Page 13 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

LYLA

“ U SE PROTECTION!” I yell from the porch as Madison jogs toward Jaxon’s truck, phone in hand and the world’s most smug expression on her face.

She lifts a middle finger in response and blows me a kiss, not even bothering to turn around.

I shake my head and laugh, but it’s a thin sound. Hollow around the edges.

The second the door shuts behind me, the silence is loud.

I head straight for the bathroom and start what’s supposed to be my everything shower—body scrub, hair mask, full reset.

But the second I step under the water, something in my chest tightens.

I scrub harder than usual. Wash my hair twice.

Then three times. I shave, even though I don’t need to, just to keep moving.

The steam fogs up the mirror and coats the walls, but I don’t step out. I just stand there under the spray, forehead pressed to the tile, trying to force the thoughts out of my head.

What if I can’t keep this together?

What if this is a mistake?

What if I ruin everything?

By the time I get out, the bathroom feels like a sauna. My towel clings to my skin. My hands are trembling, but I ignore it.

I’m fine.

I’m fine.

I towel off just enough to stop dripping, then braid my wet hair fast and messy, and step into my room.

That’s when it starts.

The desk is cluttered. I didn’t notice it before, but now it’s all I can see. I move to straighten the piles—assignments, notebooks, pens—except one pen is missing a cap, and now I can’t think about anything else.

I drop to the floor and start pulling open drawers.

Where’s the damn cap?

By the time I find it, my chest is tight. Like I’ve run five miles uphill. My muscles buzz with tension. I don’t sit down. I clean.

Fast. Frantic.

Dresser. Closet. Nightstand.

Every drawer gets reorganized. Shoes lined up perfectly. Water glasses removed and put in the sink. The smell of bleach stings my nose, but I keep going.

The coffee table has rings on it.

The throw pillows are off-center.

The rug has a wrinkle.

Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.

By the time I wipe down the entire kitchen counter—for the second time—my braid has soaked through the back of my T-shirt. My hands shake as I line up three mugs on the drying rack.

Perfect.

Almost.

I turn to wipe the sink when a knock rattles the front door.

I freeze.

Then the panic floods in.

Carter.

I glance at the clock.

He came.

Of course he did.

And now I can’t breathe.

Not from nerves or embarrassment. From that tightening, burning, scraping feeling in my ribs.

The one that builds when I lose control of the rhythm. When everything feels too loud, too close, too wrong.

Another knock.

“Lyla?”

His voice is muffled through the door. Calm. Curious.

I don’t answer.

My hand grips the edge of the counter like it’ll ground me, but my knuckles go white.

Another beat. Then three soft knocks.

“Hey,” he says again. “You okay?”

I manage to unlock the door, but I don’t open it all the way. Just enough for him to see me—barefoot, damp clothes, chest rising and falling way too fast.

He pauses.

Takes me in.

“Never a good sign when the night starts with tears,” he says quietly.

I swallow, trying to force air into my lungs. It doesn’t work. “It’s not tears,” I whisper. “It’s everything. It’s just…everything.”

His face softens. “What can I do?”

My throat burns. My voice is barely there.

“I don’t know. I just—I thought I could do this. But I can’t be messy. I don’t get to be messy. If I let it go—if I let me go—I won’t come back from it.”

He takes a small step forward. Doesn’t touch me. Just meets my eyes.

“Then let me help,” he says, steady. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”

That alone has my eyes burning with more tears.

Not the mess. Not the spiral.

But the fact that someone besides Madison is actually offering to stay through it.

I swipe at my cheeks, but the tears don’t stop. Not when he’s standing there looking at me like I’m not some hurricane of a girl who can’t handle her own brain.

“I just—” My voice wavers. “I usually clean. Or organize. Or…I don’t know. If everything is in its place, then I can breathe again.”

Carter doesn’t hesitate.

“Okay,” he says simply, then pushes the door open the rest of the way and steps inside.

I blink at him, still wrapped in the frayed edges of panic. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs. “Helping.”

He looks around like he’s scanning the room for a battle plan. “What’s next?”

I sniff, a shaky laugh escaping before I can stop it. “The pantry. The cans aren’t facing the right way.”

He nods like this is the most normal request he’s ever heard. “Cool. Let’s conquer the pantry.”

I hover for a second, stunned. Then I follow him to the kitchen, grabbing a dish towel and the all- purpose spray on autopilot.

He swings the pantry door open. “Labels out, right?”

“Yeah,” I whisper.

“Boom. I’m on it.”

He starts turning the cans one by one without asking questions, not even when I correct the order twice. I wipe down the shelves beside him, my heartbeat starting to slow for the first time all night.

