Page 23

He smiled, almost bitter. “I’m always up late.”

We sat in silence for a while. Just the two of us. That kind of silence that wasn’t awkward—it washeavy. Like there were a hundred things unsaid hanging in the air, and neither of us dared break them.

“I hate this house,” I said, finally.

He turned to me, eyes catching mine. “No, you don’t.”

And I didn’t.

I hated everythingbeforehe came. Not after.

He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered there, warm. Familiar.

“I won’t always be here, you know.”

“I know.”

“You’ll forget me.”

“No, I won’t.”

His hand dropped back to his lap, and he laughed—quiet, sharp. “You think you won’t, but you will. You’ll grow up. Move on. Find someone else to talk to at 2 a.m.”

“I don’t want to find someone else.”

He looked at me then.

Looked at me.

He was twenty-five. I was seventeen. Too old to be innocent, too young to understand the world in his eyes.

“I’m not a good person,” he said, like it was a confession. “If you ever really knew me, you’d run.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You say that now.”

I don’t know who moved first, or if either of us did. But suddenly the space between us wasgone. His knee brushed mine. His eyes dropped to my lips.

And then—

He stood.

Fast. Like something inside him snapped.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

He just walked away, back into the house, the door closing behind him louder than it should’ve been.

And I sat there.

Seventeen.

Barefoot.