Kit's car slid to a halt at the edge of the world, headlights brushing the sharp points of a wrought-iron gate. The estate beyond was all glass and cold geometry, half-lit as if daring someone to see through its secrets. Delorah peered up through the windshield, chest tight with awe and unease. This wasn't a house, it was a challenge.
"Damn," she said under her breath, voice almost lost in the hush. "You live in a Bond villain lair?"
Kit's mouth curved in a smirk, teeth catching the dashboard light. "Jealous?"
She tried to play it cool. "A little. Do you have a moat too?"
He looked at her, eyes flickering with some secret ache. "Only the emotional kind." He pushed his door open, motioning for her to follow.
The gate buzzed open with mechanical reluctance, trees bowing over the drive like sentinels. As Kit parked, the quiet settled in thick and deep, every step toward the entrance muffled by money and memory.
Delorah let Kit lead, feeling like a stray trespassing in a dream. But as they crossed the last stretch of stone, a second car pulled into the circular drive. Sleek and black, it rolled to a stop, beams slicing across the manicured lawn and freezing both of them in harsh relief.
Kit slowed, tension running down his spine. "Shit," he muttered.
The car door opened, precise and silent. A man unfolded himself from the driver's seat, moving with an easy confidence that was almost predatory. He was tall—at least a few inches above Kit—shoulders sharp beneath the tailored lines of a gray button-down. His black hair was slicked back, every strand in perfect defiance of chaos, framing a face that might have been carved from marble if not for the ghost of a smirk at his lips. Storm-grey eyes swept over them, cold and unreadable, a gaze built for appraisal, not affection. Keys spun on one finger. A phone was pressed to his ear, but his attention was fixed squarely on Kit and Delorah.
Delorah's pulse skittered. This man was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful: bright, dangerous, meant to draw blood.
The man's eyes lingered on Kit for a long, assessing second, then drifted over Delorah, weighing her with a look that left fingerprints. Finally, his mouth curled into something resembling a smile. "Well. If it isn't Adrian."
Kit didn't flinch. He stood rooted, hands in his pockets, jaw set against the old wound. Delorah caught his eye, searching for explanation, but Kit kept silent.
The night seemed to freeze around them, the only sounds the soft purr of the idling car and the distant hush of crickets in the trees. Delorah stood between worlds, realizing she was witnessing a story that began long before she arrived.
She shivered, just once, as the man stepped forward—impeccable, unreadable, and suddenly the most dangerous thing in the dark.
"I didn't know you were bringing girls home now," the man said, voice smooth as cut stone. He slipped his phone into his pocket, eyes lingering on Delorah. "Classy, Adrian."
Kit's arms folded over his chest, his posture going defensive. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"
The man arched a brow. "Just grabbing my cufflinks. Big dinner tonight—Dad and a few suits. You'd know if you ever answered your phone."
"I was busy."
A quiet descended, taut and brittle. The man let it stretch, savoring the discomfort. Then, as if remembering manners, he turned to Delorah, the weight of his attention making the air feel sharp. Up close, he was all angles and polish, with that slick black hair and storm-grey eyes that seemed to measure and dismiss everything at once.
"I'm Sebastian," he said, extending a hand. His grip was cool, precise, and just a little too strong. "You must be new."
Delorah forced a polite half-smile, taking his hand only long enough to feel the power coiled in his fingers. "Delorah."
He held her gaze for a moment that lasted too long, then offered the shadow of a smile. "Good luck tonight."
She nodded, her instincts loud and clear—she didn't like this man, not even a little.
Sebastian released her hand and disappeared inside, the front door whispering shut behind him. The chill he left behind lingered.
Kit exhaled, rolling his shoulders to shake off the encounter. "Sorry about that."
She turned to him, voice gentle but edged with worry. "Adrian?" The name felt like touching a bruise.
Kit's jaw worked, the old wound reopening just beneath the surface. "Long story." He tried on a smile, uneven but genuine for her sake. "Come on. I've got something better than cufflinks."
