Page 18

MILLIE

"Auntie Millie!" Fizzy shouts from the other side of the arcade, her voice cutting through the chaotic mix of digital bleeps, high-pitched game effects, and the low hum of a soda machine.

I turn just in time to see her flinging herself toward me, arms spread like a bird mid-flight, the hem of her sparkly hoodie bouncing as she runs.

Her eyes catch the light—one green, one hazel—Fizzy is a walking beam of sunshine with glitter dusted on top, dramatic as hell and always a little loud, and God, I love her so much it physically aches.

She's ten going on eighteen, with a voice made for Broadway and a need for attention she comes by honestly—her mom is literally Willow James, international pop icon and the queen of stage presence.

I crouch down, arms open wide. Fizzy slams into me with all the force a kid who's had three gummy worms and a sip of soda can muster.

"I got the jackpot!" she breathes into my neck, triumphant and wild-eyed.

"I hit the button right as it blinked red, like boom!

" She makes an explosion noise into my shoulder and I laugh, clutching her close.

"You're a legend," I say, brushing her hair back. "All of Vancouver is shaking in fear."

She grins up at me. "Obviously."

Somewhere behind her, Nico appears—quieter, like he always is. Where Fizzy is a burst of fireworks, Nico is all soft rain and silk ribbon. He's holding a small stuffed axolotl, won from a claw machine after three rounds and two lectures from me about budgeting our tokens.

"Do you think he'll like the ballet?" he asks, stepping close, holding the toy up by its fuzzy tail. "Or is he more into tap?"

"Ballet, for sure," I say without hesitation. "He has the feet for it."

Nico beams and tucks the axolotl into the front of his hoodie like he's swaddling it. "Same," he whispers. "He's going to be my understudy in case I sprain my ankle."

He says it like it's the most natural thing in the world and my heart swells.

I remember the first day Summer and Willow brought them home.

They were one and a half, still learning how to speak in full sentences, and I fell in love instantly.

I went from being just Millie to being Aunt Millie and I fucking loved it.

We spend the next hour running around the arcade like sugar-fueled gremlins.

Fizzy finds every game that plays music, dancing her way through half of them while dramatically singing whatever song is playing overhead—she gets a few stares, but she doesn't care.

She has the audacity of a girl raised by a literal pop star. It's both terrifying and impressive.

Nico sticks to rhythm games and this weird virtual ballet simulation where he has to mimic movements with a sensor pad.

He nails every move, posture perfect, wrists graceful, neck elongated like he's already on stage.

His moms are raising him right. Summer used to tell me ballet was her first language. I think Nico speaks it too.

I sit on a neon bench near the air hockey table, just watching them for a while. Fizzy's dancing in circles. Nico's adjusting his imaginary barre. They're both completely in their worlds, safe and open and joyful in ways that make me believe I haven't totally screwed everything up.

I take them out like this whenever I can—after school, after a bad day, after I need something to remind me what unconditional love feels like. They don't ask questions when I'm quiet. They just pull me into whatever adventure they've crafted for the day and let me live there with them.

Today, Fizzy chose the arcade. Last week, Nico made me take him to the ballet supply store to look at shoes, and we ended up in a café drinking hot chocolate and arguing about the best Tchaikovsky score. I lost. He's passionate.

"Auntie Millie," Fizzy says again, this time flopping into the bench beside me with her cheeks flushed and hair sticking to her forehead. "Do you have a crush?" she asks, sing-song, wiggling her eyebrows.

Nico perks up immediately, like his radar has pinged.

"No," I lie, a little too quickly.

Fizzy gasps like I've stabbed her. "Liar! Who is it?"

"I'm not telling you," I laugh, standing and ruffling her hair. "You'll write a song about it and post it on Tiktok."

"I'd get Mom to produce it."

"She absolutely would," I mutter, shaking my head.

We stay until we've run out of tokens and then a little longer just because they're having fun. When we finally leave, Fizzy insists on holding my hand and Nico links his pinky with mine on the other side.

