the rules we live by

~flashback from Friday night~

The sharp edges of the buzz had softened by the time Delorah curled up beneath Kit's oversized hoodie on his bedroom floor, the light dimming, his stereo murmuring something slow and dreamy in the background. She could barely feel her limbs—her mind floaty, stretched between stars and static. Kit was leaned back against the wall, one knee up, the plastic bag of leftover powder tucked away somewhere. His eyes had lost their jittery glow, sunk deeper now, like something sad had settled behind them.

"You good?" he asked her quietly.

She nodded, too tired to speak.

He reached for his phone, tapped the screen, then held it out. "Give me your number."

She blinked at him.

"Not like that," he said. "Just… in case. I don't know. Maybe you ghost me after this. I'll wanna know why."

She smirked faintly and took the phone from him, her fingers fumbling a little. "I won't ghost you."

"You say that now."

After she typed it in, she passed the phone back. "Save it as something fun. I don't want to be just 'Delorah.'"

He raised an eyebrow, typing. "How about 'Trouble'?"

"I feel like you already saved someone under that name."

Kit laughed—a rare, unguarded sound that made her heart catch. "Alright. 'Del the Menace.'"

"Better."

They both smiled, and for a moment the silence between them was comfortable.

---

Present – Sunday Morning

Delorah stirred beneath the linen sheets of her own bed, the softness foreign after Kit's floor. Light bled through the curtains in ribbons. She blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented. Her mouth was dry. Her heart beat a little too fast.

The text messages from her parents still sat unread.

> Flight delayed again. We'll be back next weekend. Behave, darling. Have Monica check in if you need anything.

She didn't need anything. Not from them.

What she wanted was to talk to Kit. To know if last night had meant as much to him as it did to her. She stared at her phone a while longer, debating. No unread messages. No text from him yet.

She rolled onto her side, clutching the hoodie she'd never returned.

Kit's scent still clung to the fabric. Cigarettes, cologne, the faintest burn of something chemical. Somehow, it comforted her.

Delorah unlocked her phone and opened the message thread. She typed:

> You alive?

She hovered, thumb just above the send button.

And then hit send.

Her message sat there for a minute. Then two. No reply.

Delorah flopped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling again, letting the silence press down on her. Every part of her bedroom was curated to look perfect. Neat bedding. Designer perfume bottles on the vanity. A candle that had never been burned.

It all felt like a dollhouse.

She rolled onto her stomach and checked the message again. Still no reply.

He was probably still awake. Still wired. Or asleep finally. Maybe both somehow.

She got up and wandered to her full-length mirror, brushing a hand through her tangled hair. Her eyes were a little red and there were dark circles as well, faintly showing up. She hadn't planned on any of last night. The hoodie she wore still smelled like Kit. She almost didn't want to take it off.

Her phone buzzed. She nearly dropped it grabbing it.

Kit:

Alive. Just barely. Missed your chaos already. You okay?

A small grin tugged at her lips. She typed and retyped a few replies before settling on:

Everything's so boring without you.

A pause. Then:

Kit:

Careful. That sounds like a compliment.

Don't get used to it.

She tossed her phone gently onto the bed and wandered to the window. Below, the driveway was clean. The street outside eerily quiet. There was no one to lie to today. No one to impress. Just an endless hallway of sterile silence and a perfectly stocked fridge downstairs.

A new message from her mom glowed on her phone screen:

We'll call later. Keep yourself presentable.

Presentable. The word stung.

What if she didn't want to be?

The house had stayed quiet all afternoon.

Delorah had scrolled, snacked, wandered the halls barefoot. She was still wearing Kit's hoodie, curled up sideways on the couch when her phone rang.

Mom.

She sighed and answered.

"Hi, sweetheart," her mother's voice chimed from halfway across the world, brittle and too bright. "You look tired."

"It's been a long week."

"Well, don't waste the weekend glued to a screen. Get some fresh air. I hope you've at least showered today."

"Of course I have."

There was a short pause as her mother's voice softened just slightly.

"Is everything alright at the house? Monica said she restocked the fridge yesterday."

"Yeah, everything's fine."

"Good. We'll be back Friday—make sure the house doesn't look lived in when we get there."

