Don't get used to it

POV: Sebastian

The house was dark, just like he'd remembered—angular, expensive, quiet in that way money buys. The kind of place with motion lights and a wine fridge and secrets pressed into the floorboards.

Sebastian sat across the street, engine off, one hand resting on the wheel. He'd been there long before Kit's taillights curved around the corner. Long before Delorah stepped out, hugging that hoodie close like it belonged to her. Like he belonged to her.

His eyes didn't leave her.

She paused for a second on the walkway, fumbling for her keys. A breeze caught the edge of her jacket. She didn't look around.

She didn't know she was being watched.

Typical.

Sebastian's phone sat on the dash, screen dark—until he reached for it. One tap. The camera opened.

Click.

The shutter was silent, but in his chest, something reverberated.

He studied the image: Delorah, mid-step, the porch light casting soft shadows across her features. A ghost of a smile on her lips. Her hair still damp. Kit's hoodie swallowing her frame.

He saved the photo.

It should've been me.

He didn't say it aloud, but the thought hit with the weight of a confession.

Heavy. Quiet. Inevitable.

He sat there until her door closed behind her. Until the house swallowed her whole.

Then—finally—he smiled.

---

POV: Delorah

—flashback from Friday night—

The sharp edges of the buzz had dulled by the time Delorah curled beneath Kit's oversized hoodie on his bedroom floor. The light had dimmed, and his stereo murmured something slow and dreamy in the background.

She could barely feel her limbs—her mind floaty, stretched between stars and static.

Kit 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 muttered. "Just… in case. I don't know. Maybe you ghost me after this. I'll want to know why."

She smirked faintly and took the phone, 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.

She tucked her face into the hoodie's collar, hiding the tiny grin that wouldn't leave.

She didn't feel like a menace.

She felt like something small and safe, flickering under the weight of his attention.

---

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 Friday. 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 still hadn't returned. Kit's scent clung to the fabric—cigarettes, cologne, and the faintest burn of something chemical.

Somehow, it comforted her.

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

> You alive?

Her thumb hovered just above the send button.

Then—

Send.

Her message sat there for a minute.

Then two.

Still no reply.

Delorah flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling again, letting the silence press down on her.

Every inch of her bedroom had been curated to look perfect.

Neat bedding.

Designer perfume bottles lined up like soldiers.

A candle that had never been burned.

It all felt like a dollhouse.

She rolled onto her stomach and checked the thread again.

Still no reply.

He was probably still awake. Still wired.

Or asleep finally.

Maybe both, somehow.

She got up and wandered to the full-length mirror, brushing a hand through her tangled hair. Her eyes were a little red, with faint shadows beneath them—nothing mascara couldn't fix, if she cared enough. She didn't.

She hadn't planned on any of last night.

The hoodie she wore still smelled like Kit—cigarettes, cologne, and something faintly chemical, like the memory of danger. She almost didn't want to take it off. It felt like armor.

Her phone buzzed. She nearly dropped it grabbing it.

Kit:

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

A smile pulled at her lips before she could stop it. She typed, erased, retyped—then finally sent:

Delorah:

Everything's so boring without you.

A beat passed.

Kit:

Careful. That sounds like a compliment.

Delorah:

Don't get used to it.

She tossed the phone gently onto the bed and drifted toward the window. Below, the driveway was spotless. The street—silent. Not even a breeze. The whole neighborhood was too polished, too perfect. Like it had been staged for a photograph no one would look at.

There was no one to lie to today. No one to impress. Just her, the house, and the kind of silence that creeps under your skin when no one's watching.

A new message lit up her screen:

Mom:

We'll call later. Keep yourself presentable.

Presentable. The word echoed like a slap.

What if she didn't want to be?

What if she wanted to crack her pretty porcelain smile in half?

The house stayed quiet all afternoon.

She scrolled without thinking. Snacked on things she didn't taste. Wandered the halls barefoot like a ghost rehearsing someone else's life. Still wrapped in Kit's hoodie, she was curled on the couch sideways when her phone rang.

Mom.

She exhaled hard. Then answered.

"Hi, sweetheart," came the chirpy voice from halfway across the world—brittle and bright like it was straining to reach her. "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." A lie. She didn't even feel dirty. She just felt blank.

A pause. Then her mother's voice softened—like it was reading from a different script entirely.

