His shadow never stayed long enough to warm my soul, but I held onto it, pretending it was enough.

40

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

It had been five days since my dad cleaned up our mess, four days since Tiffany proudly announced she was retiring from fighting unless someone “really deserved it,” and three hours since Blake had taken over the laundry duty because my mom was too exhausted to do it herself.

And now, all my white tops were pink.

Teeth gritted, I stormed upstairs, clutching one of my newly-ruined shirts like a death sentence in my hand.

Blake’s door was open, but his room was empty.

“Of course,” I muttered. Because when I needed to yell at him, he was never where I wanted him to be.

I paused in the doorway, glaring at his room.

His bed was made with meticulous precision, each corner tucked in perfectly. Books were scattered across his desk, some neatly piled, while others were left open. An open notebook rested there, filled with equations and lines of scribbled notes.

But there was no sign of Blake.

Then, a faint sound broke through my frustration.

Running water.

And just like that, I knew exactly where to find him.

I should’ve thought twice before barging into the bathroom, but I didn’t; the frustration in my chest was boiling too hot.

But the second I stepped inside, every complaint I had been ready to hurl at him died on my tongue.

Blake stood at the sink, wrapped in nothing but a white towel slung low around his waist. The lower half of his face was covered in lather, a razor resting lightly in his hand. His hair was slicked back with water, droplets trailing down the curve of his neck, over his collarbones, and across the golden skin of his bare chest and stomach. His body was still glistening from the shower, muscles subtly shifting as he moved. Beneath his ribs, just above his waist, was a tiny, pale brown birthmark I had never noticed before.

I had walked in here ready for war. Now, I didn’t know what to do with my eyes. No matter where I looked, it felt like a trap.

There was too much skin, too much of him.

I forced my gaze upward, but that only made things worse, because Blake caught my reflection in the mirror and watched me with an amused expression, as if he knew exactly what had just happened inside my head.

“You done staring?” he asked, dragging the razor along his jaw, completely unbothered.

That snapped me back to reality.

“I wasn’t staring,” I said, a little too fast, a little too defensive.

He hummed like he didn’t believe me. “I could’ve sworn you were about two seconds away from drooling.”

“I’m here because you, you ruined⁠—”