The apartment stayed quiet long after Faye had fallen asleep against me. Her breathing was soft, uneven, her hand still curled around my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear.
I stared at the ceiling, my mind restless. My mother's words wouldn't stop echoing.
"I hope you remember your promise."
I did. God, I remembered every word.
It had been years ago, the first time I left home. I'd been sleeping in a tiny room, half-starved, angry at the world and myself. Every month, an envelope would show up. No note, just money. I knew it was from her. I hated that I still depended on her, but I never sent it back.
Then one evening, she came by unannounced.
I still remembered the sound of her heels on the wooden floor, the faint perfume that filled the room. She'd looked around the apartment — the cracked walls, the mess — and for a moment, her face softened.
"I'm sorry," she'd said quietly. "I'm sorry I let you leave."
I didn't know what to say. "Then why did you?"
She looked at me, and something in her eyes flickered — fear, pity, something darker.
"Because I did it for you."
I frowned. "For me?"
She nodded slowly. "Harry, I've seen the way you look at her."
My heart had stopped.
She kept talking, calm, almost gentle. "It's not brotherly anymore. You may not even realize it yet, but I do. And I don't blame you."
I'd felt sick, every bone in my body tensing.
"These things happen," she said softly. "You don't share blood, and you grew up together. You're close. She clings to you. It's only natural."
"Stop," I'd said, but my voice barely came out.
She smiled faintly. "I'm not angry. I understand. But you're better than that. You'd never hurt her. Or us."
I shook my head, desperate. "I'd never—"
"I know," she said. "I trust you. You're my son. That's why I need you to promise me something."
I couldn't look at her.
"Promise me you'll never follow those feelings," she said quietly. "Whether they stay or not. Promise you'll never act on them."
I hesitated. My chest felt hollow, my throat dry. But I nodded. "I promise."
She'd smiled then, proud, relieved, and pulled me into a hug. "That's my boy."
And I'd believed her. I'd believed she loved me. That she understood. That she didn't blame me.
But sitting here now, with Faye asleep against my chest and the weight of that promise crushing my ribs, I finally understood what she'd really done. She hadn't trusted me. She'd warned me.
I brushed a strand of hair off Faye's face. She shifted a little, pressing closer, and something inside me broke.
She was everything I couldn't have, everything I'd spent years trying not to want.
I swore to myself that I would never tell her. I was prepared for the pain of watching someone else take her. I never imagined that she'd get hurt for a sin she wasn't even a partaker of.
I swallowed hard, falling asleep to my mother's warning.
"Send her home before you ruin her too. Before you ruin everything."
***
For the first time in weeks, the house felt alive again.
Not loud. Not crowded. Just alive.
Sunlight streamed through the blinds that morning, soft and golden, catching in the tiny dust motes floating above the coffee table. The air smelled faintly of detergent and coffee—normal, familiar things. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed that.
Faye was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her room, surrounded by a pile of clothes she claimed she was "organizing." It looked more like chaos.
"That's not organizing," I said, walking out of the room toward the kitchen.
"It is in my world." She yelled.
"In your world, the floor is the closet."
I heard her laughter, loud and happy.
When I went back to the room, she was tossing a shirt over her shoulder. "Btw, we need to plan something fun. We deserve it. After… well, y'know."
We hadn't spoken about it, just shoved it somewhere and made an unspoken rule never to talk about it.
I nodded. "Sure."
"Can I plan it?"
"Absolutely not." I frowned.
"We'll put a pin on that." She smiled.
I shook my head, trying not to smile. "I'll make breakfast. You want eggs or pancakes?"
She stretched lazily, yawning. "Both. I'm starving."
"Of course you are."
There was something light in her voice again. The sharp edges were gone. The tension that had lived between us since the fight—the silence, the guilt, the strange unspoken things—had thinned out, leaving only this quiet ease.
At least one good thing came out from moms' visit.
While the coffee brewed, she got up and padded into the kitchen, wearing my old sweatshirt again. It hung off one shoulder, sleeves swallowing her hands.
"Where did you learn how to cook?"
"Unlike some lazy person I know, I liked going into the kitchen with nanny and watching her make food for us."
"You learnt from Nanny? And here I was thinking it was after you ran away from home."
I let out a small chuckle.
"That batter doesn't look right. Are you sure you used the right ingredients?" She questioned, leaning on the counter.
I glanced at her. "You want to take over?"
She shrugged. "No. I'm more an instructor than a doer."
I rolled my eyes. "You're unbelievable."
"I know," she said with a grin, grabbing a slice of bread and nibbling the crust. "It's my charm."
We ate at the counter, half-teasing, half-laughing, crumbs everywhere. She told me about a show she'd been watching, some ridiculous romantic drama that made no sense, and I pretended not to care while secretly enjoying every second of her voice.