He nudged her toward the house, the night behind them, Sebastian's presence still trailing like a shadow at their backs.
The front door whispered open, sighing like some hidden vault. Delorah slipped in behind Kit and was immediately swallowed by a cold, expensive hush. The entryway stretched high overhead, marble floors catching the pale light from above. Everything gleamed, polished and untouchable. A sculptural chandelier hung overhead, twisting like a bolt of frozen lightning. The walls rose blank and tall, broken only by a single massive painting above the staircase—an ocean caught in the middle of a storm, black water roiling under bruised clouds.
Delorah's voice came out small. "This place is… huge."
Kit let his keys fall into a glass bowl, the sound echoing in the empty space. "Too big," he said quietly. "But Dad thinks square footage means you've made it."
She glanced around, trying to imagine living here. "Where is he?"
"Out," Kit answered. "He's always out. Sebastian too, most of the time." His words drifted up to the chandelier, lost in the cavernous air. "It's like living in a really high-end mausoleum."
She followed him down a hallway lined with sleek, modern art—cold colors and sharp lines, nothing personal. They passed into the kitchen, a flawless magazine spread of stainless steel and spotless marble. It looked untouched, as if even the sunlight would need permission to fall here. There was no scent of food, no hint anyone had ever sat at the long island or opened a cabinet.
"Do you even cook?" she teased, trying to crack the chill.
Kit opened the fridge but only stared at the neatly labeled containers inside. "We have a chef. She leaves food with sticky notes." He closed it again, voice softer. "Mostly, I just forget to eat."
They climbed the wide staircase, footsteps echoing up the empty well of the house. Delorah looked at the blank walls, the flawless floors, the silence that followed them up each step. The place felt more like a stage set than a home, all light and perfection and no warmth at all. Only the hollow sound of Kit's shoes on the wood seemed real.
At the end of the upstairs hall, Kit stopped at a door. He pushed it open, letting a wash of light spill across the threshold.
"This is me," he said, voice echoing softly as he stepped inside.
Kit's bedroom was a world apart from the museum outside—smaller, cluttered, defiantly alive. The door swung shut behind them, and Delorah felt the temperature shift. Here, warmth pooled in the messy corners, the air thick with music and candle smoke, the sharp tang of something chemical underneath.
Band posters plastered every wall, curling at the edges, their bright colors peeling like old wounds. Clothes lay tangled across the floor—black jeans, faded shirts, a worn hoodie half-draped over a splintered chair. It looked as if someone had been in a hurry, or had simply stopped caring.
Kit's desk was an altar to chaos: open notebooks scrawled with lyrics and secrets, lighters and dead pens, crumpled receipts, a cracked old phone—evidence of a boy who lived in fragments. Delorah's gaze caught on a small glass tray, heart giving a hard, uncertain knock. Two glittering lines sat side by side, a thin straw set beside them like a dare. The lines shimmered faintly in the candlelight, promising something sharp, something forbidden.
A battered record player perched in the corner, surrounded by a leaning tower of vinyls—albums scuffed and loved, their spines showing toothmarks of old heartbreaks. On the windowsill, a candle guttered and threw long shadows against the heavy black curtains, turning the gold glow into something secretive and almost holy.
Delorah let her eyes wander, her pulse hitching with every new detail. The air in here felt thick, almost intimate, tinged with incense and sweat and the ghost of last night's smoke. This room had seen every version of Kit—the one who laughed too loud, the one who vanished for hours, the one who left bruises on his own skin just to see if he could still feel it.
She spoke quietly, her voice reverent. "This feels more like you."
Kit didn't look at her. He slouched onto the desk stool, spinning it a fraction with his foot, shadows shifting across his face. "Yeah. In here, I get to pretend I'm a real person."
