PART 5

☾

"Please," the girl begged, pressing her free hand against the window. Her eyes were wild, desperate, reflecting the pale moonlight.

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening. The knife in her hand gleamed faintly in the dim light. This wasn’t just a game anymore—this was real. Too real. I turned to Theo, my voice barely above a whisper. "What should we do?"

Theo’s face was pale, his brow furrowed as he stared at the girl. The weight of the decision hung between us, heavy like a stone sinking in water. My heart pounded in my chest, the rhythm chaotic and frenzied, refusing to settle.

Suddenly, the girl’s voice cut through the thick tension. "I know what happened to the dead woman in the woods."

Her words hit me like ice water, my blood running cold. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. What? I stepped closer to the window, fighting the urge to pull back, my pulse roaring in my ears. "How do you know that?" My voice trembled despite my best effort to sound in control. "Did you… kill her?"

The girl’s head whipped from side to side, her matted hair flying around her face. "No! No!" she stammered, her words frantic. "I didn’t kill her!"

I swallowed hard, my eyes darting between her face and the blood-streaked knife. "Then why do you have that?" I gestured to the blade, stepping out from behind Theo, every part of me screaming to stay hidden. But my curiosity was stronger, pushing me toward the danger.

"To defend myself," she whispered, her voice barely holding together, as though it might shatter at any moment.

Static erupted behind us, sharp and sudden as gunfire. I jumped so hard I nearly fell, my heart stutter-stepping in my chest like it was trying to escape. The girl at the window flinched too, the knife in her hand catching moonlight as it jerked upward. For one terrible moment, we all froze in a perfect tableau of panic - me half-sprawled against Theo, Theo reaching instinctively toward his desk, and our bloody stranger looking ready to bolt or fight, maybe both.

"What the hell was that?" I demanded, my attempt at toughness cracking like my voice in seventh grade chorus. Real smooth, Austin. Really selling that brave face.

Theo's shoulders dropped as he exhaled, recognition softening his stance. "It's just my walkie-talkie," he muttered, detangling himself from my death grip to move toward his desk. The familiar shape of the device sat between his astronomy books and half-finished English homework, like a piece of our normal life had wandered into this nightmare by accident.

Wei's voice crackled through the static, and I'd never been so grateful to hear his particular brand of nervous logic. "Theo? Austin? It's Wei—can you— Can you hear me?"

Theo picked up the walkie-talkie. "Hello?"

Theo sighed again, this time more impatiently. "Wei, we can’t talk right now," he whispered, glancing nervously at the girl through the window.

"Why?" Wei’s voice sounded distant, as if the full weight of what was happening hadn’t hit him yet. "What’s going on? I can see the person at your window. Are you okay?"

Theo glanced at me. I couldn’t tell if he was more relieved or frustrated. "For now," he said, then added cautiously, "She says she wants our help. Claims she knows what happened to Mrs. Gabrowski."

I couldn’t hold back. My nerves were on edge, my patience worn thin. "And she has a knife," I blurted, panic creeping into my voice despite my attempts to seem calm.

"A knife?" Wei’s voice cracked with alarm, making my stomach flip. Suddenly, this all felt so much worse, hearing it out loud.

"Please!" the girl’s voice came again, this time sharper, more desperate. Her plea sliced through our whispered conversation, dragging our attention back to her.

I turned slowly to face her. Tears clung to her eyelashes, glistening in the moonlight, and her knife—still smeared with something dark—reflected the faint streetlight. My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat. There was something so raw, so human about her tears, and yet the blood on her blade made me feel sick.

Theo spoke first. "How can we help you?"

Her chest heaved, each breath labored as sobs wracked her body. "I need to hide," she gasped, her voice raw with desperation. "Just for a few days. Anywhere. I can’t be found."

I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Every word she spoke added weight to the suffocating air around us. My eyes drifted down to the blood-smeared knife in her hand again, and I swallowed hard, trying to make sense of this nightmare. Hide her? Why would we help her? My mind raced with questions, none of them with answers that I liked.

Theo glanced at me, his expression unreadable at first, but I saw something flicker in his eyes—calculation, hesitation. He was considering it. My heart dropped.

"What are you thinking?" I hissed, keeping my voice low, though fear spiked through every word.

His eyes met mine, wide and uncertain. "She’s in trouble, Austin," he whispered. "She needs help."

I wanted to shake him, to remind him that we were sixteen, that our biggest responsibility should be the next history test, not whatever blood-soaked drama was pressing against his window. But that's the thing about Theo - once he decided someone needed saving, there was no talking him down. It's what I loved about him. It's what terrified me about him.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. "She needs help?" I repeated, incredulous. "Theo, she’s got a knife." My voice trembled, anger and fear mingling. "We can’t just—"

"Your shed," Theo breathed, so quiet I almost missed it under the sound of my own panic. His voice trembled, but underneath ran that current of pure stubborn Theo-ness that always ended with us in trouble. "In the garden."

The words hit me like a slap. I grabbed his collar, yanking him away from the window, from her. The fabric bunched under my fingers as I pulled him closer, close enough to see the constellation of freckles across his nose that usually made him look younger, innocent. Not now. Now he looked like someone I didn't quite recognize.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" My voice came out in a hiss, fear making it sharp enough to cut. "You want to hide her in my shed? She's got blood on her, Theo—blood—and you want her, what, hiding a few feet from my house? From my bedroom?" My words tumbled out faster, higher, hysteria creeping in at the edges. "Why not just invite her to dinner with my dad? 'Hey Officer Mayer, meet the girl with the murder weapon. Pass the potatoes!'"

Theo didn’t pull away. He didn’t argue. He just stood there, staring back at me with that same wide-eyed look, his breath coming fast and shallow. "I know," he whispered, his voice barely audible now. "I know how it sounds. But what if she’s telling the truth? What if someone’s really trying to kill her?"

"And what if she’s the killer, huh?" I shot back, tightening my grip on his shirt. I could feel the panic surging inside me, making it harder to breathe. "What then, Theo? Are you going to explain to my dad why we’re harboring a murderer in the shed?"

He shook his head, his eyes pleading. "I don’t think she did it. Look at her." He gestured toward the girl, still standing outside the window, shivering in her torn clothes. She was pale, her hands trembling, her eyes wild with fear.

I glanced at her, then back at Theo. "She has a knife, Theo. A knife."

"I know." His voice was firmer now, more resolved. "But I don’t think she’s dangerous. Not to us."

I let go of his collar, pushing him back slightly as I raked my fingers through my hair, trying to process. My stomach churned. Every instinct I had was screaming no, telling me to shut the window and forget this ever happened. To go back to bed and let this girl figure out her own mess.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were already too deep in this to just walk away.

I turned back to the girl. Her face was pale, tear-streaked, and there was something in her eyes—something raw and terrified—that made me pause. She wasn’t just scared. She was hunted.

