Page 10 of Make Them Bleed (Pretty Deadly Things #1)

Juno

I’ve lost the ability to breathe around Arrow Finn.

Not in a melodramatic, oh-my-corset, Victorian fainting-couch way. More like every inhale sticks somewhere behind my ribs and refuses to leave, because apparently that’s where my best friend lives now—inside my chest, rearranging the furniture of my feelings without permission.

Tonight is supposed to be easy: sweatpants, pizza, and our semi-sacred tradition of “Netflix and aggressively not thinking about our problems.” We’ve done it a hundred times—back when Arby was alive and life felt wide-angle and brightly filtered.

But tonight my tiny living-room sofa suddenly feels intimate, like an invitation I’m not sure I’m brave enough to send.

Arrow stands in my doorway balancing two pizzas, a six-pack of ginger beer, and the softest grin I’ve ever seen on a human. Oversized hoodie, wind-mussed hair, a smudge of code-ink (aka dry-erase marker) on the back of his left hand. He looks devastatingly ordinary and impossibly dear.

“Delivery for the grief gremlin,” he says.

I snort. “Pretty sure grief gremlins only eat soggy cereal at three a.m.”

“Great,” he deadpans, stepping inside. “I got pepperoni and existential dread on thin crust.”

I tug the pizzas from his arms. “The secret topping Italians never want you to know about.”

We kick off our shoes, settle on opposite ends of the sofa, and wedge a throw pillow between us like a neutral zone.

I hit play on The Great British Bake Off —comfort viewing: pastel tents, sugar highs, zero murders.

The episode hums in the background while Arrow and I demolish half a pie.

Crumbs collect on my leggings, but I don’t care; he’s already told me I could wear a trash-bag and still be “top tier.”

Thirty minutes in, I realize I’m not watching the show—I’m watching him.

Every time he laughs at a punny cake failure, the corners of his eyes crinkle just a bit.

There’s a freckle on his nose I swear wasn’t there before, and the way his throat works when he swallows ginger beer is… weirdly captivating.

When did your best friend’s Adam’s apple become haute couture? my brain squeaks.

I flush, grab the remote, and turn down the volume. “Hey, Arrow?”

He looks over, cheeks bulging chipmunk-style with pizza crust. He swallows. “Yeah?”

“You good? You look wiped.”

I should be grateful he deflects the question back to me—as usual—but something in his gaze tonight is sharper, more searching. The pillow between us suddenly feels like a barrier I want to punt across the room. “No, you looked wiped, are you good?”

“I’m…hanging in,” I say, which is shorthand for I’m lying to you every day and it’s killing me. “How’s work with Maddox? Still hacking the Pentagon on your lunch breaks?”

He grins. “Strictly theoretical hacking. Dean keeps me busy sanitizing municipal firewalls.”

“You? Dragging Saint Pierce into the twenty-first century. Hero.” I toast him with my ginger beer.

His smile thins into a line of concern. “For real, Junebug, you okay? You’ve been extra quiet. Quieter than usual quiet.”

Here it is: the moment where truth claws at the back of my throat like a feral cat. Actually, Arrow, I met up with a Hoover-faced vigilante in a dark alley and I’m meeting him again to hunt real-life killers. Yeah, that will go over great.

I default to humor. “I’m fine. Just… uh, trying not to ugly-cry on Paul Hollywood’s handshake montage.”

Arrow’s brow lifts, unconvinced, but he lets it drop. “Fair. Hollywood tears are sacred.”

We lapse into silence again. The bakers scramble; flour flies; someone’s Swiss roll implodes. My phone buzzes on the coffee table, screen lighting up the dark room. Arrow’s focus flicks to it, then back to me—polite, but curious. I flip it over face-down, heart thudding.

The vibration keeps going—three short pulses. Hoover’s encrypted channel. Of course.

Arrow raises an eyebrow. “Hot date?”

“Spam.” I choke on the lie. “Apparently my car’s warranty is expiring.”

“You don’t have a car.”

“Right. So clearly a scam.”

He watches me for a beat longer than comfortable, then nods. “Block and report. Scammers eat drywall.”

My laugh comes out brittle. I excuse myself to the bathroom, phone death-gripped in my hand. Once the door’s locked, I check the message:

HOOVER: Double checking we’re still on for tonight. Midnight.

Midnight. That’s less than three hours from now. I exhale through my nose, anxiety crackling. Arrow and I usually marathon until at least one a.m. He’ll notice if I vanish.

I text back:

Yes. I’ll be there.

Knuckles rap softly on the bathroom door. “You alive in there?” Arrow’s voice, playful concern threaded with something warmer.

“Just reapplying lip balm!” I call.

“Okay, but if you’ve fallen in and need rescue, let me know.”

