Page 12

Caleb

I load the last pan into the dishwasher and slam it shut harder than I mean to.

It’s not even my pan.

Pretty sure it belongs to one of the freshmen who wandered in last week and made “protein lasagna,” which sounds exactly as cursed as it tasted.

The kitchen’s a mess. My planner’s buried under a pile of sticky notes. And I’ve got two exams coming up that I haven’t even started studying for.

It’s fine.

Totally fine.

I check my phone again.

One new message—from Mom.

Call your sister. She’s freaking out again. I can’t deal with this right now.

I stare at the text until the words blur.

Sierra’s seventeen. Brilliant. Stubborn. And spiraling again.

Every few months, it’s something new. Panic attacks.

Missed school. This week it’s fights with Dad and threats to drop out.

I’ve tried to help, from hundreds of miles away, but there’s only so much I can do from here—especially when my parents treat me like the emotional support golden retriever and not a twenty-two-year-old with his own crap to manage.

I rub a hand over my face, breathing slow.

I need to call her. I will call her.

But not right now.

Not when my own head’s already spinning.

Because things have been different lately. With Rilee.

She’s not cold. Not distant. Just… careful. Measured. Like she’s trying not to tip her hand. And maybe I wouldn’t notice—if I hadn’t already tasted what it felt like when she let her guard down.

That night at her apartment?

I still think about it. The way she pulled me closer. The sound she made when I kissed her neck. How she said yes without even saying it.

Then we kissed in her room after she moved in.

But now?

Space.

Smiles that don’t reach her eyes.

A different kind of energy around Grayson.

I don’t know if something happened. I don’t want to assume. But I know how to read people. And she’s been slipping through my fingers since the moment I thought I was finally getting a grip.

Still, I’m not going to push.

I’m not going to beg for a girl who has the right to figure her shit out.

All I can do is show up. Be steady. Be here.

So I text my sister. Tell her I’ll call tonight.

Then I grab the dumb orange cowboy hat I promised to wear, crack open a soda, and start stringing up lights for the party I planned half to distract myself.

And half to maybe—just maybe—make her smile again.

I’m halfway through stringing fake cobwebs across the front windows when I hear the door creak open behind me.

“Tell me you’re not actually using tape on those walls,” Rilee says.

I grin over my shoulder. “Relax. It’s painter’s tape. Barely counts as vandalism.”

She steps inside, arms crossed over a long black cardigan. Her hair’s in loose waves, makeup still fresh like she hasn’t been rushing around all day saving lives. Her boots make a satisfying click on the hardwood as she walks over, surveying my work like a very sexy building inspector.

“You missed a spot,” she says, pointing to the top corner. “Give me the tape.”

I hand it over, and she climbs up onto the armrest of the couch—her shirt lifting just enough to flash a sliver of skin.

I don’t mean to stare.

Okay, that’s a lie.

“You know,” I say, leaning against the wall, “there are easier ways to make a guy lose focus.”

She looks down at me. “This outfit?”

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Sierra.

“Give me a sec,” I say, backing toward the hallway. “It’s my sister. She’s been having a week.”

Rilee nods. “Go. I’ll finish haunting your living room.”

I step into the kitchen and answer.

“Hey, little monster,” I say, trying to keep it light.

She’s crying.

Not full meltdown—just that quiet, edge-of-the-knife kind of crying that makes your chest hurt.

I listen. Let her talk. School’s overwhelming. Mom and Dad are being useless. Her best friend ditched her for a guy who sucks.

I wait until she runs out of breath and say the only thing that ever works.

“You’re not too much, Sierra. You’re just around people who aren’t enough.”

She sniffles. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

We talk for ten more minutes. I promise to text her every morning this week—even if it’s just something dumb to make her laugh.

By the time I hang up, the decorations are done, and Rilee’s gone upstairs.

So I head to my room, pull on my costume—a vintage western shirt (strategically unbuttoned), tight black jeans, a leather holster belt I found at a thrift store, and yes, the dumb orange cowboy hat. If I’m going slutty cowboy, I’m committing.

When I come back out, a few early arrivals are already in the living room. Someone’s brought a tray of Jell-O shots. Hunter’s by the Bluetooth speakers, pretending not to care. Grayson’s leaning against the wall, sipping something dark and not looking at anyone.

I scan the room.

No Rilee.

Until I turn toward the stairs.

And see her.

Black leather corset. Fishnets. Heels that should be illegal. Cat ears. Red lipstick that makes my brain short-circuit.

She walks down the stairs slowly, like she doesn’t even know what she’s doing to me.

But she does.

God, she does .

I forget my name.

Forget the party.

Forget everything but the fact that I might actually be in trouble here.

Big, can’t-look-away kind of trouble.

I’m still standing at the base of the stairs like an idiot when Rilee hits the last step.

“Hey,” I manage, brain trying to reboot.

She smiles—and damn if it doesn’t make everything worse. It’s the kind of smile that lights a fuse. The kind that says she knows exactly what she’s doing and is still daring you to look anyway.

“Nice hat, cowboy,” she says, brushing past me with a flick of her ponytail.

I turn to follow her, heart thudding.

“Can I get you a drink?” I ask, catching up beside her as she slips through the crowd.

“Something that doesn’t glow in the dark,” she says. “I don’t trust beverages that look like highlighters.”

“Good rule.” I grin. “Be right back.”

The kitchen’s packed, but I manage to pour two drinks—one for her, one for me—and weave back through a sea of costumed chaos.

And there she is.

Leaning against the hallway wall.

Talking to Grayson.

He’s dressed like… something minimal. Black jeans. Henley. Leather jacket. Not much effort, but it works. Of course it works.

He’s got one hand braced against the wall, head dipped slightly as she says something I can’t hear over the music.

And she’s looking up at him like she’s listening.

Really listening.

My chest tightens.

I make my way over slowly, careful not to spill the drinks.

“Rescue delivery,” I say, holding hers out.

She turns, takes it with a grateful smile. “You’re a hero.”

Grayson gives me a nod, says something low, and melts back into the crowd like a ghost.

She watches him go, just for a second.

Then sips her drink.

I try not to let it sting.

“Everything okay?” she asks, glancing at me over the rim of her cup.

“What do you mean?”

“Your sister. Earlier—your call?”

Oh.

She remembered.

I smile, softer now. “Yeah. She’s okay. Just overwhelmed. Teenage stuff. Parents being… them.”

She bumps her shoulder against mine. “You’re a good brother.”

“Trying,” I say. “Some days I feel like I’m just duct-taping everything together and hoping for the best.”

She gives me a look that almost makes me forget the Grayson thing. “For what it’s worth? I think duct tape’s pretty damn underrated.”

We stand there for a second, our shoulders brushing, the party buzzing around us.

And for a second, I let myself pretend I’m the only one she’s looking at tonight.