20. Zyran #2
“I’m fine,” her head snaps in my direction, eyes locking on me and the wall back in place. Her expression is tight and controlled, but I can see the tension in the way her fingers curl slightly against her arms. “You should go… you–you need to leave.”
I hold her gaze for a second longer, trying to figure out what just flipped that switch in her head.
But the more I watched her, holding her gaze, the clearer it became.
Whatever just spooked her, she’s not letting me anywhere near it.
And if I push right now, she’s going to shut down completely and bolt for the nearest exit.
Neither of those options is going to get me any closer to figuring out what the hell is going on with her, so I let out a quiet breath and bend down, grabbing my shoes from the foot of her bed.
“Alright,” I nod.
Her shoulders drop slightly at that, like she’s relieved that I’m not going to put up a fight and force myself into her.
I pull my boots on and head toward the front door; I don’t stop until I’m there, glancing over my shoulder.
She’s stepped out of her room, arms crossed tightly like she’s holding herself together.
And I hate that it’s not me she’s leaning on; even though I understand her keeping me at arm’s length, I hate that.
She can trust me; I just have to prove it.
“Lock the door behind me, Esperr,” I ordered her.
I open the door and step outside, not moving a single muscle until I hear the slight click of the doorhandle and then the dead bolt.
Only then do I head to my truck, knowing damn well I’m about to end up back at her house.
The couch creaks under my weight as I lean back into it, one arm stretched along the back while Cyran paces in front of the TV like the remote in his hand personally offended him.
And knowing my twin, it probably did.
He’s been talking for the last five minutes straight.
About pizza.
But not just any kind of pizza, about how the place on Third Street is apparently committing a crime against humanity by existing.
“I’m telling you,” Cyran says, pointing the remote at me like he’s presenting evidence in court, “there is no universe where that is the best pizza in town.”
I drag a hand slowly across my jaw, already feeling the beginning of a headache forming.
“It’s not the best pizza in town,” I tell him patiently, “it’s just good.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes, “it’s not good.”
Sybil snorts from the other end of the couch, her boots kicked up on the coffee table like she owns the entire place.
She doesn’t even look up from her phone as she speaks.
“You’ve eaten gas station burritos at three in the morning and lived to tell the tale, Cyran. Your opinion on food is invalid.”
Cyran turns toward her immediately, pointing that damn remote at her.
“That was survival food.”
“That was a tortilla filled with regret,” she mutters.
“It had eggs.”
She glances up for a second, shakes her head, and then goes right back to doing whatever she’s doing on her phone. “Maybe it had something that used to be eggs.”
I stare at the ceiling, letting their voices blur together while they continue arguing like this is somehow a serious debate.
Normally this kind of stupid conversation would be entertaining; normally I’d be fully involved in it, but my brain keeps drifting. Every few seconds my mind circles back to the same thing whether I try to stop it or not.
Esperr.
The image of her standing in the middle of her bedroom flashes through my head again, the way her entire body went rigid the second I told her the door hadn’t been locked.
To that look on her face, fear.
Not irritation that her door wasn’t locked, or embarrassed, it was fear and the second it hit her, she shut down so fast it was almost impressive
My jaw tightens slightly as Cyran and Sybil keep arguing.
“...and I’m saying the sauce alone is a crime,” he continues, waving the remote around dramatically.
Sybil shakes her head, lifting her gaze. “You once dipped pizza in ketchup.”
“That was one time,” he huffs, rolling his eyes.
“No, actually, in fact, it was three times, three separate times.”
“Well—”
“Well, what?” she leans forward, waiting for his excuse on why he dipped his pizza in ketchup.
I rub a hand down my face again. “How did this become a serious discussion?” I ask.
Cyrans swings his attention towards me again. “Because you started it by defending that place on Third Street.”
“All I said was that it was good.” I shrug.
“It is not good.”
“It is,” Sybil pipes up before I can say anything.
“It absolutely is not?—”
Their voices keep bouncing back and forth, but I’m only half paying attention, my mind already switching back to her.
Don’t let him take me again.
The memory of her voice from last night slides through my head, repeatedly. It was soft, slurred with sleep, and scared. And then the look on her face this morning when she realized her door had been unlocked. Something about that moment felt wrong.
It wasn’t just cautious. She was terrified, like she suddenly realized something bad could’ve happened.
Or maybe something bad already had.
“...and the crust was burnt,” he says.
Sybils scoffs, “you ate the whole damn thing.”
“That’s because I paid for it.”
“You act like y’all aren’t rich as f?—”
The TV suddenly jumps louder as Cyran changes the channel mid-argument, the sound cutting through the room before either of them could keep going.
A bright red banner stretches across the bottom of the screen. Breaking News.
The argument dies instantly, and a weather reporter appears in front of a map that looks like someone dumped a massive wall of white across half the state.
Cyran lowers the remote slowly, backing away from the screen. “Well, that doesn’t look promising,” he mutters.
The reporter starts speaking, her tone calm but serious in the way new anchors use when they want people to actually pay attention.
“A major winter storm system is expected to move through the region beginning late this afternoon. They’re predicting heavy snowfalls, with accumulations potentially reaching eight to twelve inches in some areas.”
Sybil straightens slightly on the couch, her attention no longer lingering between her phone and arguing with Cyran. “Eight to twelve,” she repeats.
“That sounds about right; it usually happens once or twice,” Cyran comments.
The reporter continues pointing to the radar behind her.
“Residents are being urged to stay indoors once the storm begins as road conditions are expected to deteriorate rapidly, and emergency services are advising against unnecessary travel during the height of the storm.”
Cyran finally moves, dropping down into the chair to the left of us. “Well damn, there goes my entire afternoon.”
Sybil glances toward the window, frowning as she suddenly spots the snow flurries. “Bullshit, you didn’t have plans.”
“I had potential plans.”
“Again, I call bullshit. You were just going to sit here and argue about pizza.”
“That was just phase one,” Cyran snaps back, with no real heat in his voice.
I ignore them and lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees while I watch the radar map slowly move across the screen.
A massive snow storm is pushing straight toward town.
A lot of it.
And all I can think about is the fact that Esperr lives alone and she’s scared of something. If this storm hits the way they’re predicting, the entire town is going to shut down. Roads buried, shops closed, people stuck where they are.
Cyran groans, “Fantastic. Snowed in with all of you. This is how horror movies start."
Sybil throws a pillow at the side of his head, going back to her phone, probably texting Raiden.
But none of that matters to me, not when my head is stuck in Esperr’s apartment—to the fear that flashed across her face before she buried it under that calm, controlled mask she seems to wear like armor.
And I only know one way to get it out of her.
I’m going to be snowed in at her apartment.