I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, and when I opened them again, Theo was still watching me, waiting for my answer. His expression was tight, nervous.

"If I die because of her," I whispered, my voice fierce, "you’re going straight to hell."

Theo nodded, relief flickering across his face. I hated how easily he took my agreement, like it was nothing, like I wasn’t risking everything for a stranger. A stranger with a bloody knife.

I turned back to the window, the cold night air biting at my skin as I pushed it open wider. The girl took a tentative step forward, her eyes wide and filled with a strange mix of hope and fear.

"You can stay in my shed," I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. "But you’ll have to leave the knife."

Her lips trembled as she nodded, and I watched her slowly lower the blood-streaked blade to the ground. It clattered softly against the concrete, the sound too loud in the dead of night.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Wei’s voice came through the walkie-talkie again, thick with worry. "Are you still alive? What’s going on?"

Wei’s voice crackled through the walkie-talkie again, his tone thick with worry and a tinge of frustration. "Are you still alive? What’s going on?"

I could almost picture Wei’s wide, anxious eyes behind his glasses, scanning the street from his bedroom window, calculating the odds of us making it out of this ridiculous situation.

"We’re fine," Theo responded, his voice clipped, as if saying it quickly enough would make it true. "We’re taking her to Austin’s shed now."

There was a pause, then Wei’s voice shot back, rising in panic. "Are you out of your minds? A shed? In your backyard?"

I rolled my eyes at the sound of Wei’s incredulous tone, the panic practically radiating through the static. He sounded like a parent scolding a couple of toddlers for running into traffic, and to be honest, he wasn’t wrong. But Theo wasn’t having it. Without so much as a glance in my direction, Theo set the walkie-talkie down, as if that settled it.

No more discussion. No more second-guessing. His decision was final.

A tight knot formed in my stomach, curling deeper with every passing second. I glanced nervously toward the hallway, where my parents slept, blissfully unaware of the chaos brewing just beyond their bedroom door. My dad would lose his mind if he knew. Hell, I was losing my mind, and I was the one helping make this terrible decision.

"We can’t go through the house," I whispered, trying to suppress the rising panic in my voice. My pulse hammered in my ears, my thoughts darting between the absurdity of what we were about to do and the very real consequences. "They’ll hear us." The last thing I needed was my dad stumbling out half-asleep, only to find us sneaking a blood-soaked girl with a knife into the backyard.

Theo, unflinching as always, pulled on a jacket, slipping his feet into his worn house shoes. "Then we’ll go through the window." His voice was calm, too calm, like this was just another one of our midnight dares from when we were kids, sneaking out to meet Wei and play fantasy games in the woods. Except this time, it wasn’t a game.

He rifled through his closet, tossing me a cardigan—a green cardigan, of all things—and a pair of oversized rubber boots. I caught the cardigan mid-air, holding it up like it was a particularly ugly insect.

"Green?" I wrinkled my nose in disgust, the absurdity of the situation gnawing at me. "Seriously?"

Theo shot me a look, his patience clearly wearing thin. "You’re welcome to go out naked," he muttered, deadpan, not even bothering to humor my sarcasm.

"Yeah, I’m sure that’ll help," I snorted. "Running across the yard, butt-naked, with a murderer on the loose? I’d be dead in seconds. Or worse, she might mistake my dick for a weapon."

Theo groaned, rolling his eyes as I slipped on the cardigan and boots. The oversized boots sloshed around my feet, and the cardigan scratched like something out of a thrift store nightmare. Fashion wasn’t exactly my top priority tonight, but this? This was just adding insult to injury.

"Well, it’s not gonna knock anyone out," Theo muttered under his breath.

"Hey, speak for yourself," I shot back, grinning. "Some people would pay to see what I’m packing."

Theo ignored me, but I could see a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, climbing onto the heater below the window, testing his balance. His movements were quick but deliberate, like this was some sort of calculated mission. I could feel his nerves beneath the surface, though, pulsing like an undercurrent he was desperately trying to suppress. He might have been playing it cool, but I knew Theo—he was just as terrified as I was.

"Hold up, James Bond," I muttered, still struggling with the boots. "You’re really set on this, aren’t you?"

Theo glanced back, his face illuminated by the faint glow of the moonlight filtering through the window. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were filled with that familiar mix of determination and reckless loyalty. It was the same look he gave me every time we got in trouble—like he knew this was insane, but there was no turning back now. We were in this together, no matter how bad it got.

"She’s not dangerous," he said quietly, his voice softer now. "She just… needs help."

As soon as my feet hit the ground, I glanced up to see her standing just a few feet away. Alma’s clothes were torn, her hands empty now, trembling, her wide, anxious eyes darting between Theo and me. In that moment, she looked small—fragile, even—and a part of me almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

I turned to Theo, my voice low but sharp. "This is a bad idea."

"I know," he muttered, his breath fogging in the cool night air. "But we can’t leave her out here."

Before I could respond, Alma took a shaky step toward us. "I—I’m sorry," she stammered, her voice thin and hoarse, like it had been clawing its way out of her throat. "I didn’t mean to scare you. I just—I don’t know where else to go."

Theo and I exchanged a glance, and I could see the uncertainty mirrored in his eyes. I swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. It was one thing to sneak her into the shed, another entirely to face the reality of her standing here, looking like she’d been through hell.

"My name’s Alma," she whispered, as if the name itself carried too much weight. She wiped at her face with a trembling hand, but it only smeared more dirt across her cheek. "I swear, I didn’t hurt anyone. I just… need a place to hide. Please."

There was something in her voice—something raw, desperate—that twisted in my gut. I had a million questions, but none of them seemed like the right ones to ask. And there was still the fact that she had been clutching a bloody knife just moments ago.

Theo cleared his throat, stepping slightly closer to her, though I noticed he kept his hands in his pockets, probably as nervous as I was. "Okay," he said quietly. "Alma. We’ll help you, but we need to know… what’s going on? Why are you running?"

Alma’s eyes filled with fear again, her gaze darting toward the dark stretch of trees at the edge of the neighborhood. For a moment, she didn’t answer, like she was weighing how much to tell us—or whether she could trust us at all.

"The person trying to kill me," she said finally, her voice so soft I had to strain to hear it. "I... I didn’t kill anyone. I swear. But someone’s after me, and I’m running out of time." Her voice cracked, and she glanced down at the blood still smeared on her clothes. "That’s not mine."

I felt a cold shiver run down my spine, the gravity of her words sinking in. This wasn’t just some scared girl looking for a place to hide. This was bigger—much bigger than I’d wanted to admit. I stared at her for a long moment, trying to process it all.

"You’re telling the truth?" I asked, even though I wasn’t sure what answer I was hoping for. The situation already felt too surreal.

