Chapter 19
NINETEEN
HARPER
Sleep isn’t sleep. It’s fragments. Jumps. Flickers of neon. Hands on my skin. Breathing too fast.
Then—
Caleb.
His warm chest and his strong, warm arms that are like a shell of safety around me.
He’s real, unlike the nightmares.
Every time I jerk awake gasping, he’s exactly where I left him—holding me like I’m something precious instead of a mess of pain and stupid decisions. His gentle breath stirs my hair. His heartbeat is this slow, steady rhythm beneath my ear. When it feels like I’ve never had anything steady before.
But the dark is patient. Every time I close my eyes again, it seeps back in.
Trauma’s a bitch like that. It doesn’t stay buried—it drags all your old shadows out by the hair and shoves them under your nose like: remember this?
Twelve-year-old me, jamming a chair under my bedroom doorknob.
Fourteen, sleeping with a knife under my pillow.
Sixteen, learning to become invisible because it was safer than fighting. Running, safer still.
Seventeen—becoming loud and reckless, daring people to hurt me because that was the only power I had left.
Tonight? All the shadow selves show up at once. And in the dreams, I’m screaming the same words every time: “Daddy, please, don’t leave me here! Come back!”
But he never turns around. He never comes back.
No one ever does.
But wait. That’s not true anymore…
Caleb did.
Not because he had to. Not because anyone made him. But because he wanted to.
And not just ’cause he’s trying to get into my pants. He… wants strings with me.
Guys don’t say that. Not to girls like me. Not and mean it.
I try to shove it away, but it keeps playing on repeat.
I want strings attached with you, Harper.
Like it mattered. Like I matter.
I snuggle closer, letting his body heat drive the cold out of my bones. I’ve never slept beside anyone except Z before. And even with Z, I always had to keep one ear open, ready to bolt. But here?
I feel… safe. I’ve let my walls down.
And that’s the scariest part.
Because if it’s real—if Caleb actually does care about me—then I have something to lose now. And I’ve never been good at holding tight to the things that matter. Something always steals them away.
My brain tries to knock it all down before it can even settle:
He felt sorry for you. You were crying. He just wanted to shut you up. Darlene’s voice slides in, sour and slurred. Who could love trash like you?
But that’s not what Caleb said. That’s not what he showed me when he fought for me. He said I was his to protect.
He looked at me like I was worth something. Worth fighting for. Worth staying for.
And that’s the part I can’t make peace with—because what the hell am I bringing to the table?
Eighteen years full of trauma. A resume of red flags. And he’s… Caleb. Golden boy. Solid. With a future so bright it’s practically blinding.
What does someone like him want with someone like me?
A tear slips down my cheek and soaks into his now-dry shirt.
His arms tighten, even in sleep. Instinctive. Reflexive.
God, he doesn’t even know how to let go. And I don’t know how to hold on. He’s giving me everything, and I don’t even know how to love myself.
How do you give something you’ve never had? How do you believe you’re lovable when the only proof you’ve ever known says otherwise?
There are a hundred reasons this thing between us shouldn’t work. The step-sibling part is just the cherry on top of the fucked-up sundae.
And yet…
I curl tighter into him, tucking my face against his chest like I’m trying to memorize the blueprint of safety.
What if I could learn?
What if love isn’t something you’re born knowing? What if it’s something you choose—on purpose, every messy, terrifying day?
When I wake up, Caleb’s gone.
Of course he is. He slipped out before dawn like some reverse Cinderella—no glass slipper, just the smell of his skin still on my pillow and the ghost of his weight pressed into the mattress.
I press my palm into the dip he left behind.
Still warm.
He was here. I didn’t dream it. He really did hold me all night.
Now I’m awake and very much in hell, because reality’s barging in with a migraine the size of Texas. Sox is passed out at the foot of the bed.
Um. Last night’s pretty fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure I accidentally told my stepbrother that I’m falling for him. Worse—I think I meant it.
My stomach heaves.
That’s not gonna make anything awkward this morning. No, it’s totally cool. I can still just play this super cool.
I sit up and catch sight of myself in the mirror across the room. My hair looks like I got in a fight with a raccoon and lost. Pillow lines are tattooed into my cheek, and mascara is gooped beneath my eyes.
Cool cool cool.
