The morning light in Simon's room was cold and pale, the kind that slipped in too early and made everything feel washed out. He lay on his side, staring at the rumpled spot where Elena had been hours ago. The sheets still held a faint imprint of her, as if her body had left a ghost behind.
And the scent—her scent—lingered.
It was stupid, he thought. Obsessive. But he couldn't help it. Her vanilla lotion and that subtle floral shampoo still clung to the air like perfume in a memory. He had barely slept. His body had been too wired, his chest too tight. Every time he closed his eyes, he relived her thumb brushing his cheek. The way she'd looked at him. The kiss on his forehead.
That kiss.
It shouldn't have meant anything. Siblings kissed each other on the head. Sisters looked out for their little brothers. But this hadn't been that. This had been slower, heavier, lingering with something unsaid. It made his skin burn to remember it.
He sat up, pressing his palms into his eyes.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He didn't want to go out there. Didn't want to see her and pretend like everything was normal. Because it wasn't. And it hadn't been for a long time.
Still, he forced himself to shower, dress, and walk into the kitchen like it was any other Saturday morning. Elena was already there, seated at the counter in one of Dad's old T-shirts and a pair of cotton shorts, sipping iced coffee and scrolling on her phone.
She looked up as he entered.
"Hey," she said, casual.
"Hey."
He poured himself cereal, keeping his eyes trained on the bowl like it held all the answers. His hands were shaking slightly, and he hated that she might notice.
"How'd you sleep?" she asked.
"Fine."
Silence stretched thin between them. She didn't look up again, but he could feel her watching from the corner of her eye.
"You left your door open when I left last night," she added. "Didn't want to wake you."
Simon nodded, spoon halfway to his mouth.
It was so normal. Too normal. As if that moment hadn't happened. As if she hadn't crept into his room in the middle of the night and broken whatever wall had still been between them.
"Eddie texted," she said after a moment. "He wants to hang out later. I told him I might be busy."
Simon blinked. "Why?"
She shrugged, sipping her coffee again. "Just felt like staying in."
His throat went dry.
"Unless," she added, glancing up, "you've got plans?"
Simon shook his head. "No. I'm not doing anything."
"Good. We should catch up. Just us."
That phrase—just us—struck something deep. He knew he was reading too much into it, but his heart still flipped in his chest.
After breakfast, they ended up in the living room. The apartment was unusually quiet. Their mom was working again, their dad on call. The city outside bustled as always, but their small world had narrowed to the couch, the TV, the space between them.
They watched reruns of some teen drama—something they used to binge when they were younger. Simon remembered those nights clearly: both of them curled up under blankets, whispering jokes about the characters, tossing popcorn at each other.
Today, it felt different.
Elena stretched her legs across the cushions, her foot lightly nudging his thigh. She didn't pull away. Neither did he.
She didn't say much for a while, just sipped from her water bottle and played absentmindedly with a strand of her hair. Then she asked, without looking at him:
"Do you ever think about... leaving all this?"
Simon turned. "What do you mean?"
"New York. School. This apartment. Everything. Just disappearing for a while. Starting over somewhere nobody knows you."
He thought about it for a moment. "Sometimes. Yeah."
She turned her head, looking at him more directly now. "If you could leave, where would you go?"
"I don't know," he said. "Somewhere quiet. Where I could think."
She nodded slowly. "Me too."
Then silence again. But this time, it felt like something was building underneath.
"Simon," she said after a moment, and her voice was quieter now, more serious. "Last night… was that weird for you?"
He froze.
"Yes," he said honestly.
She nodded, then looked down at her hands. "I don't know what I was thinking. I just— It felt safe with you. I wasn't trying to make it weird."
He swallowed hard. "It's okay. It wasn't bad-weird. Just… confusing."
She looked up. "I guess I'm confused a lot lately."
Her eyes searched his, and something heavy passed between them—like a spark trying to decide whether to die or ignite.
"I think I depend on you more than I should," she whispered.
Simon's breath hitched. "I don't mind."
She gave him a soft smile—one filled with something warm, but edged with guilt. "You're always there for me."
"Always," he said.
And he meant it.
They were interrupted by the buzz of her phone. She glanced at it—Eddie's name lit up on the screen. She hesitated for a moment, then flipped it over, silencing it.
Simon couldn't stop the way that made his heart race.
Elena leaned back into the couch and rested her head on his shoulder. Slowly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
He didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Her presence against him was comforting and dangerous all at once. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and keep her there forever. He wanted her to stay exactly like this—tangled in him, close enough to feel.
He closed his eyes, memorizing every detail. The weight of her head. The rhythm of her breath. The scent of her skin.
But he also knew that this—whatever this was—couldn't last.
They were standing on a knife's edge. And sooner or later, someone was going to bleed.