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I recognize this look; it’s her truth-coming face, and my stomach immediately knots in response.

“What?” I ask, the word sharper than I intend.

She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, hesitating. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” Her voice is soft but sure.

Five seconds of perfect stillness, like the moment between lightning and thunder. The question hangs in the air, crystalline and dangerous.

“Of course I do,” I say, but the words sound hollow, rehearsed. My fingers twitch against hers, wanting to pull away, to protect myself from the doubt she’s trying to seed.

Lena doesn’t blink. “Do you, though? Because the things you told me during brunch… it’s just… it’s fucking crazy. Why are you putting up with it?”

I withdraw my hands, tucking them beneath my thighs. The absence of her touch leaves me colder than I expected. “You don’t understand,” I mutter.

“Of course I don’t fucking understand,” she snaps, tilting her head. “So, if this is something you’re serious about, make me understand.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, heat rising to my face. “He saved me. Why does there have to be more to it than that?” That’s the wrong thing to say, and I know it the moment the words slip out.

“I know.” Her voice softens, and the look she gives me is almost pitiful. “And I’m grateful, I am. But…” She tucks her knees closer to her chest, making herself smaller. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Or something you’re not telling yourself.”

I could build a mountain of graves with the things I don’t know about Enzo. But I know how he looks at me, likereallylooks at me. I know the way his muscles contract when I touch him, and I know the taste of his lips and the weight of his body over mine.

What else is there? What else could matter, when he’s the only thing that feels real anymore?

I’ve known my parents all my life. I know how old my mom was when she lost her virginity, because she told me that was the right age. If I had sex before I turned sixteen, I was a slut. But if it was after I turned seventeen, I’d be a prude. Unlike most people, I know my mom’s real hair color, and I know her insecurities.

Although I never knew my dad that well, they both managed to surprise me when they all but disowned me. Until that happened, I barely knew Teddy, but he stepped up in ways he never needed to, and took care of me when my own parents wouldn’t.

So, how much do you need to know someone to know the things that really matter? To know their heart?

“I know enough,” I say finally.

“But not everything.” It’s not a question.

I stare at a small coffee stain on the couch cushion, a tiny brown constellation from some long-ago spill. Outside the windows, the last threads of daylight bleed into gray. “No one knows everything about anyone else.”

“That’s a cop-out, and you know it.” Lena’s voice is gentle but insistent. “There’s a difference between normal privacy and whatever this is.”

I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, watching it unravel between my fingers. “He’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?” She leans forward. “Piper, I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to make sure you’re not—”

“Not what? In danger?” My laugh cracks, brittle and sharp, my chest tightening like a fist is squeezing my heart.

The certainty in my voice surprises even me. It’s the one thing I do know, bone-deep and unshakable. Whatever else Enzo might be, whatever shadows he keeps hidden, the truth of his devotion to me is written in every touch, every look, every possessive gesture.

Lena watches me, her eyes steady and knowing. She’s always been able to read me better than anyone—better than my parents, better than Uncle Teddy, sometimes better than I can read myself.

“I believe you,” she declares, shocking the hell out of me.

“Say it again,” I rasp, like if I hear it twice, it might stitch something broken inside me.

A smile spreads across her face, softening her features. “I, Lena Carter, believe you, Piper Harrington,” she exclaims.

She tosses a cupcake at me, and I catch it against my chest, laughing for real for the first time since she arrived. The sound is still echoing in the apartment when there’s the sound of a key being slid into the lock just a moment before the door opens.

I freeze, the cupcake squashed between my palms. Next to me, Lena stiffens too, her eyes narrowing like she’s bracing for an earthquake.

“Is that the squatter?” she asks, her voice light but sharp at the edges.