5. Cole #3
He pushes off the frame and walks toward Gio. He says something low until Gio nods, then his hand lands on Gio's shoulder before his path bends toward the couch, toward us, and my pulse picks up before he's halfway, a drumbeat under my ribs.
As he passes he looks down at her for three seconds while Maya's mid-sentence with Clara, face turned, the gray sweatshirt loose on her shoulders. Dante's stride slows half a step, and my stomach drops.
Then he keeps going, heading toward the stairs at the back of the room, and the muscle along my arm stays locked, tense.
"More people here than usual," Maya says, her voice pulling me back.
"Winning streak. Brings out the faithful."
"Mm." She takes a sip of her drink, her shoulder warm near my hand, and the simple contact makes my throat tight.
By one the party is breaking up, freshmen spilling out the door, the music dying and the house settling around us. Gio and Zoe leave first, his hand on her lower back. Adrian pulls Clara's jacket over her shoulders.
"Good piece tonight," he tells Maya on his way out.
Maya nods, a small, genuine smile touching her lips.
Declan and Talia slip out without announcing it.
Maya is the last, still tucked into the couch cushion when the rest are gone. She stands and stretches until her sweatshirt lifts again, the same narrow line of skin before it falls back, and my eyes fix on the doorframe because looking at her is too dangerous.
"I'm out," she says. "Early edit tomorrow."
"Text me when you're home."
"Yes, dad."
"Not your dad."
The three words sit between us, sharp and loaded. Maya's chin lifts a fraction, her eyes holding mine, her lips parting and closing before she swallows once, and I don't look away, can't look away.
"Call your mother," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
She holds my gaze for a beat longer than the sentence needs. Then she pulls on her jacket over the sweatshirt and steps out, and the door clicks shut between us, the sound final.
From the kitchen window her shape moves across the yard, boots crunching across salted snow, breath trailing white, and I stand there longer than I need to, watching until she disappears around the corner.
I grab the rag draped over the faucet from earlier and clean up the kitchen, rinsing cups, wiping the counter, stacking the empties by the recycling.
The faucet drips into the silence. The counter still holds the ring from Dante's glass, the condensation already drying at the edges.
The whole house smells like flat beer and the wet snow that came in every time the door opened all night.
I wring out the rag and hang it back over the faucet, my hands moving on autopilot.
The fridge hums, a floorboard pops somewhere near the stairs, and the faucet drips twice before I tighten the handle.
I know this quiet. I've stood inside it since I was twelve, my mother's car pulling out of the driveway, taillights cutting through the kitchen window, the house ticking around me while I stood at the sink washing my cereal bowl, alone.
And now it's one-thirty in the morning and I'm standing in the kitchen alone, wringing out a rag, and the familiarity of it fucking hurts.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Maya: Home. Alive. Stop worrying.
I hold the phone, her contact photo filling the screen from sophomore year with her head thrown back laughing at something I said. I type one word and send it.
Me: Never.
My phone buzzes again.
Dad: Proud of the brief either way. You've got the mind for this, Cole.
I stare at the text—the mind for this—and set the phone facedown on the counter.
The house is quiet, and upstairs the floor creaks once, then settles.
It's Dante. Tuesday night he came to my room, his hand closing around the back of my neck, his mouth on mine, You're mine.
The moment after, my lungs filling and emptying before I answered, my fingers closing around his wrist, my thumb finding the place his pulse kicked hardest. Later, in the dark, my voice aimed at him across the pillow: You handed her a weapon tonight.
And you're keeping her recorder like a trophy. Pick one.
I cross the kitchen and climb the stairs, Dante's door closed and the light under it gone, my room down the hall.
I stop between them.
My breathing goes shallow and my body goes still, every muscle locked.
One ear is tuned for the slightest movement on the other side of his door because if I take another step he'll hear it—he knows I'm here, the bastard, he's waiting to hear which door opens, and the silence between us feels heavier than any fucking sound.
My hand hangs at my side. If I turn his knob, this plays the way it always plays, his hand at my neck and my mouth answering, his body against mine until I forget everything else. If I keep walking, he lies there listening, and the hardwood between us holds.
His half-step past the couch tonight, his eyes on her thigh against mine, my sweatshirt on her shoulders, the borrowed name he threw in her face.
I walk past his door. My door opens with a small click from the hinge. I close it behind me, and the latch catches.