Delorah turned toward him, the words catching at something raw inside her. She saw the weight in his posture, the way his jaw tensed like he was waiting for the next blow. The energy in the room turned heavier, playful static twisting into a hush that hummed between them.
Kit tapped the edge of the tray, fingers steady, voice pitched low and casual. "You don't have to if you don't want to. But it's better with company." He didn't look at her as he said it, eyes fixed on the trembling candle flame.
Delorah lingered in the doorway, her nerves a livewire under her skin. Part of her wanted to back away, flee back to the cold, perfect hallway. Instead, she crossed the room and lowered herself onto the stool opposite him. The seat wobbled beneath her, as if uncertain whether it belonged here at all.
Kit's gaze found hers, a slow smirk curling at the corner of his mouth—dangerous, inviting, half an apology and half a dare. "So," he drawled, picking up the straw and twirling it absently, "you ever snorted powdered regret and called it therapy?"
The line was a joke and a confession, and Delorah felt it split the night open. He looked like trouble wrapped in poetry, eyes bright with something reckless, the candlelight sketching his bones in gold. Delorah wasn't sure whether to roll her eyes or follow him straight off the edge.
She looked at the tray, then back at him. Her heart was a drumbeat in her throat, her voice a whisper only they would hear. "Maybe tonight."
Kit's eyes widened just enough to catch the shimmer of surprise before his smirk returned, sharper than before.
For a moment, the whole world narrowed to the little glass tray, two bodies hunched over a secret, and the promise of everything that could go wrong if she said yes.
It would have almost been funny, if it hadn't felt so charged—two strangers perched on mismatched stools at a desk drowning in chaos, the air thick with music and anticipation. The candlelight flickered over a scene that felt like a still from a film they weren't sure how to play. Delorah half-expected someone to yell "cut!" and for the hidden cameras to reveal themselves, for the set walls to drop and show the world just how reckless they were about to become.
She kept her face smooth, her voice steady as she lied. "Of course I have." Her gaze lingered on the thin straw, on the twin rails of glittering white that waited like a dare. "With an ex of mine." It sounded believable enough—maybe too practiced, too glib.
Kit shot her a look. His mouth curled, just a little, eyes softening into something almost kind. He didn't believe her, not for a second. But he didn't call her out. Maybe he was bluffing, too, each of them playing roles and pretending the stakes were smaller than they felt.
He picked up the straw, movements slow and sure. "Just in case you need a refresher," he said, his voice dropping low. "Watch me. Then do what I do."
His posture shifted, relaxed but focused, and he leaned in, pressing the straw to his nostril. "It's going to feel like breathing in glass," he warned, his laugh sharp and small. "That's the point. It wakes you up."
Delorah's breath hitched as she watched him. He moved with a kind of grace, almost ritualistic, but there was nothing romantic about the way his jaw locked as he inhaled the left line in one sharp motion. The sound was faint, almost nothing, but she saw the tremor run through him. His eyes squeezed shut and a tear slipped down his cheek, sudden and bright in the low light. His breath came out rough, jagged at the edges.
He leaned back, blinking hard, a crooked smile working its way onto his lips. "Hurts like hell," he muttered, voice thickened by the sting, "but the world goes electric. And it's worth it, at least for a while."
Kit let the straw hang between his fingers but didn't offer it just yet. He looked at her—really looked, all the walls stripped away for a moment, nothing between them but raw possibility. "You don't have to prove anything to me," he said, words careful, weighty. "You never will."
Delorah didn't move right away. The room seemed to close around her, humming with candlelight, fear, and wanting. It wasn't about Kit, not really. It wasn't about the powder or the need to impress. It was about finding the edge inside herself and deciding to step forward. To see how far she could go without looking back.
"I know," Delorah whispered, her voice smaller and sharper than she meant. "But I want to."
Kit studied her for a beat, jaw tensing as if he was holding back everything he could never say. Then, wordless, he offered her the straw. Her hand trembled as she took it, the room shimmering around the edges. She copied his motion, bent over the tray, pressed the straw to her nostril, and inhaled hard.