Delorah bit her tongue. "Sure."

"You know how important next week is. Your father has a series of meetings, and we may have guests. I expect you to be presentable. No chipped nails. Nothing that makes people wonder."

"Right."

A longer silence followed, one her mother didn't bother to fill.

Then, just before the call ended, her mother added lightly, "We're trusting you, darling. Don't disappoint us."

Click.

The line went dead.

Delorah let the phone slide from her hand and stared up at the ceiling. A gust of wind stirred the trees outside the window, shadows dancing over the floor like ghosts.

Delorah was still lying on the couch, phone resting on her chest, when it buzzed again—this time not a call.

It was from Lana V, one of those friends who only acted friendly when there was gossip to swap.

Lana:

hey…

you were at the Whitmore party Friday right?

Delorah sat up slightly, stomach tensing. Her fingers hovered over the screen.

Delorah:

yeah why?

The response came with a cluster of images. Grainy, dark—but unmistakable. The gazebo. A crowd. And there—center frame—Kit, eyes burning, pressed over James, a hand on his chest and a faint red glow near his cheek.

One image caught the flame mid-flick—the joint making contact.

Lana:

this real? 👀

ppl saying that guy freaked the hell out.

were u there?

Her heart dropped. She could practically feel the air in that gazebo again—the sharp smoke, the electric panic, the smell of James's burnt skin.

Lana:

he your bf or smth?? 👀

Delorah:

i barely know him

it was nothing

A lie she didn't even hesitate to type.

Lana:

sure babe

but ppl are talking

And just like that, the adrenaline rush of the morning—the strange warmth of Kit's texts—evaporated.

She set the phone down and pulled Kit's hoodie tighter around her. It still smelled like him. Still carried the echo of last night's chaos.

She wasn't sure what scared her more:

That people had seen.

Or that she didn't regret being there.

Delorah tossed her phone facedown on the couch like it had burned her.

It was just some photos. Just a dumb fight. Just a guy she didn't even know that well.

Her pulse still hadn't slowed.

She stood and paced toward the kitchen, opening cabinets like she'd find a reason to breathe in one. Closed them again. Opened the fridge. Grabbed a can of sparkling water she didn't even want.

She could still see the moment.

Kit—on top of James. The flash of fire against skin. The smell.

She popped the can open too fast and it hissed like it was angry.

You barely know him.

That's what she'd told Lana.

That's what she'd told herself.

She wasn't about to text him. She didn't want to sound desperate, or clingy, or like she'd gotten too caught up in… whatever all this was.

But she kept glancing toward her phone.

Still upside down. Still there.

Delorah crossed the room and flipped it over. No new texts.

Fine.

She wasn't texting him anyway.

Not after that.

She slid the phone into her vanity drawer, shut it, and sat down in front of her mirror.

Kit's hoodie still hung off her shoulders like a secret.

Her reflection stared back at her with red-rimmed eyes and smeared mascara.

"I'm not getting involved," she told herself softly.

And yet, she didn't take the hoodie off.

Kit lay on his back, staring at the ceiling like it owed him answers.

The last text from her was still sitting there:

Everything's so boring without you.

He'd replied with something cocky and half-sarcastic:

Careful. That sounds like a compliment. Don't get used to it.

Nothing since.

That was hours ago.

He rolled onto his side and scrolled through his camera roll, half-expecting to find something that would explain it. Nothing. A blurry photo of his desk, a mirror selfie he almost posted and then didn't, a grainy snap of Delorah asleep in his hoodie. He stared at that one longer than he meant to.

Maybe she was just tired.

Maybe she saw those photos going around.

Maybe she was second-guessing everything now that she wasn't high and curled up in his room.

Kit sat up, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eyes. It was always like this after—the comedown, the hours that stretched longer than they should, the hollow echo in his chest.

He unlocked his phone again and finally gave in:

You good?

No response.

He didn't double-text. He'd told himself that rule ages ago.

But he did pull her jacket out of the desk drawer and sit with it for a long time, fingers curling into the leather like it might explain something.

Delorah knew his real name. She'd seen the worst parts of him already.

So why did the quiet feel like rejection?