Breakfast was awkward. The kind of silence that presses against the walls and seeps into the air like smoke. The scrape of Faye's fork against her plate was the only sound in the living room. She didn't look at me, and I didn't look at her. Both of us still had yesterday hanging in our throats like something too sharp to swallow.
"So…" she finally said through a mouthful of eggs, her voice cutting the tension. "What's the plan for today?"
I arched a brow at her. "You mean your plan or mine?"
She gave me that look—the one that said she'd already decided I didn't have a choice. "Both. I'm going to campus with you. And you," she jabbed her fork at me like it was a dagger, "need to stop moping around in that little music dungeon of yours. You've been locked in there every night since I got here."
"It's called working," I muttered, sipping my coffee. "Some of us actually have jobs."
"Writing sad-boy lyrics that nobody hears isn't a job, Harry." She smirked, smug, because she knew exactly where to poke me.
I glared at her over the rim of my mug. "For the record, they're not all sad. Some are… mildly depressing love songs."
Faye burst out laughing, nearly choking on her food. "Wow. So much better. Should I be worried you're going to start singing them at me in the middle of breakfast?"
I choked on my coffee. "What? No! Why would you—? Forget it."
She leaned back in her chair, grinning, all casual and unbothered. "Relax, I'm just messing with you."
That was the problem. She thought it was all harmless fun. She didn't see how dangerous it was—sprawled in my space, eating my food, laughing like she belonged here. She didn't know every smile, every tease, every careless word landed in me like glass. She didn't know she was pushing me closer to something I wasn't supposed to feel.
And I couldn't tell her. Not ever.
So I shoved back from the table, stacking our plates. "Hurry up and get ready if you want to come with me. And for the love of God, wear something that doesn't make me want to install blinds inside my skull."
She snickered, rolling her eyes. "You're so dramatic."
"Yeah," I muttered, turning away. Dramatic.
The silence didn't last long. By the time I'd washed the plates, she was perched on the counter with her glass of orange juice, swinging her legs like a kid. "I've been thinking," she said. "I should get a job."
I froze, towel in hand. "No."
She tilted her head. "No?"
"I can take care of us."
"You already are." She crossed her arms, stubborn. "But you're barely sleeping. You've got school, the studio at night, that part-time gig on top of it. It's too much. I can help."
"Faye, you're my responsibility."
"I'm legally an adult."
"You'll always be my little sister."
She opened her mouth to argue again, but my phone buzzed on the counter. I picked it up and glanced at the screen.
"Mom," I said quietly.
Faye blinked, her expression softening.
"She called last night," I told her, unlocking the phone. "Said she'll send us monthly upkeep. But we have to keep it a secret from Dad." I held out the screen, showing her the fresh credit alert.
Her eyes widened. "Really? Just like that, no conditions?"
I shook my head. A lie. "See? You don't need to get a job. We're totally fine."
For a second, she looked like she might cry, but then a new notification popped up. Before I could pull the phone back, she snatched it and read aloud.
Pool party at Jordan's place, 6 p.m. tonight.
"Give me that—" I tried to grab the phone, but she danced back with it, grinning.
"This is perfect," she said. "Exactly what we need. A distraction."
"No." My voice was sharp, harder than I meant it.
She pouted. "Come on. It'll be fun. You never do anything."
"It's not a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because you're too young to be hanging around drunk college kids in swimsuits."
Her jaw dropped. "Too young? Harry, I'm nineteen. You're only two years older than me."
"Still no."
She groaned, throwing her hands in the air. "You're impossible."
"Maybe," I said, pocketing the phone, "but I'm not stupid."
She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath. But the smile tugging at the corner of her lips told me this fight wasn't over.
She hopped down from the counter, padded over, and leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded. "You know what your problem is?"
I sighed. "Enlighten me."
"You think the whole world is out to get me. Like the second I step out the door, danger is just… waiting to pounce."
"That's because it is."
She laughed, but it was a brittle kind of laugh, more defiant than amused. "Harry, you can't keep me locked up. I'm not glass."
"No," I said, moving to stand beside her. "You're worse. You're fire. And fire burns if you don't handle it right."
Her smirk faltered. Just for a second. Then she tilted her chin up, leaning forward until her mouth hovered inches from mine. Her breath brushed my lips, hot and sweet with orange juice. "You're so dramatic, you know that?"
My chest clenched. The air between us thickened, heavy with something that had no business being there. I forced myself to breathe, to move, to do anything but stand frozen while my thoughts spiraled into places I couldn't afford to go.
I cleared my throat, dragging my gaze away. "I'm just saying—you don't understand how people are. Not really. Mom and Dad shielded you too much."
"And what about you?" she asked softly.
The question landed like a punch.
She was watching me with those too-curious eyes, like she could strip me down and see all the parts of me I fought to bury. "Didn't they shield you? But you're doing fine, aren't you? Sometimes I think you're just… using me as an excuse."
My chest tightened. "An excuse for what?"
Her lips curved into the faintest smile. "For not living your own life."
Before I could respond, she brushed past me, her shoulder grazing mine, light but enough to ignite every nerve in my body.
"I'm going to that party, Harry. With or without you." Her voice drifted back, matter-of-fact, like she hadn't just detonated something inside me.
"Faye. Faye." I called, but she was already gone, the bedroom door shutting behind her.
I stood there, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides, the glow of my phone still lighting up the counter.
Pool party at Jordan's place, 6 p.m. tonight.
She always won. With a pout, with a laugh, with one look that made me forget why I was even fighting in the first place. But this time… this time I couldn't afford to let her.
Because the thought of her in that party—laughing, in some swimsuit, surrounded by guys who'd see her the way I already—
I cut off the thought, shoving it deep where it belonged.