It was still dark when I woke up.
The sky outside Kaden's window was soft gray, not quite morning, not quite night. That in-between kind of quiet where everything feels a little too still. Like the world's holding its breath.
My neck ached from the awkward angle I'd fallen asleep in—back against the headboard, legs curled beneath me. The blanket had slipped halfway down, and I tugged it back over my lap, suddenly aware of the way the air felt against my skin.
I was wearing a light blue tank top, the soft cotton kind I always slept in, and matching pajama shorts that barely reached mid-thigh. I hadn't thought twice about it last night. But now, with Callum lying next to me, everything felt... exposed. Not inappropriate, exactly. Just noticeable.
He stirred beside me. His breathing shifted.
Then his eyes opened.
"Hey," I said, my voice rough with sleep and something else I didn't know how to name.
"Hey," he murmured back, blinking up at the ceiling before turning his head slowly to look at me. His lip was still split. The bruise on his cheek had darkened overnight.
I hated how used to seeing him hurt I'd become.
"You okay?" I asked quietly.
He gave me half a smile. "Think I've had better nights."
I nodded. "You scared me."
His eyes dropped to where our hands had ended up—his fingers loosely curled around mine, like even in sleep he hadn't wanted to let go.
"I didn't mean for you to see me like that," he said, voice low. "Bleeding. Crawling through a window like some stray."
"You're not a stray," I said, firmer than I expected. "You're just... lost sometimes."
He looked away.
I tucked one leg under the other and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. The fabric of my tank top stretched gently across my chest, and for a second, his gaze flicked there before darting back up to my face, guilt flickering behind his eyes.
"I think about you more than I should," I whispered.
He froze.
"Cara…" he said, voice suddenly rough.
"I know. I know I'm too young. I know you try not to notice. But I do." I swallowed. "And I know you feel it too. You don't have to say it. I see it every time you look at me like I'm not just some kid in your best friend's house."
His jaw clenched. He looked like he wanted to stand up and run, but his ribs wouldn't let him.
So I kept going.
"Can I kiss you?" I asked, barely louder than a breath.
His eyes snapped to mine.
Not in shock. Not in anger.
In pain.
Like I'd asked for something he both desperately wanted and absolutely shouldn't give.
"If I let you…" he said slowly, "I don't think I can pretend it didn't happen."
"Then don't pretend."
The air between us was buzzing now, full of words we weren't saying. I sat cross-legged, the blanket slipping off my lap, bare legs brushing his knee. I could feel how warm he was. How close.
And then, gently—like I was made of glass—he reached up, tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, and leaned in.
His lips met mine so softly it almost didn't feel real.
No fireworks. No dramatic swell of music. Just the quiet, aching press of two people holding too much for too long.
When he pulled back, he didn't move far.
His forehead rested against mine. His breath was shallow. I felt it ghost across my lips.
"I shouldn't have," he said, like he was scolding himself.
"I'm glad you did," I whispered.
He didn't say anything after that.
But his hand never left mine.
And for a while, the world outside the window stopped spinning.