Chapter 16
Dexter
The storm doesn’t let up.
I hear it before I’m fully awake, the wind dragging across the building, snow hitting the windows in uneven bursts, sharp and restless, like it’s trying to get in.
I stare at the ceiling for a second, listening, the weight of it sitting heavy in the silence.
It’s too quiet outside.
That’s never a good sign.
I push the covers back and sit up, running a hand over my face, trying to shake off the edge of it, but it lingers, low and constant. The room is dim, gray light bleeding through the curtains, the kind that tells you it’s morning without ever really becoming it.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, rolling the stiffness out of my shoulders before heading to the window.
Nothing.
Just white.
The building across the street is gone, swallowed completely. No shapes. No edges. Just a wall of snow moving sideways in the wind, thick enough to erase everything behind it.
“Yeah… that’s not good,” I mutter.
A gust slams into the side of the building, the glass rattling faintly under the pressure.
I drag a hand through my hair and turn away, pulling on a pair of pants before heading out of the bedroom.
The apartment is warmer than my room, the low hum of the heater steady in the background, fighting against the cold pressing in from outside.
Then I smell it.
Coffee .
I step into the kitchen doorway and stop.
Lexy’s at the stove with her back to me, wearing headphones, completely lost in whatever she’s listening to, her voice soft as she sings under her breath, something about lightning and skies, quiet and unguarded in a way I haven’t heard from her before.
It does something to the space, easing the tension just enough that the storm feels farther away than it should.
I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, watching her longer than I should, longer than makes sense for something this simple.
She’s in those pink Hello Kitty shorts again and a loose white tee, hair still damp from the shower, the ends darker where they haven’t dried yet, a few strands clinging to the back of her neck.
Bare legs. Bare feet. Nothing careful or guarded about her right now. She moves easily, like she belongs here, like this is her space as much as mine, like she forgot for a second that it isn’t.
She stirs the eggs, swaying slightly with the music, completely absorbed in it, and for a moment it feels like the world outside those walls doesn’t exist for her at all.
I shouldn’t like that.
I shouldn’t like how it feels to watch her like this, relaxed, unguarded, like she’s not carrying everything I know she is.
But I do.
“Mornin’, Tinker,” I say.
Nothing.
She keeps singing.
I push off the doorframe and walk toward her, the floor creaking faintly under my steps, but she doesn’t hear it, doesn’t feel me there until I step fully into her space.
When I enter her line of sight, she jumps, the headphones slipping off and clattering to the floor.
My mouth twitches before I can stop it.
Yeah.
I definitely like that more than I should.
“Dex! You scared the shit out of me!”
She frowns, hands going to her hips, eyes flashing, and there it is again, that spark, that fight that sits just under everything else.
“Mornin’, Tinker,” I repeat. “Tried that already, but you were too busy singing along to…?” I lift a brow.
She huffs. “It’s Taylor Swift.”
I nod once. “Explains a lot.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t start please.”
She turns back to the stove, switching off the heat, but I don’t move right away, still too aware of the space between us, of how easily I stepped into it.
“Smells good,” I say, stepping closer, leaning slightly over her shoulder to look at the pan.
Eggs and bacon.
But what hits me isn’t the food.
It’s her.
Orange blossom shampoo. Warm skin. Something softer underneath that I don’t want to think too much about, don’t want to name because that would mean acknowledging it’s there.
My focus slips for half a second, just enough that I notice it.
That I feel it.
And that’s enough.
What the hell are you doing, Dex?
I step back, putting space between us before I forget myself.
“I made some for you too…” she says, her voice quieter now. “You like scrambled eggs and bacon?”
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Thanks.”
We sit across from each other at the kitchen island, the storm still pressing faintly against the windows, a reminder that there’s nowhere else to be.
Silence settles in, unfamiliar in a way that keeps pulling at my attention.
I don’t do this. Breakfast is usually at the bar, quick and practical, or at my parents’ place, loud and crowded, or grabbed on the go without a second thought. Sitting here across from her, sharing a quiet morning like this, feels different in a way I don’t quite know how to handle.
“Any plans today?” I ask.
She gives me a look like I just asked something stupid. “Uh… no,” she says slowly. “Kind of stuck in a snowstorm.”
