Porch lights spilled gold across the lawn, gilding the crowd as it spilled over itself—bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, laughter slithering through the air like smoke. The night throbbed with energy, every window leaking low, hypnotic bass, each note slinking along the floorboards, up the porch steps, into the marrow of every guest bold enough to step inside.
Delorah paused at the curb, one heel grinding glassy into the gravel, the other toe already cold from dew. She hadn't said much on the drive. The silence wasn't emptiness; it was a knot—Sebastian's voice wound through every loop. Do you really think your family would let you end up with him? It echoed, unwanted but relentless, a splinter pressed just under the skin.
Kit came around the car, jaw sharp, hands flexing restlessly. Even under the porch light, his knuckles were red, scraped raw from a steering wheel that had borne all the violence he couldn't speak. He offered his hand, palm up. Not the gallant gesture of a boy trying to impress a date—but a lifeline. Like the simple act of touching her might save them both.
She took it. His grip was too tight, then—after a heartbeat—eased. He let out a breath, shoulders slumping half an inch, as if her fingers could anchor him to the present.
"Last chance to bail," he murmured, voice shot through with humor that sounded like a habit, not a feeling. The corner of his mouth quirked up, but his eyes stayed serious—unlit.
Delorah smiled back, but it was all teeth and challenge. "And let you go in there alone? You'd never live down the shame. Besides—what kind of partner in crime would I be if I bailed now?"
The word partner crackled between them, alive and dangerous. It was a dare and a confession and a warning, all wrapped up in one syllable.
Inside, the house pressed in on all sides—humidity, smoke, heat, the pulse of the crowd like a living thing. Laughter tumbled down the hallway, carrying the sharp sting of liquor and something meaner, woven beneath the surface. The music was a living, breathing monster, rattling glassware and bones, demanding attention, obliterating conversation. Every room was packed: bodies in the kitchen, bodies on the stairs, bodies moving and clinging and sparking and forgetting themselves.
Someone crashed past them—red Solo cup arcing beer onto the floor, shrieking laughter chasing the splash. Another couple pressed against the wall, lost in each other's hands, faces blurred by neon shadows.
Kit tightened his hold on Delorah's hand—protective, maybe, but also grounding himself. She let him. She was too busy watching the crowd, hunting for threats, for friends, for the next hazard. Her heart beat double-time, wild with nerves and anticipation.
Every party felt like a trial by fire. This one was just hotter.
Del pressed closer to Kit, letting him steer her through the thicket of bodies—his palm at the small of her back, protective, branding. The music and laughter pressed in on all sides, but Kit was a steady pulse at her side, every movement an anchor. Too easy. Too practiced, for people who weren't supposed to be anything.
She leaned in. "Do you even know whose house this is?"
Kit's grin was quicksilver, sharp and dazzling. "Nope. Tyler said it'd be wild. I figured we could use a little wild."
She almost smiled. Almost. But the moment shattered—splintered by a familiar voice, pitched to slice through the music and drag every eye.
"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."
James.
He sprawled in the doorway, red cup swinging from loose fingers, a scab like a dirty trophy stretched across his cheek. His smile didn't reach his eyes—dead, hard, fixed on her. Not Kit. Her.
"Careful, sweetheart." James tipped his head, mock-affection dripping from every syllable. His gaze slid, finally, to Kit. Daring him. "Don't want to end up like him."
Kit didn't so much as blink. But Del felt the way his hand tensed against her spine—a silent promise. His reply was a scalpel, too sharp to be anything but real. "Didn't think you were stupid enough to show your face again."
James smirked wider, taking a lazy sip, letting the room tighten with every tick of silence. "It's a free party, Adrian. Or—wait." He let the name hang, let the gasoline catch. "Do we still call you Kit now?"
The word crashed through the crowd. Delorah's pulse spiked. She caught a few faces—people looking over, phones in hand, waiting for a show. Waiting for blood.
