Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
LANI
Sleep comes in pieces.
Not the clean kind that pulls you under and lets go gently, but the fractured sort – thin, drifting layers I slip through without ever fully surfacing. Time loses its edges. I stop knowing when night becomes day, when one hour bleeds into the next.
There are moments.
Warmth settling over me, heavy and careful.
The press of a palm at my back when I shiver.
A glass touching my lips, tipped just enough that I don’t choke.
Voices pass in and out of focus – low, controlled, sometimes tense. I can never quite tell who belongs to which. They blur together, a hum beneath my thoughts, steady enough that my body stops panicking even when my mind doesn’t know why.
I should be afraid of that.
Instead, every time I drift close to waking, something in my chest loosens, as if I’ve been gently anchored. As if whatever waits for me on the surface will keep me upright.
I don’t remember pain so much as heat – feverish and crawling under my skin. I remember shaking, and then not. I remember the weight of blankets being adjusted, tucked tighter around my shoulders, like someone thought I might disappear if they didn’t keep me contained.
I don’t remember being alone.
When I wake properly, it’s hunger that does it.
Real hunger. Sharp enough that it pulls a sound from my throat before I can stop it.
My eyes crack open, squinting against light that feels too bright but not cruel.
The room smells different – cleaner. Like soap and warm fabric and something deeper underneath that makes my stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with food.
My body feels heavy, but not wrong. Weak, yes. Sore in that deep, aftermath way. But the fever has broken. The buzzing under my skin is gone.
I blink, taking inventory.
I’m in bed. But not my bed. This is not my grandmother’s house. The sheets are fresh – different from the ones I vaguely remember climbing into. I’m wearing an oversized shirt, the cotton soft and worn thin. My hair is braided loosely over one shoulder.
I didn’t do that.
The realisation lands quietly.
Before I can chase it, the door opens.
Koa steps in carrying a tray, moving carefully, like he expects the floor to betray him if he isn’t respectful enough. He stops short when he sees my eyes are open.
“Hey,” he says, softly.
My throat feels like sandpaper. “Hey.”
He smiles faintly, relief flickering across his face before he schools it away. Sets the tray down on the bedside table and pulls the chair closer without asking. The tray smells incredible – toast, eggs, something sweet and buttery that makes my mouth water.
“You’ve been asleep a while,” he says. “Figured you’d wake hungry.”
“Is that a guess,” I mumble, “or are you psychic?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Educated guess.”
He helps me sit up, firm hand at my back, unintrusive but solid. I don’t argue. I should – independence is practically a reflex – but my body accepts the support like it’s been waiting for it.
That thought sends a small shiver through me.
“How long is ‘a while’?” I ask.
“Couple of days,” he says. “In and out.”
I frown. “That’s…long.” I immediately start to worry about work. I’ve been so unreliable, I bet they regret taking me on.
“You scared us,” he admits easily.
Us.
I file that away.
He hands me a mug first – tea, milked just right – and waits while I take a careful sip. The heat settles low in my chest, spreading outward. I hadn’t realised how cold I still was until now.
“You’ve been here,” I say slowly.
He doesn’t pretend not to understand. “Yeah.”
“More than once.”
“Yes.”
There’s no drama in the admission. No expectation. Just truth, laid gently between us.
I study him over the rim of the mug. He looks tired. Not rumpled or wrecked, just worn in a way that speaks of long hours spent alert. Watching. Protecting.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
Something in his expression shifts, like I’ve said something heavier than I meant to. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I cut in. “So don’t rob me of it.”
That earns me a real smile.
I eat slowly, savouring each bite, my body humming with relief as strength seeps back into my limbs. The silence between us is comfortable. Companionable. It occurs to me that this is the calmest I’ve felt since I got here.
The door opens again without warning.
Koa’s absolute body double strolls in like he owns the place, hands in his pockets, grin already half-formed – until he clocks me upright, eating, very much awake.
“Well,” he says. “Look who decided to rejoin the living.”
Koa goes very still beside me. “This is my twin, Kai,” he explains after a beat.
I narrow my eyes at Kai over my toast. “Do you always sneak into bedrooms uninvited, or am I a special case?”
Kai blinks. Then laughs. “Ah. You’re feeling better.”
“I’m feeling aware,” I correct. “Which is worse for you, I suspect.”
He props himself against the doorframe, unfazed. “You’re welcome, by the way. For the excellent hospitality.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I say. “Though I seem to remember you being someone else when we met before.”
His grin sharpens. “You saying you didn’t enjoy it?”
“I’m saying,” I reply sweetly, “that pretending to be your twin to mess with a very pissed off woman is a bold strategy.”
Koa clears his throat.
Kai winces. Just a fraction. “You were fine.”
“I was not,” I say. “But you are very lucky I find this more amusing than offensive.”
“Do you?” he asks.
I look at him properly now. The swagger. The restless energy. The way his attention flicks between me and Koa like he’s measuring something invisible.
“I do,” I decide. “Mostly because I figured it out.”
His brows shoot up. “You did?”
“Oh yes,” I say. “Eventually. I never met anybody that can swing so fluidly between two completely different personalities.”
Koa watches me closely, something intent in his gaze.
“That must’ve been awkward,” Kai says lightly.
“For you?” I tilt my head. “Not nearly enough.”
I take another bite, then pause, frowning.
“Hmm,” I murmur.
Both of them tense.
“What?” Kai asks.
I inhale slowly. Then again. The air feels…different now. Or maybe I am. The scents in the room separate where before they’d blurred – layering instead of blending.
“That’s strange,” I say.
Koa’s eyes darken. “What is?”
“You smell the same,” I tell them honestly. “But not.”
Silence drops like a held breath.
I continue, words slow, thoughtful. “Same base. Same…thread. But one of you is steadier. Like standing barefoot on solid ground. The other is brighter. Restless. Like static.”
Their gazes snap to each other.
I almost laugh. “I didn’t notice before,” I add. “Everything was too loud. Too much.”
Kai recovers first. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” I ask, amused. “Because your reaction suggests otherwise, and I’d place money on knowing which scent is yours.”
Koa doesn’t deny it. But he doesn’t try to explain either.
I lean back against the pillows, suddenly aware of the shift. Of how the air feels charged now, like I’ve stepped into the centre of something without meaning to.
“Should I be worried,” I ask lightly, “or is this one of those things you were hoping I wouldn’t clock?”
Kai scoffs. “You think everything’s about you?”
I meet his gaze. “No. But somehow this is.”
That shuts him up.
Koa stands a moment later. “You should rest.”
“I just woke up,” I protest.
“And you’re still recovering,” he counters gently. “We’ll talk later.”
We.
They leave together, Kai casting one last unreadable look over his shoulder before the door closes.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, my pulse steady but alert.
Something changed while I slept. Not in them, in me.
I don’t know what game they think they’re playing.
But I know that whatever awoke in me while I was out cold isn’t going back under.