Page 61 of Sweet Sinners

I tug it open and pull out a small, framed piece of fake stained glass. The colors melt together—deep blues and soft golds, depicting an ocean at sunset. The edges catch the dim light of the living room, casting fractured reflections against the walls.

For a second, I can’t speak.

My fingers skim over the smooth surface, tracing the edges carefully.

"You picked this up before my injury?" I ask, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be.

"Yes," she confirms.

"When you were out with that guy?" I don’t bother masking the edge in my voice.

Cali rolls her eyes, exasperated. "I wasn’toutwith him. He just showed up after I was done shopping."

That shouldn’t ease something inside me, but it does.

I keep my eyes locked on the stained glass, letting my thumb stroke the edges again, careful. Careful like this thing matters more than it should.

"Cali…" I swallow, words failing me for a beat. "It's perfect."

"You like it?" she asks, softer now, stepping a little closer.

"Yeah." I nod, extending my hand toward her without thinking.

She hesitates, then places her palm in mine, and something about the small act sends heat surging through my chest.

Her fingers are warm, delicate, but sure.

I squeeze lightly, something tight forming in my throat.

"Thank you," I say, meaning it in a way I haven’t meant anything in a long time. "This is…amazing."

She’s amazing.

She went from doubting me to letting me in, from barely speaking to me to seeking me out when she needs comfort, from keeping her distance to putting things in my hands that remind her of me.

She’s dangerous.

The kind of dangerous that doesn’t come with a warning. The kind that sneaks up on you, settles under your skin, and makes a home there before you even realize you’re lost.

And I am. Completely.

Chapter twenty-eight

Cali

IalmostwishitwereMonday.

It’s a ridiculous thought, but as I lie here, staring at the ceiling, the idea of facing the day—and potentially Connor—makes me crave the distraction of work. Anything to keep me busy. Anything to avoid the awkwardness that might be lingering after last night.

We got throughScreamjust fine. I stayed in my own space, no jumping into his lap, no startled yelps. But that was because I wasn’t really watching. The movie was darkly humorous, clever in its twists, and I appreciated that. Yet, I was so wrapped up in keeping my emotions in check that I barely absorbed any of it. I wasthere, but not present. Too caught up in the battle raging inside me to focus on the bloodshed happening on-screen.

You don’t want him. You’re just confused.

You don’t want him. You’re just tangled up in your own feelings.

But it doesn’t feel like confusion. Not when every interaction leaves a mark, not when his voice is the first thing I hear in my head when I wake up.

Connor and I have never beenrealsiblings in the conventional sense. We didn’t grow up together. We only met in high school, and even then, we barely spoke—just two people forced to share the same dinner table, him sulking, me retreating into silence. Life pulled me in different directions, kept me too busy to notice him. Then college happened, and he ended up in prison.