I walk them to the car like that—Fizzy telling me about her dream to become the youngest contestant on The Voice and Nico quietly explaining the audition process for The Nutcracker this winter.

I want to bottle this moment and keep it forever. Just me and them. Their warm hands. Their voices. The quiet kind of peace that only comes when you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

"Auntie Millie?" Nico says as I buckle him in.

"Yeah, bub?"

"Can we do this again soon?"

"Of course. Always."

His face lights up, pure sunshine, and I swear my heart folds in on itself.

I slide into the driver's seat, glance in the mirror—and there they are.

Fizzy and Nico, both grinning like I've just given them a golden ticket.

Fizzy's still slightly breathless from laughing too hard during our last round of dance battles, and Nico's holding his stuffed axolotl like it's a secret treasure.

I almost don't want to turn the key. I want to freeze this moment and live in it.

"And maybe we can invite Harper too," Fizzy says, too casual, her voice dipped in the kind of mischief I recognize immediately. That cheeky lilt, that sly little pause—it's classic Summer. She might be adopted, but she's got my sister's sarcasm down like it's coded in her bones.

"Harper?" I echo, adjusting the rearview mirror like it's necessary.

It's not. I'm stalling. Thinking. Or maybe just trying not to picture Harper sitting right here beside me, legs folded up in the passenger seat, hair still a little damp from the rain, looking at me like she's figuring something out I haven't dared say aloud.

"She's fun," Fizzy says, breezy. Like that's all there is to it. "And pretty."

Pretty. Pretty doesn't even cover it. But I keep that to myself.

"Why wasn't she at your house?" Nico asks as I turn the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life.

I glance over my shoulder to check my blind spot, buying another second. "She's at work," I say, voice a little too even. I hope they don't hear the way I swallow around it.

"Oh, right. She works with Uncle Luke." Fizzy nods solemnly, like she's just solved a puzzle. "Maybe we can invite Harriet and Lia next time too. That way Harper has to come."

I snort. "What, you think I can't handle four kids by myself?"

"Correct," they say in perfect unison.

Their laughter fills the car like music—real, bright, the kind that makes you smile without thinking.

"No faith," I mutter, tapping the steering wheel in mock offense.

"You lost Lia last time," Nico reminds me, his voice a little smug.

"She wasn't lost," I protest.

"You screamed," Fizzy says, trying—and failing—not to giggle. "You screamed and ran across the rink yelling 'WHERE'S THE BABY' 'I LOST THE BABY!' like someone kidnapped her."

"Okay, whoa, I told you that was a secret memory. Vaulted."

I catch their grins in the rearview, the kind of grins only ten-year-olds can get away with. Mischievous and a little proud of themselves. Fizzy's got one leg tucked up beside her, her mismatched eyes shining with satisfaction. Nico's got that quiet smirk like he's proud of his delivery.

"I knew she was with you," I lie.

"You forgot," Nico says.

"I briefly forgot," I correct. "There's a difference."

"Riiiight," he drawls, dragging the word out with dramatic flair. "That's why you looked like you were gonna cry."

I grin, even as my face burns. "Okay, traitors. That's enough. We promised not to mention that ever again."

The car hums with that soft, post-laughter quiet.

There's music still playing low from the speakers—some chill acoustic cover—and the sunlight keeps shifting across the dashboard like the day's taking its time.

No one brings up Harper again. No more teasing.

The subject changes naturally, as if they know I need a beat to breathe.

But she doesn't leave my mind. Harper. Her mouth. Her hands. Her voice in my ear two nights ago, soft and dangerous. Her towel barely holding on. Her body warm and steady and so, so close. Her breath on my neck.

A shiver skates down my spine. I blink hard, trying to shake it off. Not here. Not now. I'm literally transporting children. Jesus.

But the memory doesn't leave—it just simmers, low and slow. That look in her eyes, the deliberate way she moved me like she knew I'd let her. Like she knew I wanted her to.

And I did.