Kit's jaw went taut, but he refused to take the bait. "That scar healing okay?" He gestured lazily, like the whole thing bored him. "Looked pretty ugly last time."
James bared his teeth in a smile that wasn't one. "Healing just fine. Not like you'll be around much longer to care. Maybe I'll send a thank-you card to your daddy—let him know how much his little fuckup's embarrassing the family."
Before Kit could answer, Delorah stepped forward. "James. Don't." Her voice was steady—barely. But it cut.
James turned toward her, savoring every inch of her discomfort. "You know," he drawled, "I thought you were just another pretty idiot getting off on the bad boy thrill." He flicked his chin toward Kit, eyes glittering. "Didn't think you were the kind to slum it."
Before Kit could react, Delorah's hand found his wrist—a grip so sure and fierce he almost flinched. Anchor, warning, promise. She moved forward, drawing the heat off him and pulling every eye in the room to her instead.
"You've got a lot of nerve showing up here after what you pulled," she shot at James, her voice cool as frost. "And for what? To brag about getting burned? Real brave, James."
There was a ripple—a tremor through the crowd, laughter like flint striking stone, whispers blooming outward.
James's bravado flickered. He looked around, saw the faces watching, measuring him against her. The smirk twisted. Deflated.
"This isn't over," he spat, but the words had no weight now. He melted back into the crowd, nothing more than a shadow running from the light.
A wave of relief rippled through Delorah's chest—her own heart thumping, her hand still tangled with Kit's. For a second neither of them moved.
Kit exhaled, every muscle in his body unwinding with the force of it. "Sorry," he said, quieter now, his eyes flicking sideways to hers. "Didn't know he'd be here."
Del snagged a half-full water cup from a passing tray, took a swallow to steady herself, then pressed it into his hand. "It's okay. He's the one who should be embarrassed. You didn't even touch him this time."
Kit's laugh was short, sharp, but real. It caught her off guard—caught him off guard too, if the way his eyes softened meant anything.
"You're trouble, you know that?"
She smirked, shoulder bumping his. "I think we established that already."
For a beat they just stood, shoulder to shoulder, letting the crowd swirl around them. The party kept pulsing—music, sweat, smoke—but inside their shared silence, something new had taken root. Something less fragile than fear. A strange alloy of danger and devotion, held in the space between two heartbeats.
And then—
"Jesus Christ, are you two all right?" Tyler's voice dropped in, sharp with concern and carrying the hint of a smile that never fully reached his eyes. He wedged himself between them and the crowd, scanning Kit for damage, then Delorah. "Saw the tail end of that James drama. Guy's been circling like a vulture all night."
Kit straightened a little, trying for nonchalance. "Yeah. We handled it."
Tyler eyed him, then Del, then Kit again. His gaze flickered—amused, a little protective, a lot relieved. "Good. Because if I had to pull you out of another fight, I was gonna make you walk home."
Kit rolled his eyes, but Del could see the edge melt from his posture. "You and what army?"
Tyler grinned, slapping him on the back, then caught Delorah's eye and tipped his head in approval. "Don't let him get too dramatic. He likes to play hero."
Delorah managed a real laugh—small, bright, a release after all that tension. She nodded. "Don't worry. If he starts brooding, I'll push him into the pool."
Tyler snorted. "That's all I ask. Come on—there's real food in the kitchen, and I'm not above bribery."
The three of them slipped deeper into the party—shoulder to shoulder, laughter trailing behind. For a moment, the night was just noise and music and the warmth of friends, the storm outside held at bay.
The kitchen was a little too bright, every surface either sticky or shining, laughter echoing from the hallways like a dare. Tyler nudged the door shut with his hip, somehow making it feel like they'd stumbled into a backroom at the world's weirdest church.
He offered a crooked grin, voice pitched for just their trio. "Sanctuary, kids. Or as close as it gets tonight."
