For a long time, I didn't move.
Her hand was small and warm against mine, her fingers trembling just enough to break me.
"Please, Harry. Just tonight. Stay."
I stared at her, every muscle caught between wanting to stay and needing to run. There'd been plenty of nights when she'd cried before — when we were kids, when storms hit, when she had nightmares — and back then, holding her was simple. Safe.
Now it wasn't.
"Faye…" My voice came out low. "It's late. You should sleep."
Her fingers tightened. "I can't. Not alone."
She looked up then, and the sight of her nearly undid me — eyes red from crying, hair tangled, her face small and tired and so heartbreakingly familiar. The same girl I'd spent years trying to protect, standing right there, asking for something I couldn't give without losing more of myself.
I swallowed hard. "You don't need me to—"
"Yes, I do."
Three quiet words. That was all it took.
I exhaled, defeated. "Fine," I muttered. "Just tonight."
The relief that broke across her face almost made me smile. She shifted over, patting the space beside her, and I hesitated a beat too long before lowering myself onto the bed.
The air was heavy, the kind that buzzed against skin. I lay as close to the edge as I could without falling, every sense on high alert. She turned toward me, rustling under the blanket. "You're going to fall off if you stay like that," she said softly.
"I'll be fine."
"Harry."
Her tone was patient, teasing, a little sad. The sound of it scraped something deep inside me. Then she reached out and tugged gently at my sleeve, urging me closer.
I froze. My body ignited, and I prayed a silent prayer that I could hide what I was feeling.
"Relax," she murmured, half-asleep already. "It's just me."
That was the problem. It was her.
I lay there, rigid, listening to her breathing slow beside me. My thoughts were a mess — sharp, restless, impossible to quiet.
"Sing to me," she murmured, already curling toward me.
I stared at the ceiling. "Faye—"
"Please?"
I wanted to say no. But then I remembered the little girl who used to crawl into my bed when thunder scared her, the one who'd hold my arm until she drifted off.
So I sang.
Softly. Brokenly. The same lullaby from years ago.
She pressed her forehead to my shoulder, and I felt her lips on my neck. My body was barely under my control and she was pushing me further.
I should have moved. Should've pulled away. But for some reason, I didn't.
"See?" she whispered sleepily. "Feels like home again. I really missed you, Harry."
I stared at the dark ceiling, every muscle in my body drawn tight. She fell asleep before I could answer, her breath steady against my neck.
Relief washed through me like a confession I couldn't say out loud. Carefully, I slid out from under the blanket and stood by the bed.
For a moment, I just looked at her.
The way sleep softened her features, made her look untouched by everything that had torn at us lately. I knelt down, brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead, and hesitated before leaning in.
I kissed her forehead. A simple, innocent gesture. I should have left it at that, but I didn't. I leaned in again, this time brushing my lips on her own.
The second our lips touched, something dark and dangerous shifted in me. But more than that was the guilt.
What had I done?
***
The morning light felt too bright. It poured into the room like it was trying to expose my sin from last night, and every thought I shouldn't have had.
I couldn't look at her.
Faye sat at the edge of the couch, knees tucked up, her hair a messy halo around her face. She looked soft. Small. Like the night hadn't touched her at all. My chest tightened, and I gripped the strap of my bag harder.
"Morning," I said. My voice came out rough.
She looked up, blinking away sleep.
"Morning." Her tone was careful, like she was testing the air between us.
I moved toward the kitchen, desperate for something to do. I poured water into a cup just to keep my hands busy, but my fingers trembled anyway.
When I turned back, she was right behind me.
"Harry," she said quietly.
My heart stopped beating for a split second. "Yeah?"
She reached for my hand — that small, familiar gesture she always did — and instinct kicked in before reason. I stepped back.
Her fingers hovered midair before she pulled them in, clutching them against her chest.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
"Yeah." I forced a laugh that didn't sound like me. "Just… tired."
She studied my face for a long second, then asked, "Are you avoiding me because of last night?"
Every muscle in my body went still. My heart thudded in my throat. The images came rushing back — her warmth beside me, the kiss.
Did she feel it? Was she awake?
"I just wanted you to sing to me," she continued before I could answer. "I know I have bad sleeping habits. I must've pushed you out of the bed or something." She gave a small laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm sorry if I did. I didn't mean to make you mad."
"You didn't," I said quickly. Maybe too quickly. "I'm not mad."
She frowned. "Then why won't you look at me?"
I blinked, trying to find something — anything — to hold on to. "Because I'm late," I said finally. "I have class."
She nodded, but the flicker of hurt that crossed her face nearly gutted me. "That's fine," she murmured. "I won't be going with you today anyway."
That caught my attention. "Really?"
"I want to stay home and do the laundry," she said, smiling. "Maybe clean a little. You've been taking care of everything, so… I should help out, right?"
I narrowed my eyes. "You? Clean?"
She giggled, pretending to be offended. "I can try! Don't you think I should at least do this little thing if I have a conscience?"
Was Faye tiptoeing around me? Was it because of the things she said?
This was a new side of her I'd never seen before. Faye was always careless with words. She'd say anything regardless of how harsh the words were. She always apologized, but that was usually as far as she went. Offering to do laundry and clean was a first.
Maybe she felt really bad?
"Okay. Just don't break anything."
Her smile softened. "I won't."