Delorah woke into a silence so thick it seemed to weigh on her chest. For a moment, she didn't move. The air was heavy and unfamiliar, laced with candle wax, sharp cologne, and the faintest trace of something chemical she couldn't quite name.
Her whole body ached, nerves buzzing just under the surface. Her throat felt raw, lips cracked, nose still burning from the night before. Light filtered through gauzy curtains, painting slow-moving shadows across the walls in gold and blue.
This wasn't her room.
The sheets weren't hers, either—cool, dense, slightly scratchy against bare skin. She sat up, every joint stiff and complaining. Black jeans clung to her legs, creased and twisted from sleep. Her blue crop top had ridden up, exposing a strip of belly to the chill. She felt every seam and wrinkle, every ache as proof that she was somewhere she didn't belong. One foot was still encased in its heeled boot; the other boot lay abandoned near the edge of Kit's battered desk, looking like the lost artifact of a different night—a girl who'd walked in craving escape and hadn't come back out the same.
Her fingers brushed her face. Mascara crusted beneath her eyes, hair tangled at the back of her neck. She winced, tasting the sour reminder of cheap party punch and adrenaline on her tongue.
And then the memories came, one by one.
The gazebo, heavy with laughter and smoke. Kit's hand guiding hers, straw pressed to her lips. The bitter rush, white-hot and dizzying, the way her laugh had crumbled into panic and then into that eerie, weightless floating. She felt the echo of it still humming through her chest.
Her stomach twisted. For a second, she wasn't sure if she wanted to cry, puke, or fall back into the dark.
Kit wasn't there. His side of the bed was cold and empty.
The desk was a monument to last night's chaos—empty water bottles, scrawled notes, a crumpled tissue, a stray crystal catching the slanting light. The bed she'd passed out in was an avalanche of dark blankets and pillows that held the faint, confusing warmth of Kit's scent. It felt almost too safe. That made her wary. Safety was never free.
She hugged her knees, letting the quiet crawl over her, listening to the house creak and breathe.
On the bedside table, she noticed a scrap of notebook paper. Kit's handwriting sprawled across it, rushed and jagged, ink smudged in places.
Gone for coffee. You're safe. Don't run off or I'll find you.
—K
A faint smile touched her lips, soft and unguarded. She let her finger linger on the words, drawing comfort from the odd threat and the messy, awkward care wrapped up in it.
For a moment, she let herself just sit in the quiet, breathing in a promise she wanted to trust, even if she knew better.
Her phone buzzed, the sound sharp in the hush. For a second, Delorah just stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, then rolled to the edge of the bed and reached down, fingers sweeping over cold hardwood until she found it wedged between the bed frame and the wall. She dragged it out, hands trembling slightly.
The screen glowed blue. One shaky bar of service. A missed call from her mother at 3:07 a.m.—no voicemail, only a single, clipped text sitting heavy in her notifications:
We won't be back until Wednesday. Your father's meetings are longer than planned. Be smart. Love you.
Delorah's thumb hovered over the message, heart thumping. She could almost hear her mother's voice in the words, careful and distracted, more habit than warmth. There was a time when a text like that would have stung. Now it just felt like permission—like a ticket to disappear a little longer. She didn't reply. The phone's screen faded to black with a tap, leaving her alone again in the silent, echoing morning.
She sat up, bones creaking, and swung her legs off the side of the bed. The chill of the floor made her shiver, nerves firing. She stretched, arms over her head, spine arching until her back popped. Her toes curled against the boards, searching for some anchor in the cool, foreign air.
There were no clocks in Kit's room. No tick or digital glow. Just the slow drift of daylight bleeding gray through the curtains, hinting at 8 or maybe 9 a.m.—but time felt warped, untrustworthy. This space existed somewhere outside the world's schedule, as if the universe had paused for them and them alone.
Delorah padded to the window, her footsteps soft on the wood. The air grew colder by the glass. She parted the heavy curtain with two fingers and peered outside. The sky was a sullen, silver wash, clouds stretched thin and unmoving. The sprawling lawn below was draped in morning mist, softening every sharp edge until it all felt dreamlike. Trees loomed beyond the grass, their branches stilled, heavy with a silence so deep it almost rang in her ears. For a moment, it felt like she was trapped in a snow globe—suspended in a hush that didn't belong to anyone but her.
