Page 36 of Well That Happened

Some porn and a quick jerk session.

It’s not complicated—pull up something numbing, forgettable, anonymous. Get it out of my system. Sleep like nothing happened. Do it all again the next day.

But tonight?

Something’s off.

My thumb hovers over the familiar tab on my phone, but I don’t press it.

Not because I’m some kind of saint. But because it feels… empty. Like trying to fill a crack with water.

I grab a pencil and focus on the one thing that’s never failed me: the details.

Textures. Edges. The curve of a collarbone. The way light cuts across skin. The shadows beneath someone’s eyes after a long week.

I haven’t drawn in three days. That’s how I know something’s off.

I’m restless. Wired in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine or adrenaline.

Having Rilee in the house has changed things. That’s part of it, probably.

Not that she’s been a problem. She keeps to herself. Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t pretend things are fine when they aren’t. That’s something I respect.

I don’t really know what I think about her being here. Not in words. She’s just… present. Loud, even when she’s quiet. She leaves ripples, whether she means to or not.

I don’t say much. Don’t need to. But I see things.

Like the way her hands shake when she thinks no one’s looking.

Or how she flinches slightly every time someone raises their voice—even if it’s just from the other room.

She’s tired. In that deep-bone, soul-frayed kind of way. The kind that doesn’t sleep off.

I know that feeling.

I close my eyes again. Try to breathe it away.

Then I hear it.

Soft footsteps on the stairs. Way too light to be Caleb. Not heavy enough to be Hunter.

I sit up.

Rilee? Guess I’m about to find out.

Chapter Eleven

Rilee

I can’t sleep.

Again.

It’s past midnight, the house quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of old pipes. My room feels too hot. My thoughts won’t shut up. And apparently, caffeine after seven p.m. was a bad call.

I step into the hallway barefoot, dressed in shorts and a tank top, debating whether popcorn at this hour qualifies as a cry for help.

That’s when I see it.

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