The pain was immediate and savage. It clawed up her sinuses, a slash of heat and metal, ripping tears from her eyes before she could stop them. She lurched upright, hand flying to her nose, half-coughing and half-laughing as the world blurred for a second.
"Just breathe," Kit murmured, gentling his tone, all the cold gone from his face. "Give it a second. It'll pass."
Delorah sucked in shaky breaths, her chest rising and falling as the burn ebbed, replaced by a swelling energy, wild and new. Her heart hammered against her ribs. There was a chemical taste on her tongue—bitter, electric, almost clean. It made her want to run, to shout, to dance, to do anything except sit still.
"This is insane," she managed, scrubbing at the tears under her eyes.
Kit's grin stretched slow and dangerous, smoke curling from the edges. "Yeah. And it's just the beginning."
The high hit her like a thunderclap. It rolled up her spine, igniting her nerves, crackling at the base of her skull until she gasped and started laughing, too loud, half in disbelief. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her pulse everywhere at once.
"Oh my god," she blurted, breathless. "I feel like I could run through this entire house."
Kit let out a snort, already pacing circles at the edge of the bed, his hand dragging through his hair, eyes gone a little wild. "You probably could. You've got that look—like your brain just booted up at maximum power."
Delorah dropped to the floor, unable to stay still. Her skin felt too tight, her thoughts ricocheting so fast she couldn't hold onto a single one for more than a second. The floor was cold against her knees, grounding and unreal at once.
"I can taste color," she said, blinking up at Kit. Everything was sharp, electric, the candlelight slicing the air into shards.
"That's the stuff," Kit said, crouching beside her. His eyes were too wide, the blue of them ringed with manic light, his smile bright and messy. "Welcome to the world of oversharpened edges and zero chill."
He tapped a rhythm on his knee, fingers drumming in the wild silence. For a second, neither of them spoke—just laughed, gasped, and listened to their hearts beat out of sync with the rest of the world.
Kit collapsed beside her on the floor, but he couldn't settle. Every part of him twitched with energy, his foot bouncing against the floor, fingers drumming out a nervous song only he could hear. He seemed both too big for his own body and not big enough for the room, his bones hungry for movement, for escape.
His voice dipped—not softer, but sharpened, words heavy with meaning. "This is why I like it," he said, staring at the ceiling as if it might finally answer back. "Everything feels urgent. Like every second is bright and close, not just leaking away into the dark."
Delorah turned her head toward him, searching his profile for something she could hold onto. "You think about that a lot?" she asked, her voice still crackling with leftover laughter, now edged with something more fragile.
He didn't answer at first. His tapping stilled, his hands curling tight into the hem of his shirt. He watched his knuckles turn pale, eyes fixed on a spot between them. "I think about how fake it all is," he finally said, the words heavier than the air. "This house. That school. My whole life." He exhaled, rough and bitter. "Everything my family wants me to be. Adrian, Adrian, Adrian…" The name slipped out like poison, leaving his lips tight, jaw clenched.
Delorah blinked, sobered by the ache in his tone. "Who's Adrian?" she asked softly, even though she felt the answer pulsing between them, old and wounded.
Kit looked at her then, sideways, shadows tangled under his eyes. "No one." His voice was quiet, but the pain in it vibrated through the room.
Delorah sat up suddenly, riding a fresh surge of energy, needing to move, to do something with the wild ache twisting inside her. "I hate how they all pretend," she blurted, her voice tumbling out fast, too loud in the hush. "Like it's normal to go to these parties, to smile and act like any of this means anything. Like we're just props in their little legacy machine."
Kit's laugh rang out, rough and wild, joy and bitterness blended. "Yes! Exactly! You fucking get it." He pushed up to his feet in one liquid motion, reaching a hand down to her.
Delorah grabbed it, letting him pull her upright too fast—her knees wobbled and she stumbled forward, catching herself right against his chest. She felt the thump of his heart, frantic as her own.
