Page 117 of Chaos

As the wet sound of me haphazardly slapping dye on my roots fills the bathroom, Finn clears his throat. “I can help.”

Using my pinky to swipe a glob of red off my forehead—God, please don’t let that stain—I decline his offer. “I’m good.”

Finn nods stiffly, but he doesn’t go anywhere. He keeps his gaze trained on my head, assessing my clumsy work, wincing as he quickly realizes I was not a hairdresser in a past life. “You missed a spot.”

Huffing, I angle my head to the side in search of this mysteriousmissed spot. I stab my brush into the dye bowl, lifting it to lather the patch of brown only to have the tool snatched away.

“Hey,” I protest, trying to turn around only for a hand cupping the nape of my neck to hold me in place. “What the hell are you doing?”

He shushes me.

Shushesme.

Quietly, and as politely as one can shush, but still.

And then he shushes me again—not with his mouth this time, but with calloused fingers digging into the soft tissue of my neck. A command that works a hell of a lot better than the verbal kindbecause I’m scared if I do open my mouth, a satisfied moan will come out in place of anything snippy.

A fear that persists as he tilts my head back and gets to work.

Rendered mute, I can only watch. Still. Confused. Unsure what’s happening,whyit’s happening. Unsettled, which I guess is why I slip into familiar habits. Comfortable, quippy defense mechanisms. “Is this an attempt at seduction?”

A vaguely humored breath flares his nostrils. “If it was, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

I don’t say anything else after that.

By the time he finishes, my brain is a tangled web of conflicted thoughts and questions. Twisting my hair into a bun, he secures it at the base of my neck with the clip he snags off the counter. He nudges me aside so he can drop the bowl and brush in the sink and rinse off his hands, and then he turns to me—he turns me to him too.

He makes my breath hitch as he stoops to steal a towel from beneath the sink, wets it, and starts to dab at my hairline. And the curve of my ear, the lobe. When he gets to the stained slope of my neck, I watch his tense.

When I mouth his name quietly, he practically gulps.

I’m sorry,I want to say.

I miss you,comes to mind too.

Say it again.

Say it when you’re sober.

Say it until I believe it.

This time, it’s him who backs away. Whorunsaway. Who leaves me in his wake with a disappointed pit in my stomach that makes me think…

Fuck.

The night before my brother’s wedding is a restless one—a consequence of sleeping in a double bed with a sister on either side of me, and a third one squished in for good measure. Because although the house that Jackson all but built with his bare hands technically has a room for each of us, we found ourselves only occupying one. Although the main house is only a short drive away, it was Luna’s request that had us sleeping down the hall from her, and it’s because of her too that we gravitated towards each other—clung to each other, like we always did when we were younger, like we’ve always done when changes glint on the horizon.

Something none of us have ever been very good at dealing with, whether it be for the better or not.

“It feels like our dad is getting married,” Eliza whispered into the darkness, verbalizing what I suspect all of us were thinking,feeling.

With both her arms wrapped around one of mine and her cheek pressed to my collarbone, Grace snickered. “Do you think Luna would be mad if we started calling her our new mommy?”

It was me, laying flat on my back and frowning at the ceiling, who grunted. “I think she would enjoy that way too fucking much.”

No one disagreed.

No one else slept either, I don’t think. I guess that’s why none of them stir as I crawl out of bed, almost kicking a snoring Lux in the face, and slip out of the spare room and into the hallway—where I promptly mow down a tiny body.

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