A hint of attitude slips into her voice.
I almost smile.
“You?”
I shrug. “Couch day.”
She nods, taking a bite, then pauses, something shifting in her expression.
“What if…” she starts, then stops, shaking her head. “Never mind.”
I reach out before I think about it, my hand closing lightly around her arm.
The second I touch her, she stills, her attention snapping to the place where our skin meets, like the contact carries more weight than it should.
And then I feel it too.
The weight of it.
The fact that I didn’t hesitate, didn’t even think before reaching for her.
My hand lingers there for a beat, caught between instinct and restraint, before I even figure out what I’m supposed to do with it.
“What?” I ask, quieter now.
She glances at my hand, then back at me, something unreadable passing through her eyes before she answers.
“Well… I was going to suggest a Marvel marathon,” she says. “But you probably already have plans, so… just forget it.”
A Marvel marathon.
I let go of her arm then, leaning back slightly, giving her space even as something in me resists it.
“I used to do one with my brother every winter break,” she adds, a little more unsure now. “Takes about a week if you pace it right. Less if you don’t sleep.”
I don’t hesitate.
“Perfect.”
Her head snaps up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, meeting her eyes. “But on one condition.”
She straightens immediately. “Okay…”
“We start with Iron Man.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course we do. Where else would you start?”
Lexy slides off the stool, taking her plate to the sink, and I watch her for a second longer than I should, the movement of her, the ease of it, the way she fits into this space like she’s always been here.
And that thought sits wrong.
Because no matter how many times I tell myself to keep my distance, to keep this simple, she keeps slipping past it.
And I don’t know how to stop it.
? ? ?
Alexis
The couch suddenly feels too small, which makes no sense, because it isn’t.
There’s enough space between us that I could stretch my legs out fully if I wanted to, but I don’t. Instead, I stay curled into my side of it, the blanket pulled over my lap like it’s some kind of shield, trying very hard to focus on the movie and not on Dex.
He’s leaned back like he owns the place, which he does, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind me. He isn’t touching me, and still I can feel him there, a quiet, constant presence that makes it impossible to forget how little space there actually is between us.
Every time he shifts, the scent of him drifts my way and something about it settles low in my chest before tightening, like my body reacts before I have time to think it through.
I pull the blanket tighter.
“Cold?” he asks.
“No,” I say too quickly, the word slipping out sharper than I mean it to.
He doesn’t comment on that.
Of course he doesn’t.
On screen, Tony Stark is talking, fast, arrogant, clever, and normally I’d be completely into it.
But I can’t focus, because I’m aware of everything, the quiet weight of his arm behind me, the way his knee is just a few inches from mine, the way that small distance feels like it matters more than it should.
My breathing turns careful, measured, like I have to pay attention to it to keep it steady, to keep myself from shifting even a fraction closer.
So I stay still.
My phone buzzes, the sound cutting through the room and pulling me out of it.
I glance down at the coffee table.
Mom .
My stomach drops, a slow, heavy feeling spreading through my chest and settling there, familiar in a way I wish it wasn’t.
I push the blanket aside and stand, needing the space, needing a second to breathe before I answer. Without looking at Dex, I walk into the kitchen, my fingers tightening around the phone as I bring it to my ear.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Mama?”
“You left me without money or food, you little bitch!”
I close my eyes briefly. I know that tone. She’s under the influence, and it’s not good.
“I left you some money in the bathroom cabinet, Mama. You can use that.”
“I already used that, Lexy! What the hell was I supposed to do with thirty bucks?”
“Are you safe?”
“I’m stuck at home and I can’t get to the store for drinks! All there is is bread, cereal and water!”
“I’ll come visit you as soon as this storm is over, Mama, and I’ll take you shopping, okay?”
She starts calling me names, worse ones this time, not even asking if I’m safe, where I am, or why I left.
I hang up.
For a second, I just stand there in the kitchen, staring at nothing, the silence pressing in where her voice just was.
Then I take a breath and walk back to the couch, pulling the blanket over my lap again like I can slip back into the moment I left before the call.
My phone rings.
Again .
The sound is sharper this time, more insistent.
I freeze, my hand hovering just above it.
I know exactly what’s waiting on the other end.