Kit perched on the edge of the sink, arms folded, posture loose but eyes sharp. Delorah lingered in the doorway, trying to pretend her heart wasn't hammering against her ribs.
Tyler dug around in his hoodie pocket and produced a joint, the thing so carefully rolled it looked almost out of place in his ink-stained hands. "You ever had the pleasure?" he asked, gentle, teasing. Not pushing, just opening the door.
Delorah shook her head—more shy than she meant to be. "Not really. Not… like this."
Tyler's smile widened just a fraction, but there was no judgment. "No shame. First time's just breathing. If you trust me."
She did. More than she wanted to admit. Nerves made her hands fidget with the hem of Kit's sleeve where he'd let it drape over her wrist.
"Most of what's going around is cut with God-knows-what," Tyler added, tone dipping serious. "This is the good kind. Pure. Just weed and a little poetry."
Kit snorted, taking the joint when Tyler offered it, but his gaze was soft—watchful. He sparked the lighter, drew in, then handed it to Delorah with a look that said, If you want to, I've got you. If not, it's nothing.
Delorah hesitated. The joint felt impossibly light, fragile in her grip. "What do I do?"
"Just breathe," Kit murmured. "Like you're sipping from a straw. Slow."
Tyler chimed in, reassuring, "If you cough, you're doing it right. Just don't hold it too long."
She nodded, nerves turning the moment electric. She brought it to her lips, mimicking Kit. Drew in—too careful at first, tasted bitter green and paper, then exhaled, coughing immediately.
Tyler grinned, gentle. "Welcome to the club."
Kit's hand found her back, warm, grounding. "You're fine. Nobody's cool their first time."
She tried again, this time braver, and the buzz rolled into her chest—warmth, heaviness, the slow bloom of something softer than fear.
Kit took the joint back, thumb brushing her knuckles in silent encouragement. "See? Not so bad."
Tyler nodded. "Better than whatever's in the living room. That stuff'll make you see God and then call your mom."
Delorah snorted—couldn't help it. The laughter felt light, a little reckless. "I'll pass on the religious experience."
The three of them hovered there, the smoke curling into lazy halos above the bare bulb, a little island of calm in the party's chaos. Kit's knee pressed gently to hers, steadying. Tyler leaned back against the counter, surveying the scene with the air of someone who'd seen too much and decided to love it anyway.
"Sometimes," Tyler said softly, "you just need a safe room and a little mercy. House rule."
Delorah grinned, her nerves dissolving, the world outside the kitchen finally far enough away to breathe.
The kitchen air grew sweeter with each pass of the joint, laughter melting into something warmer than before. Delorah sank onto the counter next to Kit, shoulders unwinding as the first traces of a high settled in—her pulse no longer a rabbit's thrum, but slow and heavy, like music she couldn't name.
Tyler perched across from them, long legs sprawled, gaze bright behind his glasses. The house's chaos faded into a faraway storm—out there, not in here.
Delorah looked between them, her lips curving. "So, how do you two know each other, anyway?" She tried to sound casual, but the haze in her voice made it obvious she genuinely wanted to know.
Kit's mouth twitched, the familiar cynicism in his eyes gentled by the warmth pooling behind them. "Long story," he said, not quite deflecting, not quite inviting.
Tyler tipped his chin, grinning. "He means 'I found him shoplifting in a gas station when he was fourteen and decided to save his ass.' That about right, Kit?"
Kit's mouth quirked, trying not to smile. "He means he caught me loitering outside a gas station, looking for trouble, and decided I was worth rescuing."
Tyler rolled his eyes, grinning. "That's not how it went. You looked like you were about to pass out, and I had a car. Figured giving you a ride was safer than watching you try to walk home."
Delorah grinned. "So, a good samaritan moment?"
Tyler shrugged, spreading his hands. "Guess so. Or maybe I just liked the look of a lost cause. He's got that stray cat energy."
Delorah giggled, a sound lighter than she meant. "That's kind of adorable."
