It was past midnight by the time I stumbled through my front door, shoulders aching from the days activities and hours of playing at the club. My guitar case dug into my palm as I set it down, muttering to myself. "Early night. For once, I'm actually going to sleep early."
I kicked off my shoes, already imagining the silence of my pillow, when a knock rattled against the door. Sharp. Urgent.
I froze. Nobody ever knocked on my door this late.
Reluctantly, I went to the door, already rehearsing a curse for whoever it was. I swung it open—and every thought emptied from my head.
"Faye?"
She stood there, a small suitcase at her side, shivering in the cold night air. A tank top and shorts—completely wrong for the weather—clung to her frame. Her cheeks were red, eyes too bright, and though her chin was tipped up in defiance, I could see it. The tremor in her lip. The fear hiding under all that bravado.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I whispered, moving closer. That's when I saw it, the faint mark on her cheek. My blood boiled instantly, fists clenching before I even touched her.
I didn't ask. I didn't need to. I already knew.
"Get in," I said, pulling her inside before the night swallowed her whole.
She dropped the suitcase by the door, arms crossing like she could still hold herself together. "I don't want to live there anymore," she said, her voice tight, sharp. "I can't breathe in that house. Not without you."
The words punched straight through me. She'd said things like that before, over the phone, little confessions she always left hanging before changing the subject. But hearing it now, face-to-face, made guilt claw at my ribs.
"Faye…" I swallowed hard. "Running away isn't the answer. You're being impulsive. Like always."
Her eyes snapped to mine, fire blazing through her fear. "Why not? You left at my age too."
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. She wasn't wrong. I had left at nineteen with nothing but a bag and a dream everyone laughed at. I remembered my not so proud moments. I remembered the hunger, the exhaustion, the grind of jobs that barely paid rent.
And now she wanted to do the same.
"I came to live with you," she said suddenly, cutting through my silence.
My head snapped toward her. "What?"
"I'm not going back." She lifted her chin, daring me to argue. "I'm staying here."
Shock hit me harder than any other emotion I was feeling. My mind spiraled, back to the last time we'd lived together. How unbearable it was—not because she was stubborn or messy or impossible, though she was all those things. But because every moment around her was torture. Every time she flung herself on me, every time she invaded my space, every laugh in the kitchen, every glimpse of her in some careless outfit—it was all a constant test I barely passed.
And now she wanted to move in again.
My heart slammed against my ribs, drowning out the quiet hum of the heater. She was here. With bruises, with her suitcase, with that defiant fire in her eyes. And I couldn't send her away.
Even if letting her stay would destroy me.
Instead of fighting, I sighed. "Take a hot bath. Change. You'll freeze like that."
She nodded, almost too quickly, and rushed toward my bedroom. My room.
I dragged a hand over my face, pulling my phone out of my pocket. For half a second, I thought about calling Mom, demanding she come pick her up. Instead, I typed out a quick text.
Don't worry. Faye's with me.
I set the phone down, jaw tight.
The bedroom door creaked. I looked up–and froze.
She stepped out, steam still clinging to her skin, hair damp and curling over her shoulders. A small towel was tied around her, barely covering her thighs. My lungs locked.
"Harry," she said, like nothing was wrong. "Can I borrow a sweater? I didn't pack any."
My throat went dry. "Closet," I croaked, looking anywhere but at her.
She smiled—smiled—and strolled back toward the room like she hadn't just set every nerve in my body on fire.
I let out a shaky breath, gripping the table until my knuckles ached. She couldn't stay here. If she stayed, she'd kill me. Not with malice, but with the way she'd always done. Filling my space, my head, my chest. Making me want what I had no right to want.
By the time she came back, drowning in my hoodie, I had a plate of spaghetti waiting.
"Eat," I said.
Her face lit up. "Nice. I've missed your cooking."
"You just had it last week when you visited."
She twirled pasta around her fork, grinning. "If it's up to me, I'd have it every day. Yours always tastes better."
I shook my head, it was a lie. But my chest tightened all the same.
Halfway through, I cleared my throat and forced the words out. "Faye, hear me out. I'm not chasing you out, but this place is too small for both of us."
She stuffed another bite into her mouth and shrugged. "I don't mind."
"It's one bedroom."
"We'll share."
I coughed, nearly choking on my own food. My face burned, images I shouldn't be imagining flashing before I could stop them. Her in one bed. Her in that flimsy nightgown she always wore to bed. Close. Too close.
She pushed a glass of water toward me, smirking. "Don't die."
"The bed's too small," I managed.
She shook her head. "It's not. It's the same size as your bed at home." Her eyes softened. "Remember? I always used to sleep in your bed when we were kids. You'd hold me and sing to me every night. I miss that."
Her voice cracked just slightly on the last part. My throat did the same.
What was she thinking? We aren't kids anymore.
I swallowed hard. "Faye…"
She smiled again, softer this time, almost innocent. "I can't wait to feel all those things again."
I didn't answer. Couldn't. Inside, my thoughts were screaming, I have to make her go back. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll convince her.
For now, I just cleaned the plates, busying my hands so I wouldn't have to look at her. "Go sleep in the bedroom. I'll stay up."
"You're not coming?"
"I've got work to do. Studio stuff."
She eyed me for a second, then shrugged and padded off. The door closed behind her.
Alone, I slumped against the counter, exhaling the breath I'd been holding since she arrived.
"This is my new room," I muttered, glancing at the cramped little studio room inside my apartment. "Until she leaves."
But deep down, I already knew. She wasn't leaving anytime soon.
And I wasn't sure if that terrified me… or thrilled me.