Alma nodded, her eyes wide with sincerity—maybe even terror. "I swear," she whispered. "I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just need to stay hidden. For a little while."

I let out a long breath, glancing again at Theo, who seemed to be wrestling with the same doubts I had. But when his eyes met mine, there was that same determination. We couldn’t turn her away, not now.

"Okay," I muttered, rubbing a hand over my face, trying to force down the rising panic. "You can stay in my shed. But if you lie to us, or if anything happens…"

"It won’t," she interrupted, her voice trembling but firm. "I won’t hurt you. I promise."

We moved through the quiet streets of Aves Grove, and the village, normally so quaint and sleepy, felt wrong—distorted, like a photograph just slightly out of focus. At this hour, the town seemed to hold its breath, the silence pressing in on us from all sides. The streetlights flickered occasionally, casting long, uneven shadows across the cobblestones. The once-familiar streets twisted in the dim light, the houses huddling closer together as if they were watching us, waiting for something to happen.

Aves Grove wasn’t a place known for danger. It was small, picturesque, with its old brick buildings, neatly trimmed hedges, and charming parks that drew the occasional tourist during the summer months. But at night, under the pale glow of the streetlights, everything took on an eerie, almost unreal quality. The town seemed to shift, as if the darkness had the power to warp reality, turning the familiar into something sinister.

Theo walked ahead with Alma, the two of them moving quietly, their footsteps muffled against the slick cobblestones. I stayed back, putting just enough distance between myself and the girl who was now haunting our every step. I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling gnawing at the pit of my stomach, the sense that we were being watched. Not by people. By the town itself.

The occasional rustle of leaves or creak of an old sign swaying in the wind felt too loud in the oppressive silence. Each sound seemed amplified, unnerving, like the town was holding secrets, its cobbled streets whispering warnings we couldn’t quite hear.

As we passed Wei’s house, I spotted him standing at his window, his silhouette backlit by the faint glow of his bedroom lamp. His glasses caught the light, reflecting it like a pair of ghostly eyes. He watched us intently, unmoving, like some kind of sentinel standing guard over our foolish decisions. I raised a hand, giving him a quick thumbs-up, trying to look like everything was under control. But it wasn’t. Nothing was fine. The weight of that lie settled over me like a lead blanket.

Wei didn’t wave back. He just kept watching, his expression unreadable in the shadowy distance. I wondered what he was thinking—whether he thought we were making the biggest mistake of our lives. Deep down, I knew he was right if that’s what he was thinking. But it was too late to stop now.

Alma walked beside Theo, her movements jerky and unsteady, like a deer that had wandered too close to the edge of a forest fire. She kept glancing over her shoulder, her wide eyes fixed on the dark line of trees at the edge of the village, as though she expected something—or someone—to leap out at her. I followed her gaze, half-expecting the same.

"Is that where he attacked you?" I asked quietly, curiosity getting the better of me.

Alma nodded, her face pale beneath the flickering light of a distant streetlamp. A shiver rippled through me. The forest, our forest, where Theo, Wei, and I had spent countless afternoons chasing imaginary monsters, suddenly seemed darker, more sinister. It was hard to believe that the place we’d used for make-believe adventures could now be hiding something far more terrifying—and real.

We reached the side of my house, the windows dark, casting long shadows across the yard. "We're here," Theo whispered, his voice barely carrying in the stillness. Everything was quiet, and I guessed my dad was still holed up at the police station, probably working through piles of paperwork about Mrs. Gabrowski’s murder. It was unnerving to think he had no idea what we were doing just outside our house.

The house stood tall and imposing in the dim light, its dark windows like hollow eyes staring down at us. It was one of the biggest houses in Aves Grove, bought when my parents thought they could fill it with a perfect family. Now it was just a shell, oversized and hollow—much like how I felt standing there, about to hide a girl we knew nothing about.

"This way," I whispered, leading them along the side of the house toward the back garden. The air was thick with the smell of wet grass and earth, and a faint breeze stirred the leaves, rustling them like a quiet warning.

"What about the cameras?" Theo asked, nodding toward the security cameras mounted around the house like plastic gargoyles. Dad had installed them the week after Mom left, part of his frantic attempt to control something - anything - in his rapidly unraveling world. I remembered him up on that ladder, cursing as he mounted each dummy camera, his hands shaking so bad he kept dropping the screws.

"Don't worry about it," I muttered, forcing a laugh that felt as fake as the cameras themselves. I wasn't about to admit they were just hollow shells, props in the ongoing performance of Officer Mayer's Perfect Life. Like the empty bottles he thought I didn't find in the recycling, or the way he'd started sleeping on the couch because the master bedroom felt too big without Mom in it. We'd become experts at maintaining appearances - him with his pressed uniform and rigid smile, me with my casual shrugs and practiced indifference.

The cameras gleamed in the moonlight like dead eyes, watching nothing. Just like Dad watched nothing these days, his attention always somewhere else - at work, in a bottle, or lost in whatever memories he was trying to outrun. Sometimes I wondered if he installed them not to keep people out, but to keep us in - to maintain the illusion that we were still a normal family, still whole, still worth protecting.

We reached the shed, a small wooden structure that I'd claimed as my secret hangout spot last summer. Mom had always wanted to turn it into some Pinterest-worthy garden retreat, but like everything else, that dream died when she left. Now it was my space—the one place Dad never bothered to check.

The key was tucked under a garden gnome—one of my mom’s tacky additions from years ago. Its goofy grin looked bizarrely out of place in the dim, eerie garden. I bent down, retrieving the key with a quiet sigh.

"Well, let's check out your new abode," I joked weakly, my attempt at humor falling flat as I unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The shed creaked as if it hadn’t been disturbed in years. Inside, the faint smell of old wood and mildew clung to the air. A workbench lined the left wall, tools hanging neatly above it—unused for ages. A stack of plastic chairs stood behind it, along with two folded parasols and a dusty sun lounger. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

"You can sleep here," I said, pointing to the sun lounger. I opened an old box next to it, rummaging through forgotten odds and ends until I pulled out a mattress topper and a blanket. They smelled a bit musty, but it was better than nothing.

Alma nodded hesitantly, her face drawn tight with fatigue. She hadn’t said much since we’d arrived, but I could see the relief in her eyes. Even this shabby shed was a haven compared to whatever she’d been running from.

"Here," I said, opening the mini-fridge that hummed quietly in the corner. I'd stocked it gradually, swiping beers from Dad's never-ending supply (he never noticed—or maybe just didn't care anymore) and hiding my own secret stash of Cokes. "That should last you the night."

Alma managed a shaky smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. The tension in the room felt suffocating, like we were all waiting for something to break the silence.

"Don't worry, we’ll bring you something to eat tomorrow," Theo added, his voice calm but firm. He was trying to reassure her, but I wasn’t sure if it was working.