Tyler grinned, all teeth. "He was a stray, I took him in. Still can't get rid of him."
Kit elbowed him, but there was no heat in it. "He likes strays. He likes fixing things."
Tyler's smile softened a little, something honest lurking beneath. "Just don't like seeing people chew themselves up. Not when there's other ways."
Delorah let her gaze linger on Kit a little longer—her high making it easier to really look at him, to see the lines of tiredness around his eyes, the way his mouth was just a little too tense.
She nudged his knee with hers. "You're lucky. Most people don't get a friend like that."
Kit's eyes darted away. "Yeah, well. Most people don't stick around long enough to be friends."
Tyler shot Delorah a look—gentle, protective, a little warning behind it. "He doesn't make it easy, but he's worth it."
Delorah let the silence stretch—comfortable, crackling. She felt a little more real, a little less haunted by what Sebastian had said, a little more herself than she'd felt all week.
"Is this what you guys do at parties?" she asked, emboldened by the buzz. "Hide out and psychoanalyze each other?"
Tyler laughed. "Only when the company's this interesting."
Kit leaned back, arms folded, looking at her sideways. "If you want to go back out there, I'll come with."
She shook her head, hair falling into her eyes. "I'm good right here."
For a moment, the three of them sat in easy orbit—safe, a little high, letting the world outside the kitchen fade to white noise. The smoke curled up to the ceiling, a banner declaring temporary peace.
Tyler tipped his head back, letting out a low laugh. "You know, Del, I was starting to think I'd been abandoned for good. He drags me to a party, then vanishes halfway through the first song. Had me out here talking to freshmen about astrology."
Kit grinned around the joint, passing it back. "You survived. You always do."
Tyler shot him a look. "Easy to survive when your best friend actually gives you a heads-up before ditching you for a girl."
Delorah arched a brow, smile lazy, emboldened by the warmth in her veins. "Oh, so I'm the reason he disappeared?"
Tyler grinned, eyes twinkling. "If you're not, I've got some serious questions."
Kit rolled his eyes, but there was color high on his cheeks. "He worries too much."
Tyler leaned his elbows on the counter, gaze shifting between them. "Not as much as you, apparently. One minute you're dragging me out here, next you're bolting back to town like you're on a rescue mission."
Kit's eyes flicked to Delorah—soft, almost shy for a moment. "Had to make sure you were okay. That's all."
Delorah caught his gaze, smile going gentle. "You didn't have to."
"Yeah," Kit replied quietly, "I did."
Tyler let the moment linger, then grinned, cutting through the haze. "And that, my friends, is the most romantic thing you'll ever get out of this one."
Kit groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Can we not?"
Delorah just laughed, feeling lighter than she had in days—her head spinning, her ribs warm, the world bending softer at the edges.
Tyler peeled away from the counter, drawn by a shout from across the room—someone waving, the kind of friend you only remember at parties. "Try not to get arrested," he called over his shoulder, flashing them a lazy salute as he disappeared into the crowd. The kitchen seemed to exhale with his absence, leaving Kit and Delorah standing in the soft afterglow of laughter and smoke, just a little closer than before.
Then the bass hit—hard enough to rearrange the bones in your chest, hard enough to swallow every stray thought. Light fractured the darkness in bursts, painting bodies in pink and blue and gold, all blurred at the edges. The living room was a sea of motion: tangled hair, sticky floors, too many voices swelling in a single delirious tide.
Kit offered his hand. No showmanship, no bravado—just the silent promise that he'd hold on, no matter how wild the world spun. Delorah took it, their fingers locking as if they'd always meant to fit this way.
They stepped out of the kitchen and the music swallowed them whole. The crush of people was dizzying—elbows and perfume, sweat and cologne and the sharp tang of spilled vodka. A stranger grinned, pressed a plastic cup into Delorah's free hand; she glanced at the cloudy liquid, then shrugged and drank, the sweetness clinging to her tongue, the burn trailing down her throat.