"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's mouth tightened. "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 silence bloomed between them. Heavy. Intentional. Her mother didn't rush to fill it.

Then, just before the call ended, she added lightly:

"We're trusting you, darling. Don't disappoint us."

Click.

The line went dead.

Delorah stared at the screen, her reflection faint in the black glass.

She almost laughed.

Almost.

Delorah let the phone slide from her hand and stared at the ceiling. Outside, a gust of wind stirred the trees, shadows dancing across the floor like ghosts.

She was still sprawled on the couch, phone resting on her chest, when it buzzed again—not a call this time. A message.

Lana V.

One of those friends who acted close when there was gossip to feast on.

Lana:

hey… you were at the Whitmore party Friday right?

Delorah sat up slightly, her stomach tensing. She hesitated, then typed:

Delorah:

yeah why?

The response came fast, a burst of grainy photos. Dark. Blurry. But unmistakable.

The gazebo. A crowd. And there—center frame—Kit, crouched over James, eyes blazing, one hand braced on his chest. The other: holding a joint. A faint red glow near James's cheek.

One shot even caught the flick of the flame. Mid-contact.

Lana:

this real? 👀 ppl saying that guy freaked the hell out. were u there?

Delorah's heart sank. She could feel the gazebo around her again—the sharpness of smoke in the air, the electric jolt of panic, the sickening smell of scorched skin.

Lana:

he your bf or smth?? 👀

Delorah:

i barely know him it was nothing

A lie that flew off her fingers without hesitation.

Lana:

sure babe but ppl are talking

Just like that, the morning's strange warmth evaporated. The buzz of Kit's messages, the soft grin they'd pulled from her—it all vanished.

She set her phone down and tugged Kit's hoodie tighter around herself.

It still smelled like him.

Still clung to the heat 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 flipped the phone face-down like it had burned her.

It was just a few photos. Just a dumb fight. Just a guy she barely knew.

So why was her pulse still hammering?

She stood abruptly, pacing into the kitchen. Opened a cabinet. Closed it. Another. Same. Like she was searching for a reason to exist.

She flung open the fridge, grabbed a can of sparkling water she didn't even want, popped the tab too hard.

It hissed like it was angry with her.

You barely know him.

That's what she'd told Lana. That's what she'd told herself.

She wasn't going to text him. She didn't want to seem desperate. Clingy. Like she was spiraling over someone who probably didn't even—

Her eyes slid back to the phone.

Still upside down. Still silent.

She marched across the room, flipped it over. No new messages.

Fine.

She wasn't texting him.

Not after that.

Delorah slid the phone into her vanity drawer and shut it.

Then sat down in front of the mirror.

Kit's hoodie still clung to her shoulders like a secret she wasn't ready to name.

Her reflection stared back. Red-rimmed. Raw.

"I'm not getting involved," she whispered.

And yet—

She didn't take the hoodie off.

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

Her last message was still sitting there, untouched:

Everything's so boring without you.

He'd fired back something cocky, half a deflection, half a reach:

Careful. That sounds like a compliment.

She'd replied fast:

Don't get used to it.

And then… nothing.

He hadn't answered. Not because he didn't want to. But because he didn't know what to say without sounding like he cared too much.

Now, hours later, the silence felt heavier than it should've.

He rolled onto his side, thumbing through his camera roll like it might distract him. Blurry shot of his desk. A mirror selfie he'd nearly posted and then didn't. And then—

A grainy snap of Delorah, curled up in his hoodie, half-asleep on the floor.

He paused.

Stared.

His chest tightened in that way he hated—too soft, too human.

Maybe she was just tired.

Maybe she'd seen the photos.

Maybe she'd realized he wasn't worth the risk.

Kit sat up, digging the heel of his hand against one eye. The comedown always hit harder when it was quiet. When there was nothing left to burn and too much room in his own skin.

He opened the message thread again.

Hovered.

Typed:

You good?

Paused.

Deleted it.

He didn't double-text. That was a rule. A boundary. A shield.

Instead, he opened the drawer and pulled out the jacket she'd left behind. Her jacket. Still faintly warm from memory. Still smelling like perfume and smoke and the night before everything changed.

He held it close. Fingers curling into the worn leather like it might explain something.

Delorah knew his real name.

She'd seen him spun out and shaking.

She'd watched him burn a bridge in front of everyone and didn't run.

So why did the silence feel like a door slowly closing?