8. Bindi
EIGHT
BINDI
The mattress shifts beside me.
I don’t have to look; I already know it’s him.
Cass lifts the blanket, slides in behind me, chest pressed to my back, arm curling low across my waist as he pulls me in.
We do this all the time.
Not the sneaking-into-bed part—not like this. Not with this kind of heat between us. But the gravity? The pull?
That’s been there for years.
After bad days, Cass always finds me.
Fights in the house. Randall flipping out over some broken rule no one actually broke. A social worker dropping in without warning, asking too many questions in a voice too sweet to be real. Therapy appointments that leave me raw and hollow.
Cass feels it too—every shift in the air. Every time the system shakes the floor beneath our feet.
And when it happens, we do this.
He finds me .
Sometimes it’s in the kitchen, crouched in the corner behind the fridge where the hum drowns out everything.
Sometimes it’s in the basement, sitting on the washer during spin cycles.
Sometimes it’s just sitting together on the floor, backs to the wall, knees touching.
Quiet. Breathing in sync like that alone could keep us from drowning.
We don’t talk about it. We just do it.
That’s how we’ve always worked. No declarations, no plans, just instinct. Just us, orbiting each other like we’re the only two planets left in the sky.
But this—him sliding into my bed, holding me like it’s the most natural thing in the world—is when I feel the safest.
“Cass, you can’t keep doing this.”
“They won’t catch us. They’re passed out. I checked,” he says quietly, his breath warm against my neck.
“That’s not the point. If anyone comes in and sees you here—” I swallow, unable to finish the sentence.
They’d separate us. Move one of us—maybe both. Maybe Cass would vanish in the middle of the night, like other kids have. Written off as a runaway when we secretly know that isn’t the case.
Or worse . . .
Randall could report him. Lie. Make something up. Say Cass touched me. Say it wasn’t innocent—even though Cass hasn’t done anything except hold me. He refuses to. Not that I’d ever want him to cross that line with me.
I shouldn’t even be thinking about this. About how wrong it is that we share a room to begin with. We’re teenagers, not toddlers. Any decent foster parent would know that this won’t end well. I know what my friends at school are doing.
But that’s the thing—Randall isn’t decent. He’s never once looked at me like a child. About six months ago, he slipped a bottle of pills into my drawer. White. Unlabeled. He told me they were vitamins.
But I’m not stupid.
I went to school and googled them the second I got the chance.
Birth control.
No one explained. No one asked. No doctor visit. I’ve never even thought to do that—not with anyone. Not even Cass. But if that’s what Randall thinks—what he’s preparing for . . . I feel sick. I should tell Cass, but I just know that’s a time bomb waiting to happen.
And if Randall sees Cass in my bed? He’ll twist it, use it against me to leverage whatever it is that he wants.
He doesn’t say anything for a second, just breathes with me, hand resting over my hip, tracing soft circles on the sliver of skin between my shirt and my pajama shorts.
“If Randall ever tries to separate us . . . I’ll kill him.”
My breath catches. “Cass?—”
“Binx. I’m serious. He lays one finger on you, punishes you for this or tries to separate us, I’ll slit his throat and smile while I do it.”
I twist to look at him. His face is half-lit by the moonlight leaking through the window.
His eyes meet mine—dark and stormy with a heat behind them as he takes mine in.
This is the part when my stomach flutters and I wonder what it would feel like if I pressed my lips against his.
But I don’t, because that would be wrong.
His voice softens. “I’ll go back to my bed after you’re asleep. Promise.” He pulls me tighter, nuzzling into the crook of my neck like this is his last chance to be close. “Just . . . ten minutes. Twenty. I’ll leave after,” he mumbles, already half-asleep.
I don’t answer. Because the truth is, I don’t want him to leave. Not when his hand brushes my hair back behind my ear, then twirls a strand around his finger. Again and again. Gentle and soothing.
He’s never like this outside these four walls. Not at school. Not in the house during the day. Not when the other kids are around.
Outside, he’s sharp edges and smart-ass comments. And my venomous walls are built up so high—guarded from everyone.
But here?
It’s just Binx and Cass.
We lie there for what feels like forever. Not talking. Just breathing. Listening to the creeks of the house, the far-off hum of traffic, the occasional bark of a neighborhood dog.
Then, he speaks. “Do you still think about leaving?”
I open my eyes. “Like . . . running?”
He nods, his chin brushing the back of my head.
“All the time,” I say.
“What would you do?”
I pause, imagining it, letting the idea stretch out in front of me like a rope I might actually grab hold of. “Find a job, get a shitty apartment, dye my hair, probably. Steal someone’s identity.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “That sounds terrible.”
“It’s realistic.”
“You’d be good at it.”
“I’m good at surviving,” I mutter.
A beat. He shifts again. “I was thinking I’d get a bike.”
“A motorcycle?”
“Yeah.”
“You’d kill yourself.”
“Would not.”
“You’d try to do tricks and wipe out in front of a gas station.”
“Only if you were watching.”
I shake my head. “When would you ride it?”
“Anywhere.” His voice sounds far away now. Like he’s talking to a version of me that only exists in his dreams. “I’d take you with me. Steal a helmet for your big-ass head. Ride until the gas runs out.”
“And then what?”
“We sleep under the stars. Or break into a motel. Or keep going until we find somewhere that feels . . . quiet.”
“Quiet’s overrated.”
“Not when all you’ve ever known is noise.”
I pause at his words. Because he’s right—there are barely moments where there’s no noise. Even now, when we should be sleeping, the world around us still buzzes.
“Cass?” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think . . . this is weird?”
“What?”
“This. Us. Lying like this.”
“I think it’s the only thing that feels right.”
My throat tightens and he keeps playing with my hair.
“You’re the only real thing I have,” he says. “Everyone else leaves—or uses me. Or forgets me. But you . . .” He swallows. “You see me, and you still stay.”
I want to say something—anything—but all I can do is lie there, heart pounding against his arm. He’s fifteen; he doesn’t know what love is. Not really. But the way he says that? It’s not just need, it’s not just comfort, it’s devotion. And it scares the hell out of me.
Because I think part of me wants it—wants to believe it. Wants to wrap myself in it like armor and say maybe I’m not disposable after all.
But another part of me—the part that’s been bounced from house to house, forgotten and overlooked and touched when I didn’t want to be—knows this kind of closeness never ends well.
I can’t afford to be someone’s “only real thing.”
I don’t deserve to be the center of anyone’s universe .
Still . . .
I shift closer anyway and allow his arm to tighten around my waist, letting the heat between us grow and spread, taking root in all the places I swore were off-limits.
“You ever think maybe we were meant to find each other?” I whisper.
His voice is soft. “No.” A pause. “I know we were.”