Kit's hand never loosened.
He leaned in, voice just a breath at her ear. "Brave girl."
She grinned, bolder than she felt. "You worried?"
Kit's lips curled in a half-smile, eyes gleaming under the strobe. "Not with you."
The room pulsed around them—worlds away from the tight, stifling mansions and family dinners and all the names that didn't belong to either of them. Here, under flickering lights, with the right kind of poison in their blood, Delorah felt untouchable.
She spun into him, reckless and free, and laughed—a real laugh, all teeth and sunlight, the kind that made strangers turn and wonder who let joy into a place like this.
It started awkward. Kit wasn't a dancer—he knew it, she knew it, and half the party probably guessed it. But he was the one who reached for her hand, his palm rough and steady, cutting through the pulse of strangers and static. "Come here," he said, the words half a dare, half a plea, eyes fierce beneath the flicker of neon. "Dance with me?"
Delorah hesitated only a breath—enough to feel the weight of choice, not resistance—before sliding her hand into his. "You sure?" she teased, eyebrow arched, voice trembling with the edge of laughter.
Kit grinned, nerves sharpening the lines of his jaw. "Not even a little. But I want to."
He pulled her gently into the blur of bodies. His hands found her waist, awkward at first, like he was more used to bracing for impact than reaching for comfort. But Delorah's touch was easy, grounding. She settled her arms around his shoulders, the space between them shrinking until the music was the only thing holding them apart.
Neither of them moved in time to the beat, but it didn't matter. They made their own rhythm, swaying in a world that didn't belong to anyone else.
"You know," Kit murmured, voice barely loud enough to reach her, "I haven't done this since—" He cut himself off, the memory too raw, replaced by a half-smirk. "Actually, I don't think I ever have."
Delorah's laughter melted something brittle in him. "You're not that bad. Maybe a little stiff."
"Yeah? Show me how, then." He let his hands relax, let her guide him. His thumb traced a lazy circle at her hip, anchoring them both. The lights splintered off her hair, gold and wild, and he couldn't stop looking.
She moved with a kind of reckless freedom, not caring who saw—only him. "Is this what you wanted?" she asked, nose brushing his.
Kit's gaze dropped to her mouth—close, so close. "It's better," he said quietly. "It's real."
Their bodies pressed closer, a new song thumping through the floor. His forehead found hers—too intimate, not enough. Her lips hovered near, a ghost of a kiss, a question and a warning. Kit's fingers tightened at her waist, but he didn't move, didn't push. He waited, every muscle strung between hunger and restraint.
Delorah lingered there, suspended in the hush of breath, the world shrinking to the space between his mouth and hers. She pulled away just before the moment could break, a shy grin flickering across her lips.
Kit let the beat take them, but he never let her go—not really. The almost of it ached in his blood, a promise left hanging, electric and alive.
Their bodies moved together, not so much dancing as orbiting—caught in the gravity of touch and the pulse of too-loud music. Kit's hands tightened just a little at Delorah's waist, grounding himself against the riot all around them. For a few heartbeats, everything shrank to the brush of her skin and the breath between their mouths.
But as the song bled into something slower, hazier, Delorah's heart pounded against her ribs. Kit felt the way her breath hitched—felt his own pulse thrum in answer, wild and impatient.
His fingers rose, tucking a stray golden strand behind her ear. His voice was low, barely a whisper meant only for her. "Want to go outside?"
Delorah nodded, the motion small and quick—relief and longing woven together. "Yeah. Let's catch our breath before I melt."
She drew back just enough to lace her fingers through his, her palm hot in his grip, and together they cut through the crowd—Kit leading, shouldering the chaos aside with the quiet force of someone who had always preferred the edge of the storm to its center.
The music faded behind them as they slipped out the back door, the air outside cool and dark, fragrant with wet grass and the distant promise of rain. The beat of the party fell away, leaving only the hush of night, the hum of their own nerves, and the strange, soft sense that out here, away from everyone else, they might finally be free to breathe.