She caught her own reflection in the window and flinched. Her eyes were rimmed with last night's mascara, dark and bruised. Her lips looked dry and bitten, hair tangled in waves that fell unevenly over her shoulders. There was something wild in her face—a kind of dazed defiance, the look of someone who had crossed a line and wasn't sorry.
Beneath all that, a shadow of something unnameable. Not regret, but the echo of a girl who'd told lies and found she liked the taste. To her parents. To herself. To Kit. It didn't scare her. If anything, it made her feel more alive than she had in months.
Her hand drifted up to the silver necklace at her throat, the chain gone cold and unfamiliar. Her father had given it to her years ago—a "reminder to always come home," he'd said. This morning it felt like a shackle, heavy and out of place against the pulse in her skin.
She let the curtain fall back into place, breathing deep, eyes closed for a second.
The bedroom door creaked open, startling her out of her reverie. Delorah turned fast, muscles tight.
Kit stood in the doorway, both hands full—two steaming mugs balanced in his left, cigarette tucked behind one ear like an afterthought. He looked like he'd rolled through the night and landed here by accident. His hoodie was backwards, half-zipped, the hood twisted up around his chin and one sleeve turned inside out. His hair was even more chaotic than usual, curls flattened on one side, a wild swoop falling over his forehead.
But his eyes—his eyes were wide and too bright, pupils still blown, flickering with adrenaline that hadn't faded. He looked wired, unsteady, held together by caffeine, nicotine, and the last electric charge of the high.
"Hey," he said, voice a little hoarse, a crooked grin fighting its way onto his face. "You're up. Good."
He nudged the door shut with his foot, the mugs clinking gently as he shuffled into the room, still fighting with the twisted hoodie.
"Barely," Delorah muttered, voice scratchy from disuse. Kit nudged the door closed with his heel, shoulders hunched, as if bracing for the world to come crashing back in.
He crossed the room and handed her one of the mugs. Steam curled up in thin ribbons, carrying the scent of cheap cocoa powder and a hint of cinnamon—almost warm, almost comforting, but still just a store-bought illusion.
"It's not coffee," he said, dropping down onto the edge of the bed beside her. His weight made the mattress dip and creak. "But I figured sugar might help. I wasn't sure how hard it hit you."
Delorah wrapped her hands around the ceramic, letting the heat sink into her skin. She didn't take a sip right away—just let the cup anchor her, something solid and real to hold onto. "My head's kind of humming," she admitted softly, eyes fixed on the swirl of steam.
"That'll happen." Kit took a sip from his own mug, then let out a dry, brittle laugh. "First time's always like that. Everything's too loud for a while. Even when it gets quiet, it's not really quiet."
She studied him. His skin looked pale in the morning light, shadows under his eyes deeper than usual. His hoodie was still inside out, the hem twisted up around his waist. He was jittery, one knee bouncing, fingers twitching restlessly against the mug. A pack of cigarettes appeared in his hand like a magic trick—pulled from the pocket of his hoodie. Kit shook one out, held it between his lips, and flicked a cheap plastic lighter with practiced ease. The flame shivered, casting a quick orange glow against his face as he lit up.
The first inhale was deep and shaky. He exhaled slow, watching the smoke spiral up toward the ceiling fan. It made the air taste sharper, a little less sweet. He looked more himself with a cigarette in hand—something in the set of his jaw said he needed this, needed the ritual, the burn.
"Did you even sleep?" Delorah asked, finally taking a cautious sip of cocoa.
Kit shrugged, letting smoke trail from his lips. "Didn't want to. Not with you here." There was a beat of real vulnerability in his voice—a quiver that threatened to unravel the coolness he wore like armor.
He glanced over, the look in his eyes a little too clear. "You were talking in your sleep."
Her eyebrows shot up. "What did I say?"
"Something about glass. And lying. And rabbits, weirdly." He cracked a crooked smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
She let out a soft laugh, shoulders relaxing just a little. "I don't remember any rabbits."
