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“Hmmmm,” his morning-after rasp skates along my skin.

“I’m rambling, aren’t I?” I start, but he’s already moving, closing what little distance there is between us. One step. Then another. Until the edge of one of the shelves presses into my back.

“You are. Almost nervously.” His hands slide out of his pockets. One comes up to rest just above my head as he leans in closer to me, shoulders blocking the light from the stained glass window. “It doesn’t have anything to do with what I said last night, does it?”

Suddenly, I am dizzy.

And out of breath.

Heart rate: unprofessional.

I should probably move. Step aside, reestablish the distance that’s kept this whole thing barely manageable.

But I don’t.

I just stand there, heat climbing up my neck, heart hammering against my ribcage.

This is what it is now—the imaginary line we both drew but keep pretending we haven’t crossed.

It’s the way he watches me when I’m talking through evidence, like he’s cataloging the parts of me I try not to show. The way his timbre changes almost imperceptibly when it’s just the two of us, stripped of that careful, courtroom control.

It’s the half-smiles he doesn’t mean to give me. The way he’s so much different with me than he is with anyone else.

The gravity between us that’s been there since the start, pulling us closer to one another whether we wanted it to or not.

It all points here. To this exact spot, this exact moment.

I can’t keep pretending it’s just proximity or circumstance.

It’s him.

It’s always been him.

I inhale, anchor myself in logic, and make a promise to myself: if he’s offering something here, I’ll take it for all it’s worth.

Because if we’re doing this, I’m done pretending I don’t want to.

The silence stretches, taut as wire. I force myself not to look away, though my nervous habit of not making eye contact tells me to focus on anything else—the dust motes drifting through the lamplight, the hiss of the radiator, the effort it takes to stay perfectly still.

I shift my weight, my shoes scuffing against the floor⁠—

A breeze brushes my ankle.

I look down, unintentionally breaking the moment. “Do you feel that?” I ask.

Theo frowns. “This house is drafty, but that’s definitely weird.”

He steps back and crouches down. I follow his lead. Floor meets baseboard meets wall. It’s seamless except one sliver where the wood doesn’t sit flush. A hidden panel.

Theo reaches down, fingertips testing the seam between two wooden panels. There’s a faint groan—old hinges remembering how to move—and the section of wall gives way with a soft shudder. Dust spills out in a lazy cloud, catching in the lamplight like smoke.

We look at one another. The hollow space yawns open just enough to reveal a narrow gap, edges rough and uneven, wood sagging and splintering from years of neglect. A faint current of air drifts through it—cool, stale, and unmistakably coming from somewhere deeper in the house.

I tilt my head to the side to get a better look. “Extra storage?” I whisper, half joking.

Theo bends in half beside me to do the same. “Storage for something.”

The space beyond is just big enough for one of us to fit through at a time. Barely. The wood scrapes Theo’s shoulder as he ducks down to test how he might angle his body just right to crawl through.