The space between us has weight. Breathing through it hurts.
The kitchen is suddenly too small for what's inside my head—too bright, too ordinary. The clock over the stove ticks like a warning, steady and stupid, and every scrape of fork against plate lands in my teeth.
I'm still reeling from shackles and blood, from that voice that begged me to forget—echoes of a place I shouldn't remember—while Will sits there too close, too calm, watching me like I'm a puzzle he's almost finished.
My skin buzzes.
Not just on the surface—deeper. Static in my veins. Like my bones are wires and someone keeps turning the voltage up.
My body remembers something my mind still can't reach.
I need air. I need distance. I do not need him.
And still, I turn toward him, because apparently today's divine agenda is: emotionally collapse Angela before noon.
"I'm not saying no to you," I fire back, crossing my arms so tightly it feels like I might snap my own ribs. Armor. Always armor. "I'm saying I can't go with you because someone already asked me, and I said I'd go."
The words taste like equal parts defiance and desperation. I cling to them anyway.
He should look disappointed. He should back off. He should say Oh, okay, makes sense, happy birthday, and leave.
Instead, he smiles.
Not sweet. Not shy.
Knowing.
The kind of smile you wear when you're holding a hand of cards your opponent didn't realize they dealt you.
Will's smile doesn't reach his eyes.
"I'm glad you told me that," he says, too steady. "Because I did get your message last week—your note under my windshield."
Cold ripples down my spine.
My fingers go numb around my fork. "What message?" I manage.
He tilts his head like he's genuinely confused. "The note you left. On my truck. Under the wiper." His lips twitch. "Folded into a tight little square," he adds, watching my face. "Smelled like you."
Something inside me stutters.
"I didn't—" I start, then stop as a horrible possibility slams into place. "Shelby."
Of course.
"So," he continues, almost cheerful now, "Shelby suggested I come here and ask your parents in person. She said something about you loving traditional romance."
In the name of every god, I am going to kill her.
I slide my phone out from under my thigh and under the table, thumbs flying.
ME: I'm killing you.
Three dots appear instantly. Of course they do.
I don't look up. I don't look at Will. I don't look at my mother, who has apparently been promoted to Chairwoman of My Romantic Future.
My heart is racing—not from fear this time, but from the terrifying pull toward the man who drags buried things to the surface of my mind just by breathing.
And because I can feel it: I'm about to lose control of a story I didn't even know I was part of.
Shelby: Wait till AFTER I marry the Viking baker from TikTok.
Shelby: I loft the note. You would rather chew glass than ask him yourself.
Shelby: Also I told him to ask your parents because you're feral and I love chaos.
It's not wrong, which makes me want to bite something.
A strangled almost-laugh tries to escape; I slap my hand over my mouth and cough, playing it off like syrup went down wrong.
Mom is smiling too widely–like she practiced it in the mirror and forgot to stop. Her hand trembles when she flips a pancake; it lands crooked, half-folded, and she laughs like that was the plan.
Will is studying me with that unnervingly patient intensity, like he can hear every word Shelby types and is cataloging my reactions.
Another text:
Shelby: Also if he buys tacos after the game I'm coming. If I'm third-wheeling destiny I'm at least getting Mexican food.
The urge to laugh and scream at the same time hits so sharply my eyes sting.
Shelby: If you wear that red dress I'm gonna faint and collapse into Evan's arms. I EARNED that.
I type back with my jaw clenched:
Me: I hate you.
Shelby: Love you too. Don't blow up the kitchen.
I drop my phone face-down in my lap so hard the table shudders.
Will's eyebrow lifts. He noticed. Of course he did.
For the first time this morning, I almost smile.
Because if the world is unraveling, at least Shelby is laughing beside me from miles away.
She's on that anniversary trip with Evan at his parents' lake house—deep woods, terrible cell service, the kind of place where your phone becomes decorative. Somehow, she's got one bar. Of course she does. Chaos follows her like a loyal pet.
Just when I'm convinced this morning cannot possibly get more unhinged, my mother decides to outdo the Fates.
"Will, thank you so much for coming this morning!" Her voice jumps an octave—Stepford Wife Delight: engaged. "If you're asking her, Ang would be delighted to go to the Masquerade Ball with you. You two will have such a wonderful time. The dress she made is absolutely stunning. She's so talented—did you know that, Will? She's incredibly creative."
I whip my head around so fast my neck protests.
"MOM!"
The word rips out of me—hot, humiliating–and something inside my chest answers.
A spark skitters along my sternum like a struck match. Heat floods my limbs, fast and sharp, and the lights over the sink flutter twice–violent, uneven–like they're trying to get away from me.
The room tightens.
My ears ring. Pressure builds behind my eyes like a headache being born.
My mother doesn't notice. She's still smiling. Still performing.
My fingers clamp around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, nails digging into wood.
If I don't hold on, I'm not entirely sure what happens next.
The world goes too crisp.
I hear the refrigerator hum. The clock tick. The pan cooling with quiet, uneven pops.
I hear my heartbeat like a war drum.
This is bad.
This isn't mood. It's voltage.
Strange things happen when I get angry.
Light bulbs crack. Drinks leap off tables. Doors slam in windless halls. The boys' bathroom flooded in eighth grade because a football player grabbed my wrist. I barely touched the sink. It erupted like a geyser.
After that, it was months of grounding techniques and my grandmother's sharp eyes tracking every sigh or frown.
"Count to ten."
"Use your words."
"Imagine your anger as a wave you can surf, not drown in."
It mostly worked.
Usually.
Today, I feel like the ocean.
I shove the surge down—the part of me that feels too big for my body, too ancient for my age, too violent to be allowed out.
Not here. Not in front of Mom. Not in front of him.
When I lift my eyes again, Will is already watching me.
Not flinching. Not recoiling. Not confused.
No surprise.
Like he expected this.
Like he's been waiting for me to stop pretending I'm a match in a room full of candles and admit I'm something closer to a live wire.
I drag in a breath. Then another.
Breathe in. Breathe out. You're fine. You're—
The pressure spikes again, hot and bright, scraping along my bones.
"This is insane!" I shout, voice shaking. "It is way too damn early for everybody to gang up on me."
Mom flinches like I slapped her.
"And Will—" I choke on his name.
He doesn't look ashamed. Or guilty. Or like any of this is finally registering as a terrible plan.
He just looks… steady. Like a lighthouse in a storm he already knew was coming.
I jab a finger toward the back door. "Will. Outside. We need to talk."
My words crack across the room like a whip.
Mom half-stands, lifting a hand like she's about to smooth things over with pancakes and platitudes.
I bare my teeth without meaning to. "Alone."
The word leaves no room for negotiation.
Mom's face goes still in a way that isn't surprise. It's recognition.
Power hums under my skin, a storm gathered beneath my sternum, itching to fracture glass, splinter wood, shove the world back a few feet for daring to corner me.
Will doesn't posture.
He doesn't roll his shoulders or puff up like the guys who think volume equals control.
He just nods.
Then—in that infuriatingly polite, old-world way of his—he turns to my mother and says, "Thank you for breakfast. It was wonderful," like we're leaving brunch and not the staging ground of the apocalypse.
He pushes his chair in. Walks to the