"Yeah, well. Brains are weird," Kit murmured, flicking ash into a chipped mug on the floor. He took another drag, gaze drifting across the room like he was seeing it new and unfamiliar, as if Delorah's presence changed the color of the walls and the shape of his own shadow.
Silence stretched between them. She watched the way he cradled his mug, how his thumb tapped against the ceramic, always moving. He seemed smaller this morning, stripped down to the sharp, restless truth of himself.
"You didn't have to stay up," she said finally, voice softer than she meant.
Kit shot her a sideways look, cigarette burning low between his fingers. "Yeah, I did."
She didn't ask why. Maybe she already knew.
They sat together, quietly sipping from mismatched mugs. Kit smoked in slow, deliberate drags, the air between them smudged with sweet chocolate and the bitter tang of tobacco. The silence wasn't exactly comfortable, but it wasn't cruel. Just alive, buzzing—hovering between the electric and the ordinary.
Her skull still thrummed, a thin, high-wire buzz tracing her spine. Her hands trembled faintly, but Kit's presence grounded her—his stillness, his weight on the edge of the bed, the soft drag of smoke curling through the sunlight. It tethered her to now, made the morning feel real.
"I thought your room would be… different," she said, her voice low, head resting against the wall. The words floated out, gentle, meant for the hush between them.
He glanced her way, brow arching. "Different how?"
She managed a half-smile. "I don't know. Cleaner, maybe? More… curated. You seem like the type who pretends not to care but secretly alphabetizes his record collection."
Kit let out a dry snort. "As you can see, definitely not alphabetized." He gestured toward a record on the floor—dusty, out of its sleeve, lying abandoned halfway to the player. Then, without looking, he stubbed out his dwindling cigarette in the ashtray on his nightstand.
"Tragic," she teased, warmth flickering in her eyes.
He grinned behind his cup, but it faded as quickly as it came. His gaze drifted to the window, watching the morning light spill across his tangled comforter and gild the ends of his hair. There was something distant in his posture, like he was slipping out of the room and into a memory only he could touch.
He didn't speak for a moment, fingers tightening around his mug.
"I stopped trying to make this place look like someone lived here," he murmured finally, voice gone rough and uneven. "After my mom died, it just started feeling like a set. Like if I moved anything, it would prove she wasn't coming back."
Delorah's stomach dropped. There it was—the loss that echoed in every corner of his life, the bruise he tried so hard to keep hidden.
She kept her voice gentle. "Since your mom?"
He nodded, slow and deliberate, not looking at her.
"I'm sorry," she said—quiet, honest, uncertain if it helped.
Kit didn't answer right away. He just ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a breath that sounded too big for his chest, frayed and uneven. For a moment, it seemed like he might shut down again, but then he looked at her, eyes bright and shadowed at once.
"You know, she used to call me Adrian," he said softly, as if confessing something secret and dangerous. "No nicknames. No shortcuts. Just—Adrian." He swallowed, gaze slipping to the floor. "And after she died… I couldn't hear it anymore. It felt like someone was pressing their thumb against a bruise that never goes away."
Delorah set her mug down gently on the bedside table, her fingers lingering a moment on the ceramic. "I get it," she said, voice thin, almost shy.
"My dad calls me Little Miss Delorah." The words tumbled out brittle, wrapped in a wry smile. "Like I'm still five, tripping over my shoes in some pageant dress. And my mom… she doesn't even say my name most of the time. It's just—'don't disappoint us.' That's all she cares about."
Kit turned toward her, his frown soft but unmistakable. "That's cold."
Delorah shrugged, the gesture meant to look casual, though her shoulders lingered high with tension. "We match, don't we?"
Silence pressed in—a shared understanding flickering between them, neither of them needing to dress their pain up as anything but what it was.
After a breath, Kit reached out, slow and gentle, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek, cool and quick, but the touch stayed with her. "Maybe we're both just figuring out how to be someone else," he murmured, more to the room than to her.
She didn't pull away. She met his gaze, steady and open. "Is that what you're doing?" she asked, searching his face.