Delorah stepped into the night air like she was surfacing from underwater, lungs expanding against the cool rush and the wild hammer of her own heart. The grass was slick beneath her shoes, dew silvering the edges, and every breath she drew felt sharper, cleaner, free of sweat and sound. The echo of the music still vibrated in her bones, ghosting the skin at the back of her neck—along with the memory of how close Kit's lips had hovered to hers, an unspoken question still ringing in the space between them.
"God," she muttered, hugging her arms over her chest, her skin prickling in the sudden quiet. "It was boiling in there."
Kit followed, hoodie slouched on his frame, hands jammed in his pockets like he was hiding the remnants of every secret that had brought him here. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, his eyes half-lidded from the haze of heat and something sharper. "You say that like you didn't just drag me into the sun," he tossed back, the edges of a smirk tugging at his mouth.
She glanced over her shoulder, grinning despite herself. "You were smiling too."
"I don't smile," he said, but the lie hung harmless between them. He was. Just a little.
A tired old swing set stood crooked at the edge of the yard—two seats, paint chipped, swaying faintly in the breeze. Delorah moved first, her dress whispering against her thighs as she dropped into one, the chain giving a groan but holding firm. She curled her fingers around the cold metal, rocking back and forth, the steady movement grounding her as the last sparks of adrenaline faded.
Kit slid onto the other swing, less graceful, more suspicion than trust, as if he expected the chain to snap beneath him. They swung side by side, legs pushing off the soft earth, not quite in sync but not apart, either. The house behind them glowed like a distant lantern—fragile, pulsing with the throb of invisible music. The noise was a dull, harmless thing now, blurred by the dark and the distance.
Out here, in the hush that settled over the yard, they could finally let themselves be silent together—no masks, no eyes on them, just the honest beat of two hearts unwinding.
"I used to have one of these," Delorah said, voice soft as the night air, twisting the swing's chain until the metal bit into her palm. "At our lake house. I'd sit there for hours pretending I was someone else."
Kit turned, giving her his full attention—a rare thing, the mask slipping just enough to show a flicker of curiosity. "Someone better?"
She shook her head, hair falling into her eyes. "Someone braver." A breath. "Someone who didn't care what anyone expected."
He watched her for a long moment, the silence between them warm, intimate. "You seemed pretty brave tonight," he said, his voice dropping, a gentle sort of gravel. "On the dance floor, at least."
"That wasn't bravery," Delorah laughed quietly, pushing off with her toes. "That was vodka."
Kit's mouth quirked up, a laugh rippling out low and secret. "Still counts."
For a while, only the creak of the swings and the distant pulse of bass filled the space. Boots scraped earth. Delorah's gaze tracked the pattern of shadows stretched across the yard. Then, so softly it almost slipped past the wind, she asked, "Did you really not notice me before that party?"
Kit was quiet, the question sitting between them. He let his swing slow, the chains rattling with his next breath. "I noticed you," he said finally, the words careful, pulled from somewhere honest. "You had this way of disappearing into yourself. I figured maybe you were pretending to be someone else too."
Delorah turned to look at him, catching his profile in the spill of stray light—the sharp cut of his cheek, the stubborn set of his jaw, all stillness and tension. "So… why didn't you ever say anything?"
Kit gave a lazy shrug, but she could see the truth in the movement—the way he ducked his head, eyes fixed on the toes of his boots. "I figured you were out of my league. You always looked… clean."
She arched a brow, amusement warming her face. "And you don't?"
"I'm not saying that." He leaned back, letting the swing creak beneath him. "But I'm not the guy you introduce to your parents."
Delorah snorted, genuine and unguarded. "Good. Because mine are terrifying."
Kit smiled—not wide, not cocky. Just… honest.