But then the light turns green, and Nico starts telling me about a new routine he's learning at ballet—something with long jumps and tricky footwork—and I force myself to tune in.

He's animated when he talks about dancing. Hands flying everywhere. His eyes lit up like stage lights. I steal glances in the mirror and nod along, asking the right questions. Because I want him to know I care. Because I do.

When we get back to my apartment, it's chaos in the best way.

They race ahead of me, tripping over their untied shoes, pushing the elevator buttons like it's a competition. Fizzy's humming again, a melody she made up yesterday, probably. Nico spins a few tight pirouettes in the hallway just because he can.

The second we step inside, they kick off their sneakers, dump their bags in a pile by the door, and scatter like I'm not even here.

Fizzy throws herself dramatically on the couch. "Do you have snacks?"

"I do, but first. Food." I narrow my eyes at them, "Real food or your moms are going to kill me."

Nico groans like I just told him we were out of air. "But I had food. I had an apple at lunch."

"An apple and what?" I ask, already moving into the kitchen, keys dropped in the bowl, sleeves pushed up.

"Um... water?" he tries, grinning.

Fizzy snorts from the couch. "I traded my sandwich for a cookie."

"Oh my god," I say, turning to give them my best Mom Look, which only ever earns me more giggles. "You two are going to get me disowned."

"We're already disowned," Fizzy says, her head thrown over the armrest. "You forgot Lia."

"For the last time," I call over the fridge door, "I didn't forget Lia. I misplaced her temporarily."

Nico leans into the doorway, resting his chin on his arms like a puppy. "And ran through the rink like your pants were on fire."

"I was concerned!"

I pull out what I prepped earlier—chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs because I am, in fact, the cool aunt—and a container of chopped fruit. Fizzy's favorite pasta is already in the fridge too, just waiting to be warmed up. No, I'm not trying to bribe their love with food. Shut up.

They follow the smell back into the kitchen like cartoon characters, noses in the air.

"You are the best," Fizzy says, hopping up on the counter.

"Obviously," I hand her a grape like she's royalty.

I glance over at Nico, who's grabbing plates without being asked. I swear this kid is more organized than me.

"Okay," I say, setting the plates down, "if you eat everything, you get karaoke and popcorn. If you don't, I'm feeding you brussels sprouts for the rest of your lives."

"You don't even know how to cook brussels sprouts," Nico challenges.

"Don't test me, small man."

They dive in, and for a moment, the kitchen's just full of warmth and chewing and Fizzy humming under her breath. I lean back against the counter and let myself feel it all.

This is good. This is right.

I don't even realize I'm smiling until Fizzy looks up and goes, "You're thinking about Harper, aren't you?"

My smile falters, but I recover fast. "No," I lie, "I'm thinking about how many push-ups I'm gonna make you do if you don't finish your food."

She squints. "You are so thinking about her."

I toss a grape at her. She catches it in her mouth like a trained seal.

But she doesn't press. None of them do. The teasing stays light, and before long, they're dragging the karaoke mic out of the cabinet like it's a sacred artifact.

Fizzy queues up a song from her Mom's last album, because of course she does, and Nico grabs the mic like he's hosting a show at Madison Square Garden.

God, I love my family.

────────── ???? ──────────

Three hours later, the apartment is finally silent.

No laughter, no footsteps, no karaoke echoing off the walls.

Just stillness. The kind that feels deafening after hours of noise.

Fizzy and Nico are gone—Willow picked them up about ten minutes ago, still in her studio sweats, sunglasses perched on her head even though it's nearly dark outside.

She hugged me tight, thanked me for watching them, and kissed my cheek like she always does.

Then she was gone, and just like that, so were they.

And now I'm alone.

Alone with my very, very loud thoughts.

I move through the apartment on autopilot, picking up empty juice boxes and snack wrappers, folding a blanket that somehow made it to the floor, brushing glitter—glitter—off the armrest. Fizzy left her hair clips on the kitchen counter again.

Nico forgot his sketchpad. Their chaos lingers in every corner, but they're not here. Just me, and the quiet.