Kit leaned back, throwing one arm up across the headboard, his other hand splaying out over his chest like he needed the pressure to stay anchored. "It's not like I have a plan. Kit's just… easier. He doesn't ask questions."
"Easier than Adrian?" she pressed, voice softer now, curious, almost reverent.
He nodded, slow and heavy, like the answer cost him something. "Yeah. Adrian hurts. Kit just… floats."
She studied him in the hush that followed, really seeing him for the first time—the brittle confidence, the bruised pride, the boy caught in the slow collapse of all his personas. She saw the war behind his eyes, the exhaustion running underneath the sharp wit and stubborn bravado. The weight of expectation was starting to bend him, and he didn't even realize how close he was to breaking.
"You don't have to be anything with me," she said, the words coming out sharper and truer than she meant. Kit blinked, caught off guard by the rawness in her voice. She felt her cheeks flush, but didn't back down. "I mean it. If you want to be Kit, fine. If you want to be Adrian, that's fine too. I'm not expecting you to fit in a box for me."
Something shifted in his eyes. The hard edge softened, replaced by something uncertain, almost hopeful. His lips parted like he wanted to say more, but then he seemed to think better of it, letting the thought die somewhere between them.
"…Thanks," he managed finally, voice stripped down to something honest. He looked away, reaching behind him for a crumpled black hoodie tossed at the foot of the bed. Without ceremony, he tossed it into her lap. "Here. You're still in last night's clothes. You wanna shower? I'll try to make you something that might pass for breakfast."
Delorah caught the hoodie, hugging it close to her chest. The fabric was warm, soft, still carrying the scent of Kit—cologne, smoke, a trace of something wild. For the first time since she woke, the relentless buzz in her head softened, dissolving into something almost gentle. She let herself close her eyes for a heartbeat, just holding on to the quiet, grateful for it.
POV: Kit
Delorah's footsteps faded into the hush of the hallway, her presence drifting away behind the soft click of the bathroom door. Kit listened, holding still, breath stalling in his throat until he heard the shower start—a sharp, hopeful rush of water through the pipes. It was the sound of distance, of another world spinning just out of reach.
He lingered for a moment in the middle of his too-big bedroom, feeling the pulse in his wrists and the exhaustion itching behind his eyes. The quiet pressed in on him. Usually, he'd fill it with music, or a cigarette, or the sharp edge of some chemical distraction—but today he let it ache, let it settle on his shoulders like an old, familiar coat.
Kit wandered to the kitchen, trailing fingers along the marble counter. The space felt too clean, too cold—designed for show, not for comfort. But he opened the fridge, pulled out eggs, bread, butter, moving with deliberate slowness. Let his hands get busy, mindless, useful. Crack. Whisk. Heat the pan. The hiss of oil. Each act a ritual of control, a way to anchor himself in the ordinary. Something his father would never think to do. Something his mother used to.
He fried the eggs carefully, watching the edges crisp and curl. The smell was warm, softening the chill in the air, curling around his chest in a way that hurt. He popped slices of bread into the toaster and let his mind wander, picturing Delorah behind the frosted bathroom door—shoulders slouched, head bowed under the rush of water, washing off last night's secrets.
His hands were steady, but inside, his heart was pounding, uneven and wild. Every sound from the bathroom was a reminder: she was still here. She hadn't run. She hadn't vanished into the morning like every good thing in his life seemed to.
He plated the food with a care he'd never bothered with before. Two eggs for her, one for himself, toast cut on a diagonal, butter melting into the cracks. It looked almost domestic—almost like something a real boy in a real home would do. For a flicker of a moment, Kit almost believed he could make it last. The thought made him want to laugh, or maybe scream.
The bathroom door creaked open. Kit tensed, nerves prickling, but forced himself to keep his posture loose, casual. He heard her footsteps—soft, uncertain—then she padded into the kitchen, hair wrapped in a towel, skin still flushed from the shower.
"Smells good," Delorah murmured, giving him a tired smile, eyes shining with something he couldn't quite name.
"Figured you'd need fuel today," Kit replied, masking everything with a half-smirk, pushing a plate her way. "And I don't want you fainting on my watch."