He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t ask why I’m like this. Doesn’t make a joke.

He just moves with me. Step for step.

I restock the cereal in height order. He stacks the granola bars by flavor. He even wipes down the spice rack, humming quietly under his breath.

And just like that—the panic starts to dull.

I glance over at him, a stray curl falling into my face.

“You’re…weirdly good at this.”

He grins, flashing that smug, infuriating dimple. “I’ve got range.”

I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch anyway. “Don’t get cocky.”

He shrugs. “Too late.”

Another beat passes, quieter this time. I take a deep breath and lean against the counter, towel still in my hands.

“I hate this part of me,” I admit, voice low.

Carter doesn’t miss a beat.

“I don’t.”

I blink at him, stunned by the simplicity in his voice. The way he says it like it’s not a big deal.

Like I didn’t just unravel in front of him.

“You don’t?” I ask softly.

He shrugs, still rearranging boxes like it’s nothing. “One of my old foster brothers had OCD. His looked different than yours—his thing was numbers. Everything had to be even. Fours and eights and twelves. We couldn’t microwave anything unless it ended in double zero’s or thirty or he’d freak out.”

He pauses, straightens the last row of cans, then turns to face me. His expression is calm. Steady.

Not pitying—just present.

“I used to get so annoyed,” he says, a wry twist to his lips. “But one night, he told me that if he didn’t follow the rules in his head, he thought something bad would happen to the people he cared about. Like it was his job to hold the world together.”

My throat tightens.

Carter rests his elbows on the counter, watching me. “You don’t look crazy to me, Lyla. You look like someone who’s trying really fucking hard to hold it together. And I get that.”

The air leaves my lungs in a slow, aching breath. I grip the edge of the counter, staring down at my bare feet on the tile.

“You don’t talk about that stuff much,” I murmur. “The foster care part.”

He shrugs again, more guarded this time. “Most people don’t ask.”

I glance up at him. “I’m not most people.”

He smirks faintly. “Yeah. I got that.”

The silence stretches, but it’s not heavy now. Not tense. Just…full.

Full of things neither of us are used to saying out loud or admitting.

I shift closer to him without really thinking. “What happened to him? Your foster brother.”

“Got adopted eventually. A really good family. I lost touch, but I always hoped he was okay.”

As the silence stretches and the adrenaline finally starts to drain from my limbs, a creeping sense of embarrassment curls into my stomach.

This was supposed to be…not this.

I glance over at him, then quickly away. “You know, I did technically text you for a booty call. And instead, you’re now intimately familiar with my pantry.”

Carter lets out a low laugh, that cocky dimple making another appearance. “Not the wild night I had in mind, but honestly? Still kinda hot.”

I shoot him a flat look, and he smirks.

“I mean, it’s organized. Labels out. Color-coded. Arousing, really.”

I groan and bury my face in my hands. “God, kill me now.”

He bumps my knee with his. “Hey. If you want a rain check, I’m a very flexible guy.”

I glance at him, cheeks warm, but there’s no pressure in his voice. No smug expectation.

Just…patience. Humor. Ease.

It disarms me completely.

I sit up straighter and say, “You want ice cream?”

His eyebrows lift. “Are you offering me a booty-call rain check and dessert?”

But I’m already headed toward the kitchen, pulling open the freezer door with a grin.

And then I freeze.

Empty.

No ice cream. Not even a freezer-burned pint of something questionable in the back.

Panic hits in a stupid, sudden wave. My breath catches. My shoulders lock. My fingers tighten around the freezer handle like maybe if I close it and reopen it, something will appear.

It doesn’t.

And now my brain is spiraling again.

How could I forget to replace it?

What kind of idiot forgets the one thing she knows calms her down when everything goes sideways?

Behind me, I hear Carter’s footsteps approach.

Then his voice, soft but certain.

“Lyla.”

I don’t turn. I can’t. My throat is too tight again.

His hand brushes gently against my back. “Come on. Let’s go fix this.”

I glance over my shoulder. “Fix what?”

He grins. “You’re out of ice cream. That’s practically a crisis.”

He heads for the door, grabbing his keys off the table. “Get your shoes. I’ll drive.”

Ten minutes later, I’m sliding into the passenger seat of his truck, still slightly dazed that this is happening.

Carter opens the door for me, then gives a dramatic, sweeping bow.

“Your chariot awaits, Princess.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are.” He shuts the door with a grin.

And for the first time in days, I let myself relax fully into the seat.

Maybe organizing the pantry wasn’t the worst kind of intimacy after all.