?” he asks.
The automatic “yeah” rises to my lips and dies there under his patience.
“I mean… yes. No. It’s just loud in my head.”
He nods like that makes perfect sense.
“Coffee?” he offers.
“It’s two in the morning.”
“Tea, then.”
“Tea sounds like pretending we’re stable.”
His mouth curves slightly. “We can pretend.”
He stands and moves around the kitchen with that grounded efficiency of his, filling the kettle, opening cabinets without clatter, every motion economical. I sit across from where he had been, tugging the sweater sleeves over my hands and watching him the way one might watch a lighthouse. Reliable, calming, quietly necessary.
“You always sit that way?” I ask, nodding toward his previous position.
“Yeah.”
“Back to the wall. Clear view?”