She sat down beside him, their knees almost touching under the table. They ate in a hush so fragile he was afraid to move too quickly and break it. Forks scraped gently against plates. Outside, the world waited, wild and bright and full of threats. But in here, for a heartbeat, it was just the two of them—warm, tentative, breathing in time with the hush.
Kit let himself believe, just for a moment, that this could be normal. That maybe, if he was careful enough, the world wouldn't find a way to ruin it.
Then—footsteps. Kit's shoulders tensed, every muscle drawing tight as a wire. The air in the kitchen shifted, gone brittle with warning. Sebastian. Only one person in this house could turn breakfast into a standoff just by walking in.
Kit listened to the deliberate scrape of boots on tile, that lazy, predatory rhythm. It made his heart race for all the wrong reasons. Sometimes he wondered if Sebastian did it on purpose, just to see who would flinch.
Sebastian entered with a careful slowness, not stalking—no, that would have betrayed something. Just gliding, gaze scanning the room, drinking in every detail. He never looked surprised. Not when he was a kid, not now. Just… patient. Like he'd been waiting for years to catch Kit with something worth breaking.
His eyes flicked to Delorah first, resting on her a fraction too long, as if he could peel back every layer she thought she'd managed to hide. Then those eyes found Kit, and something cold settled behind his smile.
"Well, well," Sebastian said, voice smooth as oil, cold as polished glass. "Adrian. Or should I say… Kit."
Kit kept his head down, but his fork hovered just above the plate. His name always sounded like an accusation in Sebastian's mouth. He wondered if it always would.
Sebastian slung his leather bag onto the counter with a heavy thud that sounded less like forgetfulness and more like a warning shot. "Thought I left my jacket," he said, letting the words stretch, tone all lazy nonchalance—but Kit caught the sharp glint in his brother's eyes, that faint, hungry amusement. "Or maybe I just wanted to see what kind of company you keep when no one's watching."
Kit felt Delorah tense beside him. Her grip tightened around her mug; he could feel the effort it took for her not to look up, not to shrink. Sebastian always circled his prey before striking. He never aimed just for Kit. He liked to see how the room would shift first, how the people around them would reveal themselves under pressure.
This wasn't the Sebastian from the hallway last night—smirking, distant, a ghost at the edge of the party. This was the version that lived in Kit's nightmares: all calculation, no warmth. The one who never needed to raise his voice to make you feel like a trespasser in your own home.
Kit forced himself to set his knife down, clenching and unclenching his fist beneath the table. He looked up, voice stripped of everything but steel. "It's not your house."
Sebastian stepped closer. His shadow fell across the table. His eyes went back to Delorah, a slow, predatory sweep. "Still here, huh?" He tilted his head, smile sharpening by degrees. "Guess you made more than just an impression."
There was a beat—a dangerous pause, as if he might say something crueler. Then a smirk twitched across his mouth. "Turns out you do clean up nice."
Delorah's posture stiffened; Kit felt her go still beside him, like prey caught in a field with nowhere to run. The compliment wasn't a compliment at all—just a test, a little slice to see how deep she'd bleed. Kit hated that Sebastian could make her feel small with a look.
He felt something ugly snap inside his chest. "Don't talk to her like that."
Sebastian's eyes flicked to Kit, smile slow and amused. He didn't bother denying it, just let the threat hang between them, thickening the air. "I was just admiring your taste. Didn't think you had any."
Kit's fists curled tighter, nails biting his palm. The urge to snap back, to make Sebastian bleed for every word, was a constant drum in his skull. But not here. Not with Delorah caught in the middle. Not when it would only give Sebastian exactly what he wanted.
"Not here," Kit said, voice rough.
"Relax," Sebastian replied, lifting his hands in a little gesture of surrender, though his smirk never faded. "Just stopping by." He gave Delorah a longer look, slower this time, eyes moving from her damp hair to the hoodie bunched in her lap—a look that said he saw everything, even what she tried to hide. "Enjoy breakfast."
The moment stretched, uncomfortable, all sharp edges and unspoken threats. Kit stared him down, daring him to say more.
Finally, Sebastian turned away and strolled out of the room, the echo of his boots marking the end of the confrontation. The kitchen felt colder for it.
