Chapter 1 - Chapter 1 – Lyra

If you can write this text, you can write it. That's what he sent me. Five words. No context. No emotion. Just a line that sits at the top of my phone screen like a challenge. Like he's daring me to say it out loud. Like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. I've read it at least fifteen times, but it still makes my stomach tighten every time. It's not the message itself. It's the man who sent it. Kairo Steele. My brother's best friend. The man who somehow turned into a walking contradiction the moment I started noticing things I shouldn't. Like how his voice drops when he talks to me. Or how he always looks away last, like he's the one in control, even when I feel like I can't breathe. He isn't supposed to be anything more than a family friend. Not to me. Especially not to me. But he never followed rules well. And right now, neither am I. My legs are curled beneath me on the bed, the soft cotton of his hoodie resting against bare skin. I should've returned it. That was the plan. Wear it once, wash it, hand it back casually like it meant nothing. But I didn't. I didn't because I'm weak, and because it still smells like him. Not just cologne, but him. A mix of clean laundry, something sharp and masculine, and that faint trace of control that always makes my thoughts scatter. I grip my phone tighter and glance again at the message. If you can write this text, you can write it. Write what? That I want him? That every time he's in this house, I feel like the air gets thicker? That I can still feel the ghost of his hand on my lower back from earlier, when he helped me reach a glass and his fingers lingered just a little too long? Or maybe he wants me to admit how I stare at him when he's not looking. How I memorize the curve of his mouth, the way his sleeves roll up just enough to show the veins in his forearm, the way he holds tension like he was born with it in his spine. I don't even know when it started. Maybe it was last summer when I came back from school and found he'd turned from my brother's chill, quiet best friend into someone darker. Sharper. Someone who barely spoke but still made it impossible to look away. He never said anything inappropriate. Never touched me when someone else was around. But the way he looked at me sometimes felt like a touch. Heavy. Intentional. Hot. I try to pull my thoughts back to something safe, but it's no use. The image of him is already there. The way he leaned against the counter tonight, fingers wrapped around a glass, watching me while pretending not to. Elijah never noticed. He never does. Because to him, I'm still the little sister who can't be part of conversations like that. But I'm not a child. And Kairo sees it. He sees me. Not just the polished version I show the world, but the messy parts. The confused, restless, aching parts that I don't let anyone else see. Maybe that's what scares me. That he already knows. My phone buzzes again. My chest tightens as I grab it. A second message. This time, there's no room for misunderstanding. Say it, Lyra. Or I'll come upstairs and make you say it with your mouth full. My breath catches. My body reacts before my mind even has time to form a thought. Heat floods my stomach. My legs press together instinctively, and I hate how fast the pulse between them answers him. He's here. Downstairs. In this house. The same house my brother is asleep in. And I'm here, wearing his hoodie, reading messages that no best friend should be sending. I should tell him to stop. I should block his number. I should delete the messages, wash this damn hoodie, and pretend I don't feel anything. But instead, my thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling. Because I want him. And I'm not sure I'm strong enough to pretend I don't.