Afterward, she helped clean up—or rather, she stood by the sink while I did all the actual work.
"You're terrible at pretending to help," I said.
"I'm moral support," she replied, smiling. "You'd be lost without me."
"Debatable."
She gasped. "Excuse you, I'm the best thing that's ever happened to your boring life."
I couldn't stop the laugh that slipped out. It felt… good. Like something unclogged inside me.
We ended up on the couch later, a pile of laundry between us. She put on music from her phone, humming softly, folding shirts in absolutely no logical order. I watched her without meaning to—the easy rhythm of her hands, the way the light brushed her face.
For a second, I forgot to breathe.
She looked up suddenly, eyes catching mine. "What?"
"Nothing," I said quickly, looking away.
She laughed under her breath. "You're weird."
"Yeah," I muttered.
The afternoon slipped by like that—ordinary, peaceful. No sharp words, no walls between us. Just laughter, small talk, the quiet comfort of existing in the same space again.
As the sun dipped low, Faye flopped onto the couch beside me, stretching out her legs and resting her head against my shoulder.
"Hey," I said softly.
"Hmm?"
"You're heavy."
She smiled against my arm. "You love it."
I didn't answer. Because she was right.
We stayed that way for a while, watching the fading light paint the room in gold. Her breathing slowed, matching mine, the world outside soft and distant.
Then out of nowhere she spoke.
"Harry."
"Hmm."
"There's something I've been curious about."
"What's that?"
"What promise did you make to mom?"
My breath caught. I almost didn't dare to breathe.
"It's nothing."
Faye sat up, tucking her legs beneath her, facing me now. Her brows knit together. "That didn't sound like nothing."
I tried to look away, but her gaze pinned me in place.
"Harry," she said softly, "tell me the truth. What did you promise her?"
I hesitated, my chest tightening. I couldn't tell her. Not this. Not when the truth itself was a confession.
"I promised to protect you," I said finally. "Even from myself, if necessary."
She blinked, confused. "From yourself? What does that even mean?"
"Just that… I'd never hurt you," I said, hoping my voice didn't shake.
Her eyes softened. "You'd never hurt me. You couldn't."
I smiled faintly.
She studied me for a long second, as if trying to see through the words I wasn't saying. Then she sighed and leaned back against me again, resting her head on my chest.
Her hair brushed against my chin. Her warmth seeped into me, every breath syncing with mine.
It was too close. Too much. I could feel her heartbeat, her skin, her weight pressing against everything I was trying to suppress.
I shifted a little. "You should sit up."
"Why?" she murmured.
"Because…" I trailed off. Because I couldn't breathe right when she was this close. Because I could feel every line of her body against mine and it terrified me.
Before I could move, she spoke again. "I don't want you to get a girlfriend."
I froze. "What?"
She didn't lift her head. "If you get one, you'll stop letting me do this."
I exhaled slowly, trying to laugh it off. "Do what?"
"This," she said, her voice muffled against my shirt. "Lying on you like this. Being close."
My mouth went dry. "Even if I had a girlfriend, you'd still be my number one priority."
She gave a small hum. "That's a given. But your girlfriend wouldn't like it."
I swallowed hard, staring at the ceiling. "Then I'll make her understand."
Faye smiled faintly against me. "You can't. Girls get jealous. Especially when it comes to the guy they like."
I didn't know what to say to that. My heart thudded too fast, too heavy.
She tilted her head, her cheek now pressed to my collarbone. "Besides, I don't want to share you."
I went still. "You got yourself a boyfriend, but I can't get a girlfriend? That doesn't seem fair."
"I don't care." she said, her voice teasing.
I tried to sound light. "No one's gonna stop you from being this close to me. Especially not my girlfriend. There's nothing wrong with a brother and sister lying down beside each other."
Even as I said it, I felt the lie sink between us.
She shifted closer, curling her arm around my waist. "Good. Because this is one of the few things that feels right to me. And I don't want it taken away."
Her tone was playful, but something in it—something quiet, trembling underneath—made my pulse race.
She lifted her head slightly, looking up at me. "So don't get a girlfriend, okay?"
I managed a small, strained smile. "You're impossible."
"I know," she whispered, resting her head against my chest again.
For a long time, neither of us said anything. The room was filled with the faint hum of the heater and the sound of our breathing—steady, matching, too intimate for comfort.
Then, so softly I almost missed it, she said, "I love you, Harry. You know that right."
Her words landed gently, but the weight of them crushed me. I closed my eyes, afraid she'd see what flashed across my face.
"I love you too," I said quietly.
And I meant it. Every word.
But as I held her there, my hand trembling slightly against her back, one thought kept repeating in my head—raw, desperate, and terrifying.
If she kept doing this, if she kept looking at me like that, touching me like that, I won't be able to keep my promise. I won't be able to hold myself back anymore.