Kit sat silent for a moment, shoulders shaking with anger and something darker.
He risked a glance at Delorah—her knuckles white around the mug, her face turned away.
He wanted to reach for her hand, to say something real. Instead, all he managed was a ragged, "Sorry. He's… just like that."
He didn't know if it helped. But he needed to say it, if only to remind himself there was still some part of his life he could protect.
When the front door finally clicked shut behind Sebastian, the whole kitchen seemed to exhale. For a long moment, Kit just stared at the empty doorway, knuckles white against the edge of the table, pulse still hammering in his ears. It felt like a spell had broken—one he'd been under his whole life.
Beside him, Delorah let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her shoulders sagged, some of the fight draining from her frame. Kit risked a glance at her and saw the tension coiled in her neck, the way her eyes darted after every sound, still raw from the night before but steadier now—flickering with something like gratitude, maybe, or stubborn resolve.
She broke the silence first, voice rough and low. "I didn't know it would hit me that hard," she admitted, words dropping into the hush like stones in water.
Kit tried for a smile, but it felt like the memory of one. He poked at his toast with his fork, forcing his hands to be still. "Stimulants aren't exactly a gentle ride," he said, keeping his tone dry. "Not everyone's built for them."
Delorah nodded, pressing her fingers to the edge of her plate. She still wasn't eating, but she looked a little more present now, the aftershocks of adrenaline fading. After a moment, her gaze drifted back to him.
"You stayed," she said quietly. It wasn't an accusation, but it wasn't quite a question, either—just the naked truth of the last twelve hours. Her voice was soft but honest, stripped of any attempt to be casual. "You didn't leave me alone."
Kit leaned back against the counter, arms folding tight across his chest, grounding himself. "Of course I didn't." His jaw clenched. "Wasn't about to let you crash in a house like this. Especially not with him showing up like that."
She looked over, meeting his eyes—seeing the tension still carved into his face, the effort it took to keep his walls up. "Still," she murmured, almost as if to herself, "that could've gone worse."
He huffed a laugh, brittle at the edges. "Yeah. Believe it or not, that was him behaving."
Delorah managed a small, humorless smile. "I don't want to find out what the opposite looks like."
Kit met her gaze, steady and dark, something cold and certain in his expression. "You won't," he said simply. And he meant it.
The kitchen lapsed into quiet—a silence that wasn't quite peaceful, but held a tentative truce. Both of them battered, both holding the line.
Delorah broke it first, her tone soft but laced with a crooked edge of concern. "You look like hell, by the way."
Kit's mouth quirked in a half-smirk, though it vanished as quickly as it came. "I feel like it," he admitted, not bothering to hide the strain. "Messes are good at hiding."
Delorah watched him, searching his face—saw the dark circles, the tension riding high in his shoulders, the stubborn set of his jaw. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, like he was still bracing for the next blow, the next intrusion, the next reason to armor up.
"You don't have to keep doing that," Delorah said, voice gentle but certain.
Kit's brow furrowed, pulled from whatever spiral he was halfway down. "Doing what?"
She met his gaze, steady this time. "Carrying all of it." The words hung in the air, almost too heavy for the room. He blinked at her, looking more like a boy than she'd ever seen him—suddenly uncertain, not sure what to do with the kind of permission she was offering.
Delorah looked down, tearing off a piece of her toast, fingers absently tracing circles in the crumbs. "So… what now?"
Kit let out a long, deliberate breath, gathering himself. "We get through today," he said quietly. "No drama. No parents. No Sebastian. Just… us."
She nodded, a knot inside her finally loosening. "That sounds… kind of perfect."
They ate the rest of their breakfast in a hush that didn't erase the sharpness of the morning, but wrapped it in a quiet warmth, like a blanket thrown over a bruise. The sunlight drifted in slow golden bands across the kitchen tile, painting lazy halos on the floor. The silence between them wasn't emptiness anymore. It was peace—fragile, yes, but real enough to feel.
Kit glanced toward the living room, searching for anything to break the spell of aftermath. "Wanna watch something?" he asked, voice softer now, a thread of hope winding through it. "Distract ourselves from… all this?"
