Logically, I knew I could move. There was no physical barrier, no real reason for my muscles to refuse the command. It was just a signal traveling from my brain to my hand, a straightforward neurological process. And yet—the signal wasn’t reaching its destination.

Seconds passed, stretching until they felt like hours.

The silence in my room felt suffocating, thick enough to taste, as though the air had become too dense to breathe. Then I heard the creak of her door. Light footsteps. My own door easing open.

I didn’t even have to look. I knew it was her. I knew it the way I knew my own name. I could feel her presence filling the room, cutting through the cold that had settled in my bones, wrapping around me like a blanket warmer than anything I owned.

She didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, watching me. The darkness made it easy to pretend she wasn’t, but I knew better. “You okay?” Her voice was hushed, barely more than a whisper, as if she wasn’t sure if she should be asking.

“Yeah,” I muttered, though I knew it sounded more like a half-hearted attempt to convince both of us.

Beverly didn’t buy it. She huffed a quiet laugh. “Liar,” she said. “Can I come in?”

“Why are you asking like I’m gonna say no?”

Finally, I allowed my gaze to drift toward her, though I could barely see her face, just the soft outlines of her features.

Her hair was a little messy from sleep, her eyes still heavy with it, but her expression was sharp, focused entirely on me. She was wearing one of Dad’s big old T-shirts, hanging loosely over her frame, paired with some worn-out shorts that barely reached her thighs. Her long legs seemed to go on forever, bathed in the soft moonlight that filtered through the window.

For a moment, my mind betrayed me, forcing my gaze to linger on her silhouette longer than it should have.

No. Absolutely not.

With my eyes rolling back in my head, I forced myself to ignore the urge to look closer.

I exhaled sharply, redirecting my focus to the ceiling.

Neural misfire. That’s all it was. A side effect of exhaustion, the mind’s tendency to misinterpret visual stimuli in low light. Meaningless. A trick of the mind in half-asleep state.

It was late, I was tired, and my brain was clearly playing tricks on me. Not something to dwell on.

“Put on some clothes, Beverly.” It came out strained, not quite a groan but close enough.

“I am wearing clothes.”

I forced myself to look away, focusing on the floor, the wall, anything but her. My jaw clenched. “I mean real clothes. Not…that.”

There was a soft click as she shut the door behind her. Then, barely making a sound, she crossed the room.