I shot him a look, my voice a harsh whisper. "Will we?" My heart raced as I pulled him aside, my teeth gritted. "What the hell are we doing, Theo?"

"We're helping her," he muttered, turning back toward Alma.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My stomach churned, and the weight of what we were doing felt heavier than ever. I dug through another box, pulling out some old gardening magazines—something to keep Alma occupied, though it felt like an empty gesture.

"You need anything else?" I asked Alma, trying to keep my voice light, though the knot of dread in my chest was tightening with every second.

She shook her head. "You've already done more than enough." Her voice was barely a whisper, but there was a sincerity in it that made me feel even more uneasy.

I nodded, forcing a smile. "Then we’d better go before someone catches us."

We said our goodbyes quickly, the cold air seeping through my cardigan as I locked the shed behind us, placing the key back under the garden gnome’s stupid grin. As we turned to leave, I couldn’t help but glance back at the shed, its dark shape looming in the garden like a tombstone. Alma was inside now, alone with her secrets.

"Why the hell did we do this?" I asked Theo as we hurried back toward the house, my nerves fraying with every step.

"Because we’re good people," Theo grumbled, not meeting my eyes.

"Good people don’t hide girls with bloody knives in their backyards," I shot back, my frustration bubbling over. "You should know that."

When we arrived back at Theo’s house, the night felt heavier, like the weight of everything that had happened was finally settling in. I glanced up at Wei’s window as we crept toward Theo’s room. It was closed now, the faint glow from his lamp gone. I couldn’t tell if he’d fallen asleep or was just lying in bed, replaying everything in his head like I was. Tomorrow, we’d have to tell him everything—but that didn’t make me feel any better about the decisions we’d just made.

Stolen novel; please report.

Theo climbed into his window first, moving quietly, careful not to make a sound. I followed, feeling the cool night air cling to me for a moment before I slipped inside, grateful for the warmth of his room. We kicked off our jackets and shoes, dropping them to the floor with a muffled thud, and crawled back into his bed, pulling the blankets over us.

"I can’t believe it," I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. The events of the night swirled in my mind, too unreal to grasp.

"This day’s been an absolute nightmare," Theo sighed, sinking deeper into his pillow. The exhaustion in his voice was palpable, like it was finally hitting him that this wasn’t just some bizarre dream.

We lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling in the dark, the glow of the streetlights faintly illuminating the room. The silence between us felt heavy but necessary, like we were both trying to sort through the mess in our heads.

"Do you think we did the right thing?" I asked eventually, the question hanging in the air between us. I wasn’t sure if I wanted an answer.

Theo didn’t respond right away. I could hear him breathing, steady but deep, as if he was trying to convince himself we hadn’t just crossed a line we couldn’t come back from.

"I don’t know," he finally admitted. "But what choice did we have?"

I thought about Alma—her torn clothes, the knife, the fear in her eyes. We didn’t even know her. And yet here we were, hiding her in a shed behind my house like she was some wounded bird we’d found in the woods. Only, this bird had a past—a dangerous one.

I shifted under the covers, my mind racing. "We should’ve called someone. Like my dad…"

Theo turned his head toward me, his face barely visible in the darkness. "Austin, you really think your dad would’ve let her off that easy? She’d be in a cell by now, and who knows what would happen to her. I mean… what if she’s telling the truth?"

That was the part that gnawed at me. What if she was telling the truth? But what if she wasn’t? We had no way of knowing which version of Alma was real—the victim or the threat.

"We’ll figure it out," Theo mumbled, though I wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince me or himself.

Eventually, the weight of the day, the tension in my chest, and the dull ache in my mind pulled me into a restless sleep. But even in my dreams, Alma’s face—her wide, desperate eyes—haunted me, lurking at the edges of my consciousness.

The rumble of an engine outside dragged me fully into consciousness. Dad's cruiser, right on time - the one thing in his life that still ran like clockwork. I untangled myself from Theo's sheets, careful not to wake him. He mumbled something in his sleep, curling deeper into the warmth I was leaving behind.

The morning sun caught his badge, throwing sharp reflections across the dashboard. That badge was his shield, his symbol of authority, but lately it seemed like he was wearing it even at home, as if he could police his way through personal problems. As if enough rules and protocols could keep his life - our life - from unraveling.

The vinyl seats squeaked against my borrowed clothes as I slid into the passenger seat. Dad's fingers drummed against the steering wheel in that staccato rhythm that meant his mind was already at the station, already buried in case files and coffee cups and whatever else he used to fill the spaces where conversation should be. The morning sun caught his badge, throwing sharp reflections across the dashboard as we drove. Neither of us spoke. We'd gotten good at that, at least.

Back home, I stood in my room, peeling off Theo's clothes like I could shed the night's events with them. My own clothes were still trashed, torn and dirty - evidence of everything we'd witnessed. Of everything we were now part of. I pulled on gray sweatpants and a black shirt with a small skull printed on the chest, armor for whatever this day would bring.

I slipped into a pair of gray sweatpants and a black shirt with a small skull printed on the chest. I smirked at myself in the mirror. "You look good," I murmured, more to keep up appearances than anything. A magazine I’d read once said you should praise yourself once a day, so there it was.

The magazine pages plastered across my walls stared back at me - a teenage fever dream of everything I wished I could be. Harry Styles in Vogue, redefining masculinity in that infamous dress, next to a rain-soaked Timothée Chalamet giving the camera that look that made everyone question their sexuality. Robert Pattinson's brooding Dior ads torn carefully from Dad's forgotten GQ magazines. A vintage poster of River Phoenix in My Own Private Idaho that I'd ordered off Etsy, telling Dad it was just because I was "into retro movies."

Between fashion spreads of angular male models in Alexander McQueen and artfully ripped Saint Laurent, I'd pinned concert photos of Brandon Flowers looking ethereal in eyeliner, and Frank Ocean lyrics I'd written out in careful calligraphy: "You can't miss what you ain't had, well I can, and I'm sad." A flood of faces and bodies that I pretended to admire just for their style, their aesthetic. Another lie in a growing collection.

My latest obsession - a W Magazine shot of Jacob Elordi channeling James Dean - hung right next to my mirror, making my own reflection look even more ordinary in comparison. I caught myself between a moody Joji photo spread and Louis Partridge serving Victorian vampire realness in Enola Holmes. "You look good," I murmured, the daily affirmation feeling more hollow than usual. The walls around me were papered with beautiful boys being praised for their sensitivity, their fluidity, their rejection of traditional masculinity. Meanwhile, I was still trying to convince myself that my encyclopedic knowledge of Tom Ford collections was just because I "appreciated fashion."

In the kitchen, I stood staring at the open pantry, trying to figure out what you feed someone who might be a murderer. The basket sat accusingly on the counter - another leftover from before, from mom. I grabbed it, the woven handle worn smooth by hands I couldn't remember, and started filling it like I was preparing some twisted version of Little Red Riding Hood's basket.