And Harper's not home yet.

I glance at the clock. She's still at the game—the boy's team is playing, which means she's probably been behind the tunnel for hours, camera in hand, fully in the zone.

I can picture her like I've seen her so many times—head tilted just slightly, that calm, laser-sharp focus in her eyes, her fingers adjusting the lens like it's second nature.

She's probably smiling without realizing it, tucked behind her viewfinder, chasing the exact moment light and movement meet in a perfect shot.

God, I miss her. I miss her in this itchy, bone-deep way I don't know how to name. I've spent the last two days replaying that kiss like a movie stuck on loop, every single frame imprinted under my skin.

It was perfect. It was consuming. It was real.

Fuck. I want to do it again. No—I need to do it again, or I might actually combust. Is there a medical study for this? A statistic about how many times a person can come from a kiss alone? Because if there is, I'm the sample size.

Was it fake like I claimed? Not even a little.

My body lit the second I touched her.

My brain short-circuited. Everything that had been buzzing under the surface—the teasing, the tension, the way she looks at me like I'm the only person in the room—it exploded all at once.

And it wasn't a performance. Not really.

Because when I walked out of that tunnel and saw her standing there with him—him—the rest of the world blurred out.

It was her I saw first. Only her.

But when I saw him.

.. all I saw was red.

I recognized him right away.

I knew who he was from the second my eyes landed on him.

And Harper—sweet, kind, strong Harper—was standing there, looking frozen.

Like a statue on the verge of breaking. Her hands were stiff at her sides, her jaw tight, her eyes shiny with tears she hadn't let fall yet.

And I—

No.

I hated that.

I hated that he still had the power to do that to her. I kissed her, yes, to make a point—to show him he didn't get to walk around like he still mattered. That he didn't win. That she wasn't alone. I kissed her like I was daring him to believe otherwise.

But I also kissed her because I wanted to. Because I've wanted to from the moment I caught her snooping through my bookshelf like she belonged there.

And now... Now I can't stop thinking about her.

Her mouth on mine. Her breath in my ear. Her body pressing into me, wrapped in nothing but a towel, looking at me like she'd unravel if I touched her just an inch higher.

I close my eyes and drop onto the couch, tossing my phone from one hand to the other.

I don't know if she's thought about it the way I have.

I don't know if it's burned into her the way it's burned into me.

But I know this: I want to see her tonight.

I want to be near her. I want to know if she'll look at me like that again.

If she'll touch me the way she almost did before pulling away.

So I unlock my phone and do the only thing that makes sense.

My sorry, half-assed attempts to find any excuse to text her are getting embarrassingly obvious.

It's like I've become a teenager again, back to the days of staring at my phone like it might magically buzz on its own if I want it hard enough.

Only this time, I don't have to wait long—Harper always answers almost immediately.

Like she's been waiting for my message too.

Just a simple reply. Casual. Friendly. Normal. I stare at it a little too long.

It should stop there. That should be it. I should put my phone down, maybe turn on the TV, or read something, or do anything other than hover over our chat like an unhinged loser. But I don't. Because apparently, I'm a desperate, needy fucker now.

So I type again.

There's only a beat of silence before her name pops up again.

Of course she does. Of course she misses them.

Because Harper's like that. She's warm in a way that feels effortless—like sunshine through a window you didn't realize you needed until it touched your skin.

She remembers things. She listens when kids talk.

She kneels down to their level when they're shy.

She never rushes them. She never talks over them.

Fizzy thinks she's cool, and Nico looks at her like she's some kind of mythic figure from one of his sketchbooks.

And Harper? She just takes it all in stride like she has no idea how magnetic she is.

The day after that night—the towel, the kiss, the electricity in the air so thick it almost hurt—we had lunch at my moms' house.

Everyone was there. My whole, noisy, too-big, too-loud, too-loving family.

My aunts, my uncles, my sisters with their wives and their wild little kids running around the yard like it was their personal kingdom.