Delorah's answer was a real smile—small, but true. "Yeah. Something chill. No heavy plot twists, please."
They drifted to the battered couch, settling among a jumble of DVDs and the remote. Kit scrolled with a practiced thumb, landing on an old comedy—something harmless, something that felt like a life from another universe. The kind of movie you watch when you need to remember how to laugh.
As the film flickered across the screen, Delorah felt the tension begin to ebb from her body, cell by cell. Kit's presence beside her was different now. The wildness had drained out, leaving a steadiness she hadn't expected—a calm in the aftermath of chaos. The hurricane had stilled, if only for an hour.
Halfway through, Kit's weight shifted. She glanced over and saw his head dip, then settle gently against her shoulder. His breath, jittery just minutes ago, slowed and deepened. His face in sleep was all softness—no angles, no defenses, just a kind of aching youth. For a moment, Delorah felt something warm and protective bloom inside her, surprised by how easy it was to let him rest there.
"Hey," she whispered, lips curving into a smile. "You're falling asleep."
He didn't stir. The tension in his jaw had melted, his features softened and vulnerable in the morning light. Kit looked nothing like the reckless boy from last night. He just looked… tired, and finally, briefly, at peace.
Delorah hesitated, then carefully leaned into him, adjusting so he could rest more easily. The hoodie he'd given her still held his scent—cologne and cigarette smoke and something quieter, something she was learning to recognize as just him.
She let herself be still, letting his warmth anchor her. The movie's laughter washed over them, but she barely noticed. For the first time in days, her own exhaustion caught up with her. The aches and jagged edges of the last forty-eight hours dissolved under the gentle weight of Kit's trust.
She let her head rest lightly against his. Outside, the world spun on—unsympathetic, relentless. But here, in the lull between storms, they found a small, improbable peace.
And when her eyes finally slid shut, it was without fear, without pretense, only the quiet relief of belonging, if only for a while.
The movie played on. The room dimmed with the changing light. And the two of them slept, curled together like the storm had finally passed.
The morning sunlight had long faded, replaced by the soft hush of afternoon shadows curling against the windows.
Kit stirred first.
His lashes fluttered open, breath hitching like he'd forgotten where he was—until he registered the warmth beneath his cheek.
Delorah.
She was still asleep, her head tilted gently against the back of the couch, golden strands of hair tangled against the shoulder of his hoodie. The movie had ended long ago, the screen quiet now, casting a soft blue glow across her features.
He didn't move.
Didn't dare.
His heart thudded a little harder as he looked at her—really looked. There was something raw in the way sleep had smoothed the edges of her face. Vulnerable. Trusting. Like she hadn't guarded herself when the exhaustion took her. Like she'd felt safe enough to let go.
His throat tightened.
She didn't know what it meant—to him—that she stayed. That she let him rest beside her like this. That she hadn't run when things got dark.
A small frown tugged at his lips, not from displeasure, but something far more complicated.
Longing.
He wanted to reach out, tuck her hair behind her ear the way he had earlier. He wanted to memorize the curve of her expression. He wanted to burn this into his memory, in case the world took it back tomorrow.
But instead, Kit just watched her.
Quiet. Still.
Like if he breathed too loudly, the moment would slip away.
"You're gonna ruin me," he whispered, barely audible. Not accusatory—just honest.
Delorah stirred slightly, but didn't wake. Her head leaned a little closer toward his, unconsciously seeking warmth.
Kit smiled then. Tired, soft, aching.
And for once, he let himself just be there—no mask, no posture, no performance.
Just a boy with bruised edges, watching the only person who made the world feel a little less cruel.
The room was still wrapped in quiet when Delorah stirred.
She shifted slowly, warmth pulling at her senses before awareness followed. Her eyes blinked open—hazy, soft—and landed on the weight against her shoulder.
Kit.
His eyes were already open, gaze distant but soft, as if he'd been watching the storm pass outside some window only he could see. She shifted slightly, and he sat up straighter, pulling away gently.
"Sorry," Kit murmured, voice low and rough with sleep and something deeper. "Didn't mean to fall asleep on you."