Bread from the expensive bakery Dad never remembers to shop at anymore. An apple that had been sitting in the fruit bowl since who knows when. A slightly bent carrot that looked about as sorry as I felt. A packet of cocoa - Mom's favorite brand, the one Dad still buys even though he hates chocolate. My hands moved on autopilot, adding a small bottle of disinfectant, some compresses, and band-aids for her wounds. The first aid supplies came from the kit Dad kept meticulously stocked but never used - even bleeding, he'd rather pretend he wasn't hurt.

The morning air hit me like a slap as I stepped outside, the storm having scoured away every trace of fall's warmth. Leaves crunched under my feet as I crossed the yard, each step feeling like a decision I couldn't take back. The shed loomed ahead, morning shadows turning it into something out of a horror movie - which, considering what was inside, felt appropriate.

Mom's garden gnome - though I guess I shouldn't call it that, since I don't even remember her putting it there - grinned up at me as I retrieved the key, its chipped paint and faded hat a testament to how long it had been standing guard. Sometimes I wondered if she'd actually picked it out herself, or if that was just another story Dad had made up to fill the gaps she'd left behind. These days, it was hard to tell which memories were real and which ones we'd constructed to make the emptiness feel less empty.

My hand shook slightly as I fitted the key into the lock. A silent prayer slipped through my mind: Dear God, please don't let the girl with the knife stab me now. I'm clearly too young to die, and this outfit is way too nice for a crime scene. Amen. Thank you.

The door creaked open with the dramatic flair of every horror movie I'd ever watched, hinges protesting like they were auditioning for a haunted house. Stale air rushed out, carrying the musty smell of abandoned tools and forgotten summer days. Shadows clung to the corners like old cobwebs, but there was Alma, perched on a plastic chair like she was waiting for tea service instead of hiding from whatever nightmare she'd brought to our town.

She looked up from one of the old gardening magazines - relics from before, their pages yellow and brittle with age. The morning light filtering through the dusty window caught her face, highlighting the scratches that looked even worse in daylight. They weren't random, I realized with a chill. There was a pattern to them, like whatever had marked her had wanted to leave a message.

"Breakfast delivery," I announced, aiming for casual but landing somewhere between nervous and hysterical. The basket suddenly felt ridiculous in my hands, like I was playing house with a horror story.

Alma's eyes tracked my movement as I set the basket down, her gaze carrying the weight of secrets I wasn't sure I wanted to understand. She looked smaller in daylight, drowning in her torn clothes, but something about her still set my teeth on edge. Maybe it was the way she held herself - too still, too controlled, like a predator pretending to be prey.

"Thanks," she said, but made no move toward the food. Instead, she closed the magazine carefully, deliberately, her fingers lingering on the subscription label that still bore a stranger's name - my mother's name. "Your mom's?" she asked.

The question caught me off guard, personal in a way I hadn't expected. "How did you-"

"The address label," she cut me off, tapping the faded text. Her eyes met mine, sharp and knowing. "Same house, different lifetime."

Something cold slithered down my spine. The magazine was older than my memories, from a time I could only piece together through Dad's rare, half-finished stories and photographs I'd stopped looking at because the woman in them meant nothing to me. Just another stranger who'd left.

"The food will get cold," I deflected, gesturing at the basket. Every instinct screamed to get out, to put distance between myself and this girl who seemed to be reading stories in things I'd trained myself to ignore.

Alma set the magazine aside with deliberate care. "Interesting thing about gardens," she mused, her voice carrying an edge I couldn't quite identify. "They're really good at hiding things. Secrets. Bodies. Truth." Her eyes locked onto mine. "Even memories."

The air in the shed suddenly felt too thick, charged with something dangerous. Sunlight caught the edge of the knife still hidden under the workbench, a reminder that this wasn't just about breakfast or old magazines or abandoned gardens.

Alma nodded, pushing her tangled hair out of her face, and for the first time, I really saw her. The scratches above and below her right eye were deep, the skin raw and angry. Small abrasions lined her nose, and her cheeks were dotted with freckles, almost hidden beneath layers of dirt. Dark circles hung under her eyes, betraying the lie that she’d slept well.

"Shouldn't we, uh, maybe take you to a doctor?" I asked, my voice wavering. As I cleaned her wounds, I couldn’t help but think she needed more than just a couple of band-aids and disinfectant. The scratches on her face were deep, and who knew what else she was hiding.

"No," Alma said sharply, her eyes narrowing. "No one can know I'm here."

I nodded, trying to play it cool, but my mind raced with a thousand questions. Why can’t anyone know you’re here? Who attacked you? Did you see who killed Mrs. Gabrowski? I glanced at her face, studying the scratches again. And where the hell did those come from?

One question kept bubbling to the surface, more insistent than the others. "Uh… where’s the knife?" I asked, my voice as casual as I could manage, even though every nerve in my body was screaming for me to be careful.

Alma’s eyes flicked to the workbench. She gave a quick nod toward a small wooden stool tucked beneath it. I followed her gaze and, sure enough, there it was—the knife, still covered in dried blood. My stomach twisted, seeing the dark stains that hadn’t washed away with time. That knife wasn’t just some kitchen utensil—it had been used for something terrible.

"Right," I muttered, swallowing hard. I had to keep my cool, even if everything about this situation screamed run.

Alma shifted in her seat, her fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt. Her voice came out soft, almost too quiet to hear. "Can I take a shower? I haven’t taken one in days."

The question hit me like a punch to the gut. My brain struggled to keep up. A shower? That was what she was worried about right now? My heart skipped a beat, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears. "Wait—what?"

She didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes on the ground, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I just… I don’t want to go back into those dirty clothes."

My thoughts raced. This girl, who had been holding a bloody knife just minutes ago, wanted to take a shower. In my house. The thought made my skin prickle with unease. This was too normal. Too... domestic. We were way past normal. She had shown up at Theo’s window like some kind of ghost, covered in dirt and blood. And now she wanted to wash it all away.

"Uh," I started, my brain still catching up. The idea of her walking around my house felt wrong. My dad wasn’t home, sure, but what if he came back early? Or worse—what if I let her in, and something went wrong? What if she wasn’t just some scared girl running from someone? What if she really was dangerous?

But when I finally looked at her, really looked at her, something in her face stopped me. She looked exhausted—her shoulders hunched, her eyes half-lidded. She wasn’t the terrifying figure from last night anymore. She was just… broken. Tired. Human.

I swallowed hard. "Okay," I said, the word feeling heavy and wrong in my mouth. "But leave the knife." I wasn't stupid.

Alma nodded, almost too quickly, her eyes darting back to me. "Okay," she murmured.