Julian grilled steaks. My mom made too many salads.

Fizzy and Nico tried to put a crown made of tinfoil on Harper's head and called her "Queen of the Backyard" for no reason at all.

And she fit in. Just like that.

There was no awkwardness, no forced smiles.

Just Harper laughing with Summer like they were old friends, helping Mom carry out plates like she belonged there.

I watched my entire family wrap themselves around her like she'd always been part of us.

Like she wasn't just some new girl I brought home, but someone they'd been waiting for without knowing it.

I think that's the part that fucked me up the most. That my family didn't just like her. They loved her. Instantly. And not because of the fake dating thing—not because they were playing along or putting on a show—but because she's easy to love.

And watching her like that, surrounded by the people I love most, a part of me ached. Ached in a way that felt terrifyingly good. Like stretching a muscle you didn't know had been sore.

Because I know this was supposed to be pretend. I know I'm not supposed to feel anything real.

But the second I saw her laughing with my mom? Helping Nico zip up his jacket without being asked? Letting Fizzy braid one side of her hair with glittery ties? I was gone.

I am gone.

I let my phone rest on my thigh and stare at the ceiling, the silence pressing in around me again. She's coming home soon. That should make it better. That should fill the hollow space echoing in my chest.

But it doesn't. Because I don't know how to act around her anymore. Not after that kiss. Not after that night. Not after she pulled away like she was scared of what it meant—and I didn't stop her.

Ten minutes later, the front door clicks open—and my heart stumbles, like it doesn't quite know how to beat properly anymore.

Harper steps inside with a gust of cold air clinging to her, cheeks pink from the wind, her breath still visible in the hallway light.

She's bundled in that oversized, puffy winter coat she always complains about but refuses to replace, her dark jeans baggy and cuffed at the ankle above worn sneakers.

Her camera hangs around her neck like a badge of honor—her second skin.

She's carrying two bags, one of them slightly tilted from the weight of the takeout inside.

And then she looks at me. God. That smile. Wide, radiant, the kind of smile that makes something inside me tighten and soften at the same time. Her eyes are shining, grey and kind, and for a second my brain just short-circuits.

"Hey, roomie," she says, like it's the most natural thing in the world—as if my chest hasn't just collapsed in on itself like a dying star.

She drops the bags onto the entryway table and shrugs off her coat.

Underneath, she's wearing a black thermal shirt that clings a little too well to her body, her sleeves pushed to the elbows.

Her camera shifts against her stomach as she moves, the strap brushing against her side.

She smells like wind and cold and that warm musky cologne she sometimes wears that drives me absolutely insane.

"The delivery was just downstairs when I got here," she adds casually, like she's not the most beautiful fucking person I've ever seen. "What'd you order?"

I clear my throat, struggling to string together basic English. "I, eh... cheeseburgers. Fries too."

Her face lights up. She grins and licks her bottom lip slowly—absently—and I feel my soul leave my body.

"Ohhh, I love them," she hums, voice warm and low as she glances toward the kitchen. "I'm gonna go change real quick and I'll be back. Put on a movie?"

"Sure," I manage, even though my mouth is dry and my pulse is a little out of control. "What do you want to watch?"

She shrugs one shoulder, already walking toward the hallway, her camera swaying with each step. "Whatever you want is fine."

She disappears into her room, and I stand there, staring at the empty space she left behind like an idiot. My fingers are still tingling from just seeing her. Like she walked in and flipped a switch under my skin.

I head into the kitchen, mostly to buy myself time.

I open the bags, pulling out warm containers of greasy, perfect-smelling burgers, ketchup packets, and a paper bag full of fries.

I grab two plates, because maybe if I do something practical with my hands I won't spiral thinking about how her towel almost dropped two nights ago.

How close I was to touching her. How it felt when her body brushed mine, all heat and tension and want.

I turn on the TV, start scrolling through the movie options with a numb thumb, trying to pretend I'm calm. Cool. Unaffected. Like my hands aren't still buzzing from the way she smiled when she walked in. Like I didn't just forget how to breathe because of one simple "Hey, roomie."

