Ophelia
I can’t believe Arlo is here.
Not just in Switzerland, but in Adelaide’s chalet, buried deep in the Alps, surrounded by wind, snow, and far too much unresolved tension for one mountain to hold.
The man despises me. He’s made that perfectly clear. And yet here he is, again, showing up where he shouldn’t, doing things that make no sense.
He keeps following me, watching me, finding excuses to be near.
After what happened in my bedroom earlier, his mouth between my thighs, his tongue drawing sounds from me I didn’t know I could make, I’d escaped to the bathroom.
I closed the door on the pretext of needing a shower, in truth I was hiding.
I need air. I need a moment to pull myself together.
Whatever he is waking in me is not rational, I want to strangle him as much as I want to climb him, and the contradiction leaves me exhausted.
I crave his touch, and yet he keeps wounding me with his words and his hatred, and I feel like the greatest failure for letting him have me again.
I have more self-respect than that, I know it.
I have worked so hard to learn to love myself as I am, to recognise my worth. And yet with him I forget, for reasons I cannot name, and I let him dismantle everything I have built.
That should be the final alarm bell, he should never place me in this position.
He is not right for me, of that I am certain.
So why does my heart constrict at the thought of cutting him out and never seeing him again?
I am, frankly, exhausted. And still he is here, presumably he will stay for as long as I remain.
It is obvious to me how he struggles, always at battle, trying so desperately to hate me until the pull wins.
I see how, when he loses himself in me, he ruins it with his words and his rancour.
When I finally summon the nerve and step out, he is still in my room, lounged on the bed, idly scrolling.
He looks up as I enter, a smirk at his mouth.
“Done hiding?” he asks.
I do not answer, I turn to leave.
In an instant he is at my back, his body close to mine, his hand settling at the hollow of my throat in a possessive touch.
He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Ignoring me won’t make me disappear, Ophelia. You should know that by now.”
He withdraws as abruptly as he appeared.
I force myself to breathe, furious at my own betrayal, mortified that such a small exchange has me trembling, my thighs pressed together, my composure in shambles.
We make our way down the staircase in silence, and I’m quietly grateful for it.
Voices fill the chalet long before we make it downstairs, the scent of food still lingering from earlier cooking.
When I step into the archway leading to the living room, they’re all there.
Milo and Octavia are sprawled across the carpet, arguing over something trivial.
Piper sits curled in an armchair, a book open in her lap, while Hunter occupies the one opposite, watching her with a look I can’t decipher.
On the sofa, Isaak and Adelaide sit apart, she angled as far from him as possible.
“Oh, finally,” Octavia sighs the moment she spots me. “I’m starving.”
“You could’ve eaten,” I say lightly. “There was no reason to wait for us.”
She rolls her eyes and flicks a look between Arlo and me. “Let’s eat. I’m sure whatever you made will be perfect,” she finally says.
Milo looks up from where he’s sprawled on the floor, a crooked grin creeps across his features. “Don’t tell me it’s another round of those bloody vegan meatballs or whatever plant based crap you insist on eating.”
I laugh and shake my head, but before I can respond, Arlo’s voice breaks through the room behind me.
“If you don’t like what’s served, get your own fucking food. She doesn’t owe you a damn thing.”
I glance over my shoulder at him, caught off guard.
Milo, on the other hand, looks entirely unsurprised, almost as if he’d been waiting for that comeback from Arlo. He only smirks, muttering something under his breath.
Turning toward the kitchen, I’m grateful I cooked more than enough earlier. I’d thought I was being excessive, planning for leftovers, but clearly not. With this many uninvited guests, there won’t be a single crumb left.
No one seems to complain about their presence anymore. I think we’ve all accepted the same truth, they came here because of us, and there’s no chance in hell they’ll be leaving anytime soon.
I move into the kitchen and start plating the food, the soft scrape of dishes the only thing keeping me grounded.
Arlo follows in silence, pulling forks from the drawer without needing to be told. It’s strange, almost domestic, in a way that unsettles me more than it should.
From the other room, Adelaide’s voice carries through, sweet and venomous. “I see you’re all making yourselves rather comfortable,” she says, her gaze fixed squarely on the men.
Arlo doesn’t so much as glance her way.
I finish spooning out the food, add a generous dusting of vegan parmesan, and line the plates neatly along the counter for whoever wants one.
Soon enough, everyone drifts in to collect their plates before heading back to the living room.
Adelaide and Piper take the sofa, Isaak sliding in beside her. Hunter settles into the armchair, watching everything without really looking at anyone.
Octavia and Milo sit cross legged on the carpet, plates balanced on their knees. I lower myself to the floor opposite them, and Arlo drops down beside me, his shoulder brushing mine for the briefest moment.
For a second, it almost feels normal, like we’re just a group of friends having dinner in some warm mountain cabin.
Almost.
Then I see the sharp set of Arlo’s jaw, and I remember that nothing about this is normal.
I lift my fork, ready to take my first bite, when his hand comes out of nowhere, stopping mine midair.
“Your insulin.”
“I already took it before coming down,” I reply.
He studies me for a moment, then gives a small, satisfied nod before finally picking up his own fork.
Dinner passes more easily than I’d expected.
Conversation rises and falls in waves, Isaak and Hunter deep in some quiet discussion, Milo tossing out obscene comments just to get a reaction.
Piper’s still reading, book in hand even as she picks at her plate, while Adelaide mostly ignores the lot of them, until she doesn’t.
Isaak says something that sets her off, and she’s quick to bite back, wine glass in hand, her tone venomous.
Across from them, Milo flashes a grin at my sister. “That’ll never be us, spitfire. We’re far too mad for each other to argue like that.”
Octavia gives him a cold look. “Are you genuinely stupid, or just naturally an idiot?” she snaps.
He only laughs, completely unfazed.
She narrows her eyes. “I told you I hate you, and everything your family represents. You could collapse right here, and I wouldn’t so much as move to help.”
The expression on her face catches me off guard, a flicker of something raw beneath the anger. It makes me wonder what really happened to her to make her look like that whenever she speaks of his family.
Milo leans back, grinning wider. “Damn it baby, keep talking dirty like that, but say it upstairs, while I’m buried deep inside you.”
Octavia groans, turning away. “You’re completely unhinged.”
Someone turns on the television, music spilling softly through the room. The atmosphere eases, conversation blending with the sound.
I glance around, everyone seems settled, though no one ever truly lets their guard down.
For once, the tension thins enough to almost pass for peace.