They sat side by side, feet tracing arcs in the patchy grass, eyes tipped up to the sky. Clouds wandered past the pale shimmer of stars, thinning the light but never erasing it. For a rare, fragile minute, the world shrank to the soft creak of swings and the hush of breath in the dark.
No Sebastian.
No secrets hanging overhead.
No tomorrow closing in.
Just the hush, the hum, the wild freedom of being unseen.
Kit's phone buzzed in his pocket—a short, insistent vibration. He let it go. Delorah's voice slipped into a gentle hum, something tuneless and soothing, barely more than a sigh against the quiet.
The phone buzzed again, this time longer, more demanding. It shattered the calm like glass on tile.
Kit's hand closed around it, thumb hovering over the screen.
He didn't have to look at the name to know.
He felt it, a cold twist beneath the ribs.
Del's eyes caught the shadow flicker across his face. "Everything okay?"
Kit didn't answer right away. He pushed up from the swing, movements sharp and restless. "Yeah. Just… give me a sec."
He slipped away, pacing across the dark lawn and rounding the corner, the noise of the party melting to a distant murmur.
The phone kept ringing, a lifeline and a leash.
He hit "accept."
"Adrian."
His father's voice cut through the line—sharp, cold, precise. "I trust you're keeping your priorities straight."
Kit's jaw tightened. "I'm doing what I need to."
"There are expectations, Adrian. Sebastian is finalizing arrangements the board requires. This isn't just about you—it's about the family's future."
Kit's voice dipped, low and bitter. "Family's future? Sounds a lot like obedience."
"Call it what you will. Your brother understands the value of a united front. Of securing alliances. You'll learn to do the same."
His pulse thudded in his ears. "So… who is she? The one you want me to marry?"
A pause. Thin ice. The faintest crack.
"I don't discuss family matters over the phone," came the clipped reply. "You'll know soon enough. Just remember—this choice could make or break everything."
The line went dead.
Kit stared at the screen. The silence left in its wake was heavier than the bass rumbling from the house. Someone was being chosen for him. Someone he hadn't even met. And that name—Adrian—felt heavier than ever. Not a name. A leash.
He shoved the phone into his pocket, fingers trembling. The night air was cool, but it did nothing to stop the heat crawling up behind his eyes, or the cold knot forming in his chest.
Adrian.
The syllables coiled tight, a noose around his throat, dragging him back toward a life built on silence and sacrifice.
He raked a hand through his dark hair, trying to shake the weight. Family's future. Arranged marriages. Words like chains, each one locking. Each one sealing.
—
When he came back to the swings, Delorah's gaze found him in the low spill of light.
"Everything okay?"
Kit pulled up the kind of smile he'd learned to wear years ago—polished at a distance, brittle up close. "Yeah," he said, voice soft but too even. "Just some family stuff. Nothing for you to worry about."
She studied him, the music and chatter from the house dimming between them. Then she reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Her touch was warm—too warm—like a single thread holding him here, keeping the noose from pulling tight.
He swallowed, the weight of his father's voice still heavy around his throat.
Nodded once. "Let's get back to the party."
The lights swelled, the music rose, and the crowd folded around them again.
But Kit felt untethered. Half in this body, half somewhere else—between two names, two lives, two futures.
And both of them felt like chains.
Kit's Private Journal — torn-edge page, creased like it's been opened and closed too many times
I didn't ask. Not because I didn't want to. Not because I was scared.
Because she didn't say yes.
I would've kissed her. I would've let it ruin me.
But I'll take the ache over the risk of breaking her.
She hummed something soft, and for a minute, it felt like a real future lived in her mouth. Not mine—my name's already been spoken for—but close enough to hear breathing. Close enough to make me believe it could belong to me if I didn't pick up the phone.
Still… I stood there like a fool and memorized the almost of it.
(Back corner, in cramped handwriting)
She brushed the hair behind my ear like I was something fragile.
After the call, it felt dangerous to like it that much.