I hear her footsteps a few seconds before I see her, soft and easy against the hardwood.

I don't even turn right away. I need a second.

To collect myself. To steady my heart. Because Harper has this way of.

.. filling a room. Not just physically—though, yeah, that too—but in the way she carries herself. Casual but composed.

And then I do turn. And I am not ready.

She's swapped her coat and jeans for black sleep shorts and an oversized white T-shirt with a faded Fleetwood Mac logo across the chest. The shirt hangs wide off one shoulder, dipping low enough to reveal the strap of her black bra and the sharp slope of her collarbone.

Her legs are bare. Long, pale, soft-looking.

One of her sleeves is rolled up to her elbow, the other loose around her wrist. Her damp hair's twisted up in a loose bun that's barely holding on.

There's a small gold chain around her neck, glinting under the lamp, and when she walks into the light, my entire brain just short-circuits.

Harper is beautiful. But like this—casual, comfortable, not even trying—she's lethal.

She drops onto the couch beside me like it's nothing, like she didn't just show up looking like my next problem. She tucks one leg under the other and leans forward to steal a fry from the plate between us, her T-shirt sliding slightly as she moves. The curve of her shoulder stays exposed.

"I was thinking," she says around a fry, casual as hell, even as her bare thigh brushes mine, "maybe we should write out some rules."

That pulls my eyes off the TV.

"Rules? For what?"

She shrugs, eyes still on the screen. Her legs stretch out a little in front of her, her shirt riding just enough for me to notice the gentle curve of her hip.

She doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe she does.

I haven't decided which version of Harper is more dangerous—the oblivious one, or the one who knows exactly what she's doing.

"I don't know," she says, popping another fry into her mouth. "Like... how long we're doing this fake dating thing? What we can do? If we... I am, or you are—if we can..."

She stops. Her eyes flick toward me, then away again. Her fingers brush the plate. She's nervous.

"Say it, Harps."

She hesitates. Then, with a breath that sounds like it took effort to let out, she says, "Are we allowed to see other people?"

And just like that, the room tilts. I blink. "Why?"

She shrugs again. Too fast. Too casual. "Just asking."

But her voice has gone tight. Just barely.

I hear it in the back of her throat, like she's hoping I won't.

My heart's beating harder now, an erratic, uneven rhythm that makes my skin hot.

That makes the air too thick. That makes her look too close, too soft, too unfair in a goddamn T-shirt and shorts.

"Do you want to see other people?" I ask, and I hate how I hold my breath waiting for the answer.

"I mean..." she doesn't look at me. "It's not like this is real, right?"

Right. Of course it isn't.

Except I still haven't stopped thinking about the kiss. Or the way her mouth tasted. Or the towel that clung to her skin like it was jealous of me. Or how I wanted to drop to my knees in that room and show her all the ways I could ruin her name just by saying it between my teeth.

And now she's sitting here, legs bare, her shirt slipping off one shoulder like a challenge, asking if she's allowed to have someone else's hands on her. My jaw tics.

"And I have... uh, needs," she adds, voice barely audible now. "Yes. Needs."

Needs. My stomach tightens. My fingers flex against my thigh. I'm not sure I even hear the rest of what she's saying because all my blood has evacuated my brain and relocated somewhere infinitely more inconvenient.

She has needs. And someone else might meet them. No. The word doesn't leave my mouth, but it pounds in my chest. Loud. Possessive. Raw.

I lean back slowly, studying her, trying to find the line between teasing and something much darker that I know I'm already toeing. She finally turns to look at me.

"Are you serious?" I ask, voice low.

She bites the inside of her cheek. Doesn't answer. So I keep going. "You want to fuck someone else, Harps? That what you're saying?"

Her eyes flash, wide. Her breath catches in her throat. She wasn't expecting that. Good. Neither was I.