I smile despite myself, pocket the phone, splash water on my face, and step out. Arrow’s standing in the hall, arms folded. The hallway lamp halos his hair and I lose a second to the sudden urge to run my hands through it.

He tilts his head. “You sure you’re not getting sick? You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale.” I brush past him toward the living room. “Uptown vampires keep poaching my SPF.”

He chuckles, follows, and drops onto the sofa. As I sit, he angles his body toward me, knee brushing mine. Tiny electric jolt. I resist yanking my leg away.

“So,” he says, “Netflix has given up recommending new shows. Want to bail on the tent bakers and watch something else?”

“What’d you have in mind?”

He scrolls, thumb hovering. “There’s a new docuseries on cult infiltration. Lots of hidden mics, night-vision—your jam.”

“Oh, you know how to romance a girl.” The words tumble out before I can leash them. Heat rushes my cheeks. “I mean?—”

Arrow’s grin turns lopsided, disarming. “If I were romancing you, Juno Kate, you’d know.”

My breath hitches. There’s a depth to his tone—teasing, yet edged with sincerity—that makes my pulse trip. Does he mean that? Does he know I want him to?

I clear my throat. “Speaking of romance…my podcast listeners keep asking when Final Girl Frequency will return. You think people still care about my rambles?”

“Are you kidding? You left them on a cliff-hanger about the Garden State Axeman. True-crime nerds are frothing. You should go back when you’re ready. Your voice matters.”

Warmth blooms in my chest. “Thanks, Arrow.”

He bumps my knee gently. “Anytime, Final Girl.”

My phone buzzes again, well, Arrow’s phone, actually, because he’s set a reminder for brownie intermission at nine p.m. But it jolts me back to reality. The midnight rendezvous.

I glance at the clock (8:47).

“Hey, Arrow?” My tone aims for casual, but it wobbles instead. “Could we wrap by ten-thirty?”

His face falls a fraction. “Sure. What’s up?”

Guilt stabs me. He deserves honesty. Instead, I add another lie to tonight’s tab. “I promised Mom I’d FaceTime before she crashes.” Half true—Mom does sleep at eleven. It’s the FaceTime that’s fictional.

Arrow nods, and pushes a fresh brownie toward me. “Family first.”

“Arrow?” I blurt, before cowardice wins. “You ever feel like you’re living double lives? Like there’s the version of you your friends see and then…something hidden?”

His gaze sharpens. “Sometimes. Especially lately.”

I swallow. “Is that bad?”

“Depends,” he says quietly. “Secrets can shield people. Or crush them.”

My stomach twists. “How do you know which is which?”

“You don’t.” He scoots closer, voice low. “You just hope the people you love understand why you kept the secret when they finally learn it.”

Love. The word ricochets around my skull. Does he mean friend-love or capital-L, kiss-me-now love?

“Arrow…” My heart is pounding so hard I can hear blood in my ears.

He reaches up, tucks a stray curl behind my ear. His fingertips brush my cheek and suddenly breath is a rumor.

“I think you’ll figure it out, Junebug,” he murmurs. “You always do.”

I lean into his hand without thinking. The air between us vibrates—one tilt of my head and our lips would meet. My brain screams yes, my phone screams buzz buzz buzz.

Reminder: Midnight.

I jerk back. “I—should clean up. Pizza fossilizes if you let it sit.”

Arrow’s hand drops, disappointment flickering across his features before he masks it with a smile. “Sure. I’ll load the dishwasher.”

Together we work in a silence threaded with unspoken things. My heart aches with the weight of them. When the kitchen’s spotless, Arrow checks his watch.

“Ten-thirty,” he says softly. “I should bounce.”

I walk him to the door, hug him goodnight. His hoodie smells like his coastal driftwood soap and ginger beer. I want to keep him here, safe, oblivious. I want to drag him with me, because if the world is dangerous I trust Arrow to swing first. I want too many things.

He releases me, and steps into the hall. “Tomorrow? Bagels?”

“Always.” My smile trembles.

He hesitates. “Get some sleep, Juno.”

“You too.” I shut the door, pressing my forehead against the cool wood, and exhale shakily.

Inside my bedroom I swap leggings for black jeans, denim jacket, and running shoes. Pepper spray. Folder. Heartbreak.

At 11:40 I send Arrow a quick text—Hope you made it home safe, thanks for tonight—and pocket the phone before it can vibrate back.

The city outside is sharp and glittering, full of secrets and terrible men. I’m about to meet one of the good ones wearing a dead president’s face. At least, I hope he’s good.

I lock the apartment, step into the night, and head for Riverside, every footfall echoing with a truth I’m terrified to speak:

I think I’m falling for Arrow Finn, and if this goes wrong, I might lose him.