It's nearly five, and I haven't returned any calls or texts all day. The moment I step inside, the cold war at home will resume—nothing said aloud in front of guests, all the family drama saved for behind closed doors like the good little actors we are. The Wells family's presence turns our usual dysfunction into a command performance.

Taking a deep breath, the first real one of the day, I pocket the stash and force myself toward the front door. With each step, the laughter and conversations inside amplify like a crescendo of impending doom, squeezing my chest tighter. The bruises from Monty's grip ache with every breath, but they're nothing compared to the pain I know is waiting inside.

Let's fucking do this.

Then, a familiar voice cuts through the rest, pulling tighter on my already taut nerves like a violin string about to snap. I'm almost at the door when it swings open.

"I'll be right there, just need to grab my—" Her words halt with a sharp intake of breath that mirrors my own.

Before I even process it, my body reacts on pure instinct, lunging forward to catch her as she stumbles on the step.

She's safe in my arms, and suddenly the world begins to spin when she looks up at me.

Time warps as I hold her, everything slowing to a crawl like honey dripping from a spoon. The adrenaline that was surging through my veins from Monty's threats shifts into a different kind of heat, spreading wherever our bodies connect. She's different now, changed in ways that make my throat go dry and my pulse spike.

Holding her feels like revisiting an old favorite book; the cover's altered, the pages more worn, but the words inside still grip you with the same fierce intensity. Her hair, scented like honey and summer winds and tossed into a messy knot, hints at the beautiful chaos I know defines her. Gone is the awkward girl in baggy clothes. She's... stunning.

Christ. Stop it.

The crop top she wears exposes her lower back, my arms cradling her waist, skin against skin, igniting unwanted, dangerous desires that threaten to consume what's left of my self-control. I can't pull my eyes away from hers—those emerald depths still blaze with the wild spirit I remember, promising secrets and depths I'm aching to explore but damn well know I shouldn't.

"You missed a step," I say, a slight grin managing to break through, muscle memory of catching her like this a hundred times before making my hands remember places they shouldn't.

"Wouldn't be the first time," she replies, her smile disarming every defense I've built, gripping me for a second too long. I notice her catch her breath. I hope it's from my hold and not the stumble, then immediately hate myself for hoping.