We stood up, and I led her through the garden, constantly glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one saw us. The last thing I needed was one of my neighbors spotting me sneaking a girl—covered in scratches—into the house. Especially when that girl had a connection to a dead teacher.

As we walked, Alma broke the silence. "Do you have anything new for me to wear?" she asked quietly, a nervous edge in her voice. "I don’t want to go back into those dirty clothes."

"Now you're getting cocky," I teased, trying to lighten the mood, even though I wasn’t feeling much like joking. My nerves were frayed.

Alma’s face fell. "Oh, I didn’t mean—"

"It’s fine," I cut her off with a laugh, feeling a little guilty for making her nervous. "I was kidding. Of course, I’ll find you something to wear."

Alma sighed, clearly relieved. She followed me to my room, her eyes flicking curiously around as I rummaged through my closet. I could feel her gaze lingering on the walls, taking in the magazine cutouts and the mess of fashion articles scattered around. I pulled out an old shirt from a goth band I’d outgrown, a pair of too-small boxer shorts, and some black joggers with an elastic waistband. It wasn’t much, but it would do.

"Sorry, I don’t have a bra," I said, pressing the clothes into her hands. For a second, I thought maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that, but Alma let out a brief laugh—her first real one since we’d met.

"That’s fine," she said, offering me a small smile. She thanked me before disappearing into the bathroom, leaving me standing in my room, staring after her. That laugh had caught me off guard. It was almost normal. Almost like she was just another girl asking for clothes and a shower. But I knew better.

I let out a long breath and wandered into the living room, collapsing onto the leather couch with a loud sigh. My mind was buzzing, and I wasn’t sure if it was from exhaustion or just pure stress. "Shit," I muttered, wincing as I felt something hard under my butt. I lifted one cheek and pulled out a small pink stud earring. I stared at it for a second, unimpressed.

The pink earring caught the light, and suddenly I was twelve again, finding Mom's jewelry scattered across her dresser the morning she left. Dad had packed it all away in a box that now gathered dust in the attic, right next to the family photos he couldn't bring himself to hang anymore. These days, different jewelry showed up - cheap costume pieces left behind by his parade of late-night visitors, women whose names he never bothered to learn because learning meant remembering.

I tossed the earring onto the coffee table, next to last night's whiskey glass - another habit he'd picked up since Mom left. The glass had left a ring on his police reports, probably files about Mrs. Gabrowski now. Work and women: Dad's tried-and-tested method of drowning out the silence Mom left behind. Some nights I'd hear him in his study, radio cranked up to drown out whatever he didn't want me to hear - his conversations, his company, his crying. We never talked about those nights, just like we never talked about how he'd started wearing his uniform even on his days off, as if the badge could protect him from everything else falling apart.

My fingers drummed against the armrest - an anxious habit I'd picked up from him, though he'd probably deny that too. Everything about us was denial these days: denying Mom was gone, denying the growing distance between us, denying that neither of us knew how to be a family anymore. The house felt like a crime scene sometimes, both of us tiptoeing around the evidence of what we'd lost.

My dad didn’t talk about it, of course. We didn’t talk about much of anything these days. He was too busy pretending he was the town’s only cop, doing everything himself, even though he had Joey as a partner. It was pathetic, honestly. He’d let things fall apart since my mom left—his life, my life—everything just slipped through the cracks while he pretended it didn’t bother him.

The more I thought about it, the more the weight of everything pressed down on me. Alma in the shed, the blood, the knife. What the hell were we doing? I could hear the water running from the bathroom, the sound almost calming, but it couldn’t drown out the voice in my head telling me we were in way over our heads.

I sank lower into the couch, staring at the ceiling. "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

The front doorbell rang, slicing through the stillness like a knife. My heart leapt into my throat, and I turned to the bathroom in panic. The shower was already running—Alma wouldn’t hear me even if I tried to warn her. The bell rang again, more insistent this time. I tiptoed toward the door, trying to keep my footsteps light, my mind racing. Who the hell could that be?

“Open up! I know you're home,” a voice called from outside.

The moment I heard the voice, my stomach did that familiar flip-flop dance it always did around Boone - part excitement, part dread, part something I still couldn't name without my throat closing up.

I cracked open the door and there he was: tall, lean, with messy blond curls falling into his eyes in that deliberately careless way that probably took him twenty minutes to perfect. Boone leaned against the doorframe, his skateboard tucked under one arm, ripped Vans dragging across the floor as he shifted his weight. That trademark smile—crooked and cocky, complete with the gap between his front teeth that I definitely didn't think about kissing—flashed as soon as he saw me.

My pulse quickened, the same way it did every time he showed up unannounced. Two months of whatever this was between us, and I still hadn't figured out how to act normal around him. Not that I really knew what normal was supposed to feel like anymore. Dad's voice echoed in my head - "Man up, son" - the same words he'd used when he caught me trying on Mom's heels at age six. I pushed the memory away, like I pushed away every thought that made this thing with Boone feel more real than I was ready for.

"Boone," I muttered, trying to keep the surprise and slight panic out of my voice. "What are you doing here?"

Before he could answer, I grabbed his sweater - soft, worn at the edges like our relationship - and yanked him inside. My eyes darted around the front yard with the practiced paranoia of someone who'd learned to watch shadows since realizing he was different. The neighbors' curtains shifted slightly - or maybe that was just my imagination playing tricks again. Last thing I needed was Mrs. Patton across the street telling Dad she'd seen me with that "peculiar Boone boy" again.

Boone pulled me into a hug the moment the door clicked shut, and my body betrayed me like it always did, melting into his touch before my brain could remind me why it shouldn't. "I missed you," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear, sending shivers down my spine that I'd spend hours later convincing myself meant nothing.

The familiar scent of his cologne mixed with skateboard wax wrapped around me - the smell of secret kisses behind the gym, of rushed touches in empty classrooms, of everything I wasn't supposed to want but couldn't stop wanting anyway. My hands found their way to his shoulders, muscle memory taking over where courage failed. Two months of this dance, and I still couldn't decide if I was leading or falling.

"Missed you too," I mumbled into his shoulder, hating how natural it felt, how right, when everything I'd been taught said it should feel wrong. The ghost of my father's disapproving frown hovered at the edges of my mind - the same look he'd given the gay couple who'd moved in down the street last summer. "Not in our neighborhood," he'd muttered over dinner, and I'd pushed my food around my plate, stomach churning with secrets I wasn't ready to face.

His hug was warm, familiar, the kind of embrace that normally grounded me. For a moment, I sank into him, letting the weight of everything else fall away. His breath brushed against my ear, his arms wrapped securely around my back, and for the first time tonight, something in me unclenched. Just a little.