They stood locked together, the room spinning. Kit looked down at her, pupils blown wide, his earlier grin fading into something quieter, more dangerous. The silence stretched, charged and heavy.
"You're trouble, Delorah," he breathed, almost reverent.
She tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze, her cheeks flushed and her body humming. "You are too," she replied, letting the words land like a promise.
For a moment, everything else fell away—no house, no legacy, no names. Just breath and heat and possibility.
And just as something in the air began to crackle—just as Kit leaned closer, her hands tight in his—
CLUNK.
The front door, heavy and final, slammed through the silence. Someone was home.
Kit's whole body went rigid. His grip on Delorah's hands tightened, then vanished so suddenly she nearly lost her balance.
He moved to the door, cracked it open just a fraction, every muscle drawn tight. Footsteps sounded in the hall, slow and certain, each one deliberate. Delorah's heart tumbled into her stomach. Something about the way Kit's shoulders hunched, the flicker of fear beneath his skin, told her this wasn't just a sibling rivalry. This was something older, sharper.
Then a voice carried up the stairs—smooth as glass, dry as dust, and utterly unhurried.
"Well, well. Didn't expect to find Adrian throwing a rave in his bedroom."
Kit's expression emptied out, then iced over, jaw hard as stone.
Delorah stayed rooted to the spot as Sebastian appeared in the doorway, every inch of him collected and clean. His button-down was perfect, sleeves rolled with calculated carelessness. He looked her over, gaze lazy and cold, then flicked back to Kit. The smirk on his lips was pure threat.
"She looks wired," Sebastian observed, voice oiled and sly. "First timer?"
Kit didn't respond. The silence pressed in.
Sebastian shrugged, lips curling. "Don't worry, I won't tell Dad. He doesn't need the headache." His eyes glittered, and the next line came sharp: "Though I do wonder what my baby brother is doing getting trashed with a guest on a friday."
Kit's voice dropped, all the softness burned away. "What do you want."
Sebastian plucked a phone charger from Kit's desk, turning it over in his hand like it was evidence in a case only he could solve. "This," he said, voice lazy, "and to see how deep the freefall's gotten."
He glanced at Delorah, gaze flicking over her, lingering just long enough to be pointed. "Guess we're spiraling with company now. Cute."
Kit bristled, his hands curling tight at his sides. "You done?" His words landed flat, but the warning was clear.
Sebastian arched an eyebrow, smirk sharpening. "Easy, Adrian. Just making conversation." He let his gaze travel the room, taking in the chaos and candlelight, the glittering residue on the tray. "You know, it's almost impressive. You always did have a talent for spectacle."
Kit's jaw ticked. "You don't know anything about me."
"Oh, I know enough." Sebastian slipped the charger into his pocket, but made no move to leave. "Enough to know Dad's going to lose his mind if he finds out you're trashing the place with strangers. He likes his disappointments private, not public."
Kit's voice was cold. "You going to run and tell him?"
Sebastian shrugged, eyes never leaving Kit. "Not tonight. I have my own circus to manage." He glanced at Delorah again, a note of curiosity beneath the mockery. "You always pick them this brave, or is she just lucky?"
Delorah opened her mouth, but Kit stepped forward, blocking whatever she was about to say. "She's none of your business."
For a moment, the two brothers simply stared at each other, the room thrumming with unspoken history.
Sebastian's smile thinned, cruel and soft all at once. "Just keep her away from the mirrors," he said, already moving toward the door. "Wouldn't want her to see who she's actually with."
And then the hallway swallowed him whole, the hush left behind feeling burnt and brittle.
Kit's fists stayed tight, white-knuckled, as if he was holding on to keep from shattering. Delorah watched him, heart pounding, feeling the echo of Sebastian's words burn through the quiet.
