Movement at the front window catches my eye.
Blonde hair through the curtain.
Cheyenne.
She’s not knocking casually. She’s peering in, trying to see whether anyone’s home, one hand curled around her phone, her whole posture sharp with the kind of restless concern people wear when they’ve been turning a situation over in their heads all night and didn’t like any of the answers.
By the time I get to the door, the decision is already made.
The second I open it, she startles, then narrows her eyes at me like she’s trying to decide whether to be suspicious or furious first.
“Is Octavia here?” she asks, leaning slightly to look past me. “I thought I could give her a ride or…”
The normal answer would be yes.
The normal answer would be to let her in and keep this simple.
Instead, I look her dead in the face and decide I’m done with simple.
“We slept together.”
The sentence lands like a brick through glass.
Her whole body stills. For one full beat she just stares at me, like maybe if she waits long enough the words will rearrange into something else. Then her mouth parts.
“What?”
“We slept together,” I repeat, quieter this time, not because I’m softening it, but because I want her to hear that I mean it. “And before you start deciding what that means, no, it’s not why she blew up on you yesterday.”
A flush rises high in her face, more shock than embarrassment. “You cannot just say that to me on a porch.”
“Apparently I can.”
“Silas.”
There’s warning in my name now, maybe even anger. But under it, confusion. She came here expecting something, but not this. Definitely not this.
Leaning one shoulder against the frame, I keep my voice low, because the last thing I need is Octavia hearing this before I’m done saying it.
“What happened yesterday wasn’t about you,” I tell her. “Not really. She shouldn’t have taken it out on you. She owes you better than that. But it wasn’t about you.”
Cheyenne folds her arms. “Funny, because it sure felt like it had a lot to do with me when she screamed at me to get out of her room.”
“I know.”
The answer comes too honestly, throwing her for a second. That’s the problem with truth. People are less prepared for it than they think.
A gust of wind catches a strand of her hair, blowing it across her mouth. She brushes it back, staring at me harder. “Then why are you telling me any of this?”
“Because Kadin’s already building a story,” I say. “And if you’re going to be angry, I’d rather you be angry with the whole picture instead of whatever version of events he’s about to hand you.”
The mention of Kadin changes something in her face.
Not because she trusts me.
Because she already suspects something.
“What exactly did he hand me?” she asks carefully.