Voices drift up from downstairs. Laughter. Cups clinking. Helen’s soft murmur. Dad’s scratchy bark of a laugh. And then—Caleb’s voice. Low. Warm. Saying something that makes them both chuckle.
My stomach heaves again, and I barely make it to the toilet in time to empty my guts.
“Ugh,” I groan, but feel better after I puke. I brush my teeth and swish mouthwash, then splash cold water on my face and wash it with my cherry blossom scrub. After I’m clean, water drips down my chin as I grip the sink and look in the mirror.
“Okay, Tucker. Get it together. Be cool. Casual. Emotionally detached.”
My reflection raises an unimpressed eyebrow. I flip her off and wince at the daylight.
I mean, please. I eat emotionally detached for breakfast. It won’t be a problem to hide my feelings.
At least I think so until I walk into the kitchen.
Caleb’s there, slouched at the island like some domestic fantasy—in rumpled gray pajama pants low on his hips and a white T-shirt riding up to flash golden skin. His hair’s all messy, and my fingers are itching to dive into it.
He looks like everything I want and nothing I’m allowed to have.
He looks up—and time hiccups.
In one second, I see it all in a flash. Last night. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t damaged goods.
And the part where he pinned me with those intense blue eyes of his and said he’s falling for me, too.
Oh fuck. Right. That part.
He wasn’t drunk or high, and he said he’s falling for me.
“Morning,” he says, calm as hell. Except I hear it—that tiny crack under the surface.
“Morning,” I squeak back, two octaves too high.
Dad and Helen are doing the coffee-and-bliss routine, so I plaster on my best “normal human” face. It’s harder than it sounds when you’ve been emotionally flayed open less than twelve hours before. Jesus, are my eyes still bloodshot?
Helen slides me a plate of pancakes with a sweet smile. “How are you feeling, honey? Caleb said you weren’t feeling well yesterday.”
Oh. That’s a good cover story. He must’ve anticipated I’d look like shit this morning.
“Better,” I lie. “Much better.”
I reach for the syrup at the same time Caleb does, because the universe is a sadist. Our fingers brush. And it’s immediately electric. As if he wired a taser straight into my bloodstream.
He jerks his hand back like I burned him.
Dad raises an eyebrow. “You two seem jumpy this morning.”
Cue internal freak out.
But Caleb, bless his smooth-talking soul, recovers instantly.
“Sorry,” he says, shooting me a quick glance that’s way too innocent to be legal. “Still worried about Harper. You know how it is with siblings.”
Oof. The word. Siblings.
Helen beams like we’re the Brady Bunch. “It’s so sweet how protective you are already. Like you’ve been family your whole lives.”
Lady, if you only knew.
I stab my pancakes and even manage a few bites just to keep up the act. But under the table—
Caleb’s hand finds mine.
His fingers close around mine gently, like a question. And then he starts rubbing little circles into my palm with his thumb. My fingers go white knuckled around my fork. Jesus, does he know what that’s doing to me? A glance his way at the subtle smirk on his face says, yes, yes, he does.
And he’s still doing it anyway. At the family breakfast table.
Dad starts griping about chores, and Caleb cuts him off, still holding my hand. “Give her a break, will ya? She hasn’t been feeling well.”
And okay. Maybe it should bother me that my dad moves on to flirting with his new wife over bacon and pancakes while I’m still spiraling about my stepbrother, but I’m too distracted.
Because under the table, Caleb’s still tracing the lines of my palm like he’s reading them. Like my future’s hiding in there.
Which, um, he seriously needs to stop doing, because—
My breath catches. My thighs clench. Oh fuck, I am literally three seconds away from having a full-blown orgasm at the breakfast table.
From a thumb.
He is so fucking twisted. Goddammit, I love twisted. This man is going to ruin me.
I shove back my chair so hard it screeches, yanking my hand away from his. “Gonna—um—go study!”
I make a beeline for the stairs.
Behind me, Dad mutters, “Go study? Maybe she really is sick.”
Which… fair.
Symptoms include: rapid heart rate, damp palms, inconvenient arousal, and the sudden urge to fling myself into a volcano to avoid eye contact.
I slam my bedroom door, lock it, and press my forehead to the wood.
This is a disaster.
A ridiculous giggle bubbles up from my chest, and I slap my hand over my mouth before going to turn on the shower, high blast.
A glorious, impossible disaster.