Kit didn't meet her eyes. He turned away, standing in the middle of his room as if searching for some version of himself he'd misplaced before Sebastian stepped in and set everything off-balance. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath, but he made no move to speak, his gaze fixed on a crack in the floorboards or something only he could see.
Delorah watched him for a moment, then crossed the carpet in careful steps. She reached out and slipped her hand into his. For a moment, Kit hesitated. She could feel the tension in his fingers, the way he was fighting the urge to retreat—but then he relaxed, letting their palms rest together, warm and a little clammy.
The house was silent again. The quiet pressed in, heavy and unnatural, as if all the walls were listening. Kit dropped down to the floor, his back against the edge of the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. Delorah followed, curling beside him, her hair brushing his shoulder. She stared up at the ceiling fan, watching it spin lazy circles, the blades slicing through the air in a rhythm completely at odds with her racing pulse.
A minute passed in that hush, the world slowed and sharpened. Delorah swallowed, then spoke softly, her voice a trembling wire. "Is it normal to feel like… my thoughts are sprinting but I'm standing still?"
Kit let out a low grunt of agreement, not quite a laugh. "Yeah. That's the high flirting with you."
She rolled her head to look at him. Kit's hair had fallen in soft, messy waves over his forehead, half-veiling his eyes. His lashes cast shadows across skin that looked almost too thin, bruised with exhaustion, but there was still a bright edge to him, a charge humming under his skin. He looked both exhausted and electric, a boy who didn't know how to rest—even when the world demanded it.
Delorah felt a flicker of protective anger and blurted, "Your brother's a dick."
Kit snorted, the sound brief and bitter. "Yeah. He's the family favorite, though, so…"
She let the thought hang, then asked, "Are you okay?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he picked at the edge of his sleeve, eyes still distant. When he finally glanced over at her, the look was brief but raw. "I will be. Are you?"
Delorah hesitated, searching herself for the truth. "I think so. Still feels like I'm vibrating. Like there's lightning under my skin."
He nodded. "You will for a while." His voice was gentle. "You're not going home like this, by the way."
Her relief was immediate, almost physical. She shifted a little closer, letting the quiet settle around them, the fan above whirring slow and lazy while her mind raced circles beneath her skin.
She blinked, the room spinning gently around the golden edge of the candlelight. "What?"
Kit's eyes were steady, more focused than she'd seen all night. "Your pupils are the size of dinner plates, and you've been grinding your teeth since we sat down. No way your parents wouldn't notice. Not for a second."
Delorah stared at him, then let out another bubbling laugh, nerves spilling over. "Jesus. You're right."
Kit's lips curled, cocky and fond all at once. "I'm always right."
"So I'm crashing here?"
"You're buzzing here," he said, voice warm and wry. "You'll crash later."
Delorah turned her gaze to the candle on the windowsill. The flame blurred and doubled, trailing ghost gold along the glass. Even the air seemed louder, heavy and bright against her skin. She laughed again, softer this time, feeling the electricity settle, the world inside her head smoothing just a little.
There was comfort in sitting beside someone who didn't pretend the world wasn't burning down. Kit didn't lie about the smoke. He let her breathe it in and call it real.
"...Thanks," she said finally, letting the silence thicken between them.
"For what?"
"For not letting me go home like this. And for not making it weird."
Kit nudged her foot with his, gentle and present. "You're not weird. You're real. That's rare as hell around here."
A hush fell. The fan kept turning above them, blades whispering secrets. For a moment, the mansion shrank to this small, warm pocket of rebellion, the outside world locked far away.
Delorah's voice barely broke the quiet. "So… who is Adrian?"
Kit didn't answer. He just looked at the candle, a shadow moving across his features, old pain flickering in the dark.
Her gaze drifted to the desk. The tray was empty now, only a glimmer of dust left behind, catching stray light and looking almost innocent. Like nothing dangerous had ever happened here, like no lines had been crossed at all.
But Kit didn't let go of her hand. Not even when the silence pressed in. Not even as the world kept spinning.