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I slipped under her covers, careful to maintain some distance between us. But the bed wasn't large, and immediately I was enveloped in her warmth, her scent—something expensive and floral that made my head swim slightly. The air between us felt charged, electric, as if the slightest movement might spark something dangerous.

"Better?" she asked, her voice closer now, intimate in the darkness.

"Yeah," I managed, hyperaware of her presence beside me. "Thanks."

We lay there in silence for a moment, adjusting to this new reality of shared space. I could hear her breathing, could feel the subtle shift of the mattress with each of her movements. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, this closeness we'd never allowed ourselves before.

"Can I ask you something else?" she said, breaking the silence.

"You're full of questions tonight."

"Just answer, Winters."

I turned my head slightly toward her voice. "Fine. What?"

"Why did you hit Julian? I mean, I know what he said, but... you don't seem like the type to just punch someone."

The question sobered me instantly. I stared up at the ceiling, considering how much to reveal, how much of myself to expose.

"My mom," I said finally, my voice lower than before. “She was everything to me. When she died... people either disappeared or they treated me like I was made of glass. Like grief was contagious. Julian using that against me—it just hit a nerve."

I felt rather than saw Madeline nod. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "About your mom. And about Julian being an ass."

"It's not your fault."

"Still." Her hand found mine under the covers, her fingers wrapping around mine in a gentle squeeze that sent a jolt through my entire body. "He shouldn't have said that."

I swallowed hard, acutely aware of her touch, of the way her thumb brushed across my knuckles before she pulled away. The gesture was so brief, so simple, but it left me feeling unmoored, adrift in unfamiliar waters.

"What about you?" I asked, desperate to shift the focus away from the sudden tightness in my chest. "Any more deep, dark secrets you want to share while we're having this middle-school sleepover moment?"

She laughed, the sound vibrating through the small space between us. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Embarrassing childhood stories? Hidden talents? Your biggest fear?"

"You sound like a bad personality quiz."

"Just answer, Hayes," I mimicked her earlier tone.

She was quiet for a moment, considering. "I used to want to be an artist," she admitted finally. "Like, professionally. I was obsessed with it when I was younger."

“What changed?"

"My parents being my parents." The bitterness in her voice was subtle but unmistakable. "Art isn't a 'real career.' It's a 'hobby,' something to do in your spare time while you pursue something 'worthwhile.'"

"That's bullshit," I said without thinking. "You're really good."

Even in the darkness, I could sense her surprise. "You think so?"

"I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

"Right. You're not exactly known for empty compliments."

"Not my style," I agreed.

"What is your style, then?" she asked, her voice taking on a teasing edge.

"Brutal honesty and scathing wit. Thought that was obvious by now."