"I didn't—" she shakes her head, flustered now. "That's not— I didn't mean—"

I tilt my head, inch closer, just enough that she feels it. That she notices we're no longer just roommates on a couch.

"You have needs," I murmur, the heat in my chest now pooling behind my ribcage like it's ready to burst. "Okay.

Fair. You think I haven't noticed?"

Her lips part.

She doesn't move. "You walk around here in nothing but your robe some mornings," I continue, my voice almost a whisper now, "or those little pajama shorts that should honestly be illegal.

You lean over the counter in that stupid tank top and smile like you don't know what you're doing to me.

And then you ask if you're allowed to fuck someone else? "

Her breath is unsteady now, eyes darting to my mouth, then to my hand, which is resting on her shoulder, thumb grazing the warm curve of her collarbone.

"I wasn't thinking," she murmurs, voice husky and thick, like every word costs her. "I didn't mean it like that, I just... I didn't know if..."

"If what?" I ask, my voice a little rougher now, low and coaxing.

She looks at me like she's afraid of what she's about to admit—but even more afraid not to.

"I don't know what this is," she says, so quietly it barely registers. "And I— I know I can't really be seen with anyone else, but... I, um... it's not enough."

I blink, trying to keep my focus when everything in me tightens.

"What isn't?"

She blushes, cheeks flushed pink in the glow of the TV. Her fingers tug nervously at the sleeve of her hoodie. "Myself. I'm not enough."

Fuck me.

The image slams into me, hard and hot: Harper two rooms away, in the dark, her legs parted, her hand between them, breathy and frustrated and thinking of me. Trying. Failing. Whispering my name.

Something primal curls low in my stomach. She doesn't even realize what she's doing to me.

I lean in, slow, predatory. Close enough to feel her breath catch when I move. "I need someone," she murmurs

"Someone," I echo, my fingers tracing slowly down her arm now, dragging across her skin like a secret. "Who?"

Her eyes fall to my lips, and I swear I feel her pulse thrum in the air between us.

"I..." she tries, but the words catch.

I tilt my head slightly, closing the space, just barely. Her knees are touching mine now, her body drawn to me like she's on a leash and I'm the pull.

"Tell me something," I whisper.

She nods again, lips parted, waiting—like whatever I ask will own her.

"Did you think about me after the kiss?"

Her breath falters, and she gives the tiniest nod. "Yes."

It hits me low. Hard. Heat curling up my spine and settling behind my ribs.

"And when I left your room..." I continue, trailing my fingers down her forearm now, grazing the soft skin inside her wrist. Her pulse is out of control. "When you dropped the towel—was that for me?"

Her lashes flutter, eyes dark and heavy when she opens them again. Her voice is barely a breath.

"Yes."

Fuck. The sound she makes—like she doesn't know whether to run or beg me to keep going—wrecks me.

She looks at me like she wants to be touched. Like she's seconds away from unraveling. But I don't kiss her. I won't if she doesn't ask for it.

Instead, I let my touch linger, slipping slowly up the inside of her arm again. A deliberate drag of fingers over sensitive skin. A reminder. A promise.

"Here are your rules, Harper," I whisper.

She nods like she's holding on for dear life. "You don't get to fuck anyone else."

Her breath hitches, lips trembling. "Millie..."

I lean in—nose brushing her cheek, lips at her ear now. I feel her shiver like my words are already on her skin. "Because no one," I breathe, "will ever make you feel like I would."

She's frozen in place, shaking slightly, like she's trying to resist but failing with every cell in her body. Her hands have curled into fists in her lap, and I know—I know—that if I kissed her right now, she'd let me ruin her.

But I don't. Instead, I smile against her skin and pull back just enough to see her face.

One last touch—my fingers drifting down her jaw, over the curve of her throat. Then I stand.

Harper blinks up at me, dazed. Breathless.

And I just say, low and slow and final, "If you ever have 'needs'..." I let it hang, just long enough to watch her lips part, pupils blown wide. "...you come to me."

Then I walk away—leaving her on the couch, food forgotten, flushed and trembling, with nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.