Delorah blinked the haze from her eyes, caught in that strange, gentle hush where dreams hadn't quite let go. She offered a whisper-soft smile. "It's okay. You looked… calm. For once."
He let out a breath—a brittle, almost-laugh, shorn of humor, just weary relief. For a moment, the silence between them was thick with all the things neither dared name.
Kit was the first to break it. "It's getting late," he said, standing with a stiffness that betrayed how badly he wanted to stay. His voice was still hoarse, his shoulders tight as he reached for his keys. "I should drive you home."
Delorah blinked, surprise flickering in her eyes. "Are you sure? You just woke up. I don't mind staying—"
He cut her off with a crooked, tired half-smile that crumpled at the edges. "Yeah, well… I don't exactly trust myself to be alone with you right now. Not when I'm like this."
There was no bite in his tone—only the rawness of someone honest to the bone. Delorah saw the tension in the line of his jaw, the way his hand hovered at his side, knuckles flexing. She understood, and her reply was as gentle as she could make it. "Okay," she said, voice quiet as a secret. "I trust you."
The drive back through the city unfolded in a hush that buzzed with everything they hadn't said. Kit kept his eyes on the road, the city's glow washing gold across his face in broken ribbons, streetlight after streetlight strobing over the dashboard. The car's heater purred low, their breath fogging the windows in slow, tender circles.
Delorah stared out at the world rushing past. Her parents' house—its chill, its rules, its emptiness—loomed somewhere in the future, an inevitability waiting to swallow her again. Her pulse thudded. The comfort of Kit's shoulder, his hoodie still faintly scented on her skin, felt like a defiant memory.
She spoke up, almost surprising herself. "I hate that place," she whispered, barely louder than the hum of the engine. "It's not even a home. It's just… a resume with a roof."
Kit's grip on the wheel didn't change, but she saw the tension thread through his knuckles. His reply was quiet, words drifting through the dark like something that'd been building for years. "Do you ever feel like you're just stuck? Like everything's already decided for you?"
Delorah turned, startled by the question she'd never dared ask aloud. "That's… what I was going to say." She studied his profile, how the passing light carved his face into angles and shadow. For a moment, it felt like the whole world paused—just the two of them, alive and exposed in the space between choices.
He glanced over, and the distance melted for a heartbeat. "Every damn day," Kit murmured, voice softer than the night itself. "But sometimes... you gotta break the script."
She tried to smile, but it faltered, the longing caught behind her teeth. "I wish I knew how."
A silence settled—heavy, aching, hopeful. It was a promise and a confession, wrapped in the rhythm of the city and the warmth of everything they'd shared, the taste of safety lingering on their skin even as the world demanded they part.
The car rolled to a stop in front of Delorah's house, headlights glancing off manicured hedges and the porch light painting the driveway in sterile, unnatural gold. They sat there for a moment, letting the engine hum fill the silence—the last echo of safety before the world crept back in.
Neither of them spoke. The quiet was dense, thick with everything they couldn't say, everything that would vanish once she stepped outside.
Kit broke first. "Be careful," he said, voice stripped bare. "People are watching more than you think."
The warning landed heavier than she expected, sinking past skin and bone. Delorah swallowed, then nodded. "You too."
She opened the door, the cold night air biting at her cheeks. Her jacket tugged closer around her ribs as she stepped out. Halfway up the walk, she turned, just once. Kit was still there, watching—steady, silent, not possessive, not desperate, just there. Like a tether stretched across the yard, invisible but impossible to ignore.
She didn't wave. He didn't leave.
Not until she slipped inside and the door clicked shut behind her, the latch sealing their secret off from the world. Only then did the car pull away, taillights vanishing into the night.
Delorah stood in the hush of the foyer, jacket still clutched tight, feeling a strange mix of warmth and weight settle in her chest. Comfort in the memory of Kit's head on her shoulder, the hush of his room, the laughter flickering blue across his face. But underneath it—a heavier truth. That what they'd found tonight was precious because it was borrowed, fragile because it couldn't last. That escape was always temporary, and morning would come with new demands.
But for now, she let herself hold it close. The quiet, the ache, the secret that made her feel more alive than any rule, any expectation, any house she'd ever come home to.