The sound of the shower hummed faintly from the bathroom, a constant reminder of what waited behind that door. I wasn’t alone with Boone. I wasn’t in some bubble where everything could just be okay for a minute. I had Alma hiding in my house—a girl with blood on her hands and secrets I didn’t want to know. And here I was, thinking I could forget all that.

"Me too," I muttered, my voice low. "But... now’s not the best time."

Boone didn’t seem to care. He just smiled, that lazy, easy smile that always made me feel like he knew something I didn’t. He pulled back slightly, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Not the best time?" His tone was teasing, but there was something sharper underneath. His hand moved to my chin, tilting my face toward his. "Who’s in the shower then? Got someone else to keep you company?"

My heart skipped a beat, and a cold sweat prickled the back of my neck. I glanced toward the bathroom door like it was a ticking time bomb. "I… um… no," I stammered, my brain scrambling like a rat in a maze. "It's not—"

Before I could finish my half-formed excuse, Boone had already kicked off his shoes, and without missing a beat, strolled into the living room like he owned the place. I could only watch helplessly as he flopped down on the couch, all casual confidence, crossing his legs in that infuriatingly laid-back way. It was like he thought we were about to have a totally normal Tuesday hangout, not, you know, conceal a bloody fugitive in my house.

"So," Boone started, his voice teasing, like he was about to gossip about the latest high school drama, "who’s in the shower?"

At that exact, wonderfully perfect second, the bathroom door creaked open. I winced so hard I think one of my molars cracked. Alma stepped out, her hair damp and stringy, a towel draped loosely around her like she’d just wandered out of some post-apocalyptic spa. She froze in the doorway, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights—except this deer had a knife not too long ago.

Boone's smirk didn’t falter, though his eyebrow climbed impossibly high. He was loving this. I, on the other hand, wanted to die on the spot. Maybe if I concentrated hard enough, the floor would open up and swallow me.

"My… cousin!" I blurted, the word flying out of my mouth like an escaped bird I had no hope of catching again. I forced a grin that was probably more of a grimace, hoping he wouldn’t notice the panic sweat rolling down my neck.

Boone’s face went from amused to outright disbelieving. He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying how much I was squirming. "Cousin? Dude, you don’t even have an aunt. I think I’d remember if you had random family members just popping up in towels."

"On my mom's side!" I shot back, rolling my eyes with the most dramatic flair I could muster, like that explained everything. Like I was offended he didn’t keep a running list of all my fictional relatives. My pulse was racing, and I could almost feel the lie unraveling in front of me. Think, Austin. Think.

"And how long have you been in touch with your mom’s family, exactly?" Boone leaned back on the couch, folding his arms, the smirk still there, but it was laced with a gotcha glint. This was a game to him, and I was losing hard.

"I, uh…" My throat had gone bone-dry, and the words clung there like they didn’t want to be associated with this mess.

But Alma—God bless her—swooped in without missing a beat. Her arm snaked over my shoulders, pulling me in like we were some dynamic duo from a really bad sitcom. She gave me a quick, tight squeeze, but it felt more like a threat than anything else. "Does my favorite cousin have a hairdryer for me?" she cooed, turning on a smile so blinding I almost got whiplash.

I nodded quickly, my head bobbing like a broken bobblehead. "Of course! Just… just in the bathroom!" I shot Boone a look that screamed please don’t ask more questions, and turned to Alma, grinning like a maniac. "Excuse us for a sec, won’t you?"

Boone just stared, one eyebrow still raised, his face the picture of amused disbelief. "Yeah, sure. Take your time." He waved a hand, like he was giving us permission to retreat. The smugness radiating off him was physically painful.

I practically dragged Alma into the bathroom, my fingers trembling as I pulled the door shut. The mirror rattled in its frame, crystal wind chimes tinkling nervously above us. Steam still hung thick in the air from her shower, beading on the mirror and filling my lungs with the cloying scent of my shampoo on her skin - wrong, invasive, like she'd stolen more than just the soap.

Alma leaned against the sink, arms crossed, water still dripping from her hair onto my borrowed clothes. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows under her eyes as her sugary smile melted away. She unfolded herself from her casual pose, spine straightening like a cobra rising to strike.

"I told you no one could see me," she hissed, taking a step forward that made me instinctively back up against the door. The bathroom suddenly felt smaller, the air heavy with menace and the lingering scent of copper that no amount of floral body wash could quite mask.I rubbed my temples, feeling the familiar throb of a migraine sneaking up on me. "Oh, good," I muttered, "you kept the sunny personality from last night." My eyes flicked to the shower stall. "Did you accidentally rinse off the quiet, shy girl with the dirt?" My attempt at humor was the verbal equivalent of lighting a match in a room full of gas. Spoiler: it didn’t work.

Alma’s face hardened, her jaw tightening as she slammed the shower door shut with a little too much force. "This isn’t a joke," she snapped, her voice dropping into a desperate whisper that hit harder than her fake smile ever could. "If anyone finds out I’m here, I’m dead. Do you get that?"

I swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling like a lead weight in my gut. "Yeah, I get it," I muttered, even though it felt like everything around me was spiraling faster than I could keep up with. "But Boone’s not just anyone. He—" I stopped myself, realizing mid-sentence that I had no idea how to finish that thought. Boone wasn’t exactly the poster boy for keeping things under wraps, especially when it involved a bleeding stranger in my bathroom. Great job, Austin. Solid plan.

Alma’s eyes flared, her tough act flickering with the kind of panic that made my pulse spike. "If your little friend out there says anything—anything—I’m screwed." Her voice wavered for a split second before turning to ice. "And so are you. You need to make sure he keeps his mouth shut."

I sighed, pressing my fingers hard into my temples as if I could massage the chaos away. "Fine, fine," I muttered, my voice laced with frustration. "This is exactly why normal people call the police, by the way." My brain was flashing red alert in every direction, but there was no backing out now. "I’ll handle Boone."

She didn’t move, just kept staring at me, her gaze like a knife held to my throat. It was clear she didn’t trust me to not screw this up, and honestly, I wasn’t sure I trusted myself either.

"You better," she whispered, her words heavy with unspoken threats.

I took a breath, bracing myself before stepping back out into the living room, where Boone lounged on the couch like he was auditioning for the role of King of Snarktown. He had one leg draped over the armrest, twirling a throw pillow in his hands, looking up at me with that infuriating grin.

"So," Boone said, smirking like this was the highlight of his week. "How’s the family reunion going?"

I forced a laugh. "Yeah, uh, she found the hairdryer. Good as new." I could feel the sweat rolling down the back of my neck again. "Thanks for your patience."

Boone squinted at me, a knowing look spreading across his face. "Austin," he said slowly, leaning in. "I’ve known you for a while now. I’ve seen you get nervous before, but you’re acting like you’re hiding a dead body in here."

The laugh that escaped me was too loud, too forced. "Ha! Ha! No dead bodies here. Just… family. You know, the usual awkward cousin visiting situation." I cleared my throat, feeling like I was drowning in lies and bad excuses.

Boone tilted his head, still not buying it. "If you say so, babe." He stood up and stretched, eyeing the bathroom door one last time before looking back at me. "But just so you know, I’m not an idiot."

I glanced toward the bathroom door, waiting for the hum of the hairdryer to pick up, drowning out the room in its white noise. My heart was racing, and I could feel the tight coil of anxiety in my chest winding tighter. Then I grabbed Boone by the sleeve, pulling him closer until I could feel the heat of his breath on my face. This was not the conversation I wanted to be having, but there was no way around it now.

"Okay, listen," I whispered, keeping my voice low but urgent. "She showed up at Theo’s window last night—injured, Boone. Covered in blood. I have no idea who she is, but she said she needed help, so we’re hiding her."

I could see the gears turning in his head, the skepticism already forming in his eyes, but I pushed on, running a hand through my hair, my fingers shaking just a little. "I don’t even want to be involved in this, man. But Theo thinks we can’t just leave her out there, and now… here we are."

Boone’s frown deepened, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring at me like I’d grown a second head. "Wait—so you don’t even know who she is?" His voice dripped with incredulity, the kind of you’ve got to be kidding me tone that only Boone could deliver.

"No!" I practically threw my hands up in exasperation, the weight of it all crashing down on me at once. "She’s a total stranger. But she’s terrified, Boone. She’s hiding from someone, and she’s hurt, and I—" I swallowed, my throat dry. "I don’t know what to believe."

Boone just blinked, processing everything, the disbelief still painted across his face. His brow furrowed—deep, like it always did when something didn’t add up—and for a second, I thought he was going to tell me I was completely out of my mind. And maybe I was. This wasn’t some after-school drama. This was real, terrifying, and way too messy for me to handle.

He sighed, slow and heavy, his breath catching in his throat. "Alright," he muttered, nodding slightly, though his eyes were still clouded with doubt. "I won’t say anything."

His voice was low, soft, like he was trying to reassure me, but I could see the flicker of unease lurking behind his eyes. The kind of unease that screamed, What the hell have you gotten yourself into? He was agreeing to something he clearly didn’t feel comfortable with, and it showed in every line of his face.

"Thank you," I breathed out, feeling a tiny flicker of relief, though it didn’t do much to ease the knot in my chest. For a second, the tension loosened its grip on me, like I could finally breathe again. But just as I opened my mouth to say more, Boone’s finger pressed gently against my lips, cutting me off mid-sentence.

His touch was warm, the simple gesture sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. My heart skipped a beat as his hand moved to gently cradle my chin, lifting my face toward his. He was close—too close—and the world around us, all the chaos, the danger, faded into a strange, quiet background hum.

For a split second, I forgot about everything—about Alma hiding in the bathroom, about the blood-stained knife still lying under the workbench in the shed, about the fact that I was breaking every rule my dad had ever drilled into me. All that mattered was Boone, his soft eyes on mine, the way his breath brushed against my skin.

And then, his lips met mine, gentle at first - always gentle, like he knew how close I was to breaking, to running, to denying all of this ever happened. The warmth spread through me like wildfire, familiar yet terrifying, each kiss another crack in the careful walls I'd built around this part of myself. I closed my eyes, partly because that's what you do when you kiss someone, partly because I couldn't bear to see myself giving in again.

My hands clutched his sweater, caught between pulling him closer and pushing him away. This was the part that scared me most - not the kissing, not even the fact that he was a boy, but how much I wanted it. How right it felt when everything I'd been taught said it should feel wrong. The warmth of his mouth against mine felt like coming home and getting lost all at once.

But beneath that comfort lurked something darker - the weight of expectations I couldn't meet, of a father who still asked about girlfriends at dinner, of a small town where secrets had a way of turning into weapons. Boone's presence was grounding, sure, his touch an anchor in the storm of my confusion - but there was an intensity to it that terrified me. He wanted more - more intimacy, more openness, more us. The thought made my chest tight with panic.

Because more meant real. More meant no hiding, no pretending, no safe distance between who I was and who everyone expected me to be. More meant admitting that this wasn't just experimentation or confusion or a phase, words I'd collected like shields against the truth. More meant telling Theo and Wei, meant facing my dad, meant being that guy - the gay one, the different one, the one who couldn't just be normal.

Boone's fingers traced my jaw, soft but insistent, asking for something I wasn't sure I could give. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The worst part was, I knew I was hurting him - could feel it in the way he held back, in the careful distance he kept even when we were this close. But I couldn't stop. Couldn't commit. Couldn't do anything but exist in this limbo of almost and not quite and please don't make me choose.

For the past two months, Boone had been my escape. Our late-night meetups, our secret moments—he made it easy to forget everything else. And part of me wanted that now, wanted to lose myself in him like I always did. But tonight, it felt different.

I pulled back slightly, just enough to catch my breath, my forehead resting against his. His eyes were still closed, his lips still parted slightly, as if savoring the moment. I could feel his hand slip to the back of my neck, fingers threading gently through my hair.

"Austin," he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if he didn’t want to break the fragile connection between us.

I swallowed hard, trying to push down the whirlwind of emotions swirling in my chest. The warmth of Boone's body against mine was comforting, but the nagging voice in the back of my head kept reminding me of what waited on the other side of the bathroom door. Of what we were really dealing with.

Boone tilted his head, his lips brushing against my ear. "You don't have to carry all this alone, you know," he murmured, his voice soft, seductive. "Let me help you."

Just as Boone and I began to settle into that familiar warmth, the moment shattered like glass hitting the floor.

"Do your friends know about this?" Alma’s voice sliced through the air, sharper than any blade she’d been wielding the night before. I jumped, nearly knocking into Boone as I pulled away, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.

I turned toward the doorway, my stomach twisting into knots. Alma stood there, fully dressed, but the smirk plastered on her face was anything but innocent. She crossed her arms, leaning casually against the doorframe as if she hadn’t just walked in on something that could explode my entire life.

"N-no, they don’t know…" I stammered, my mouth as dry as a desert. I could feel my face heating up, embarrassment flooding me as I struggled to find words. Boone’s hand still lingered on my arm, but I was too flustered to even think about that right now.

Alma cocked an eyebrow, her amusement practically radiating off her. "Well, then," she said, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. She unfolded her arms, letting her hands fall to her sides as she took a small step forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "If you keep quiet about me…" She let the sentence hang in the air, the tension between us thickening like fog.

I swallowed hard, bracing for whatever came next.

"...I’ll keep quiet about this," she finished, her smirk widening into a full-blown grin. The casual wink she tossed our way felt like salt in the wound—like she was reveling in the power she now held over me. Boone tensed beside me, but neither of us said a word. We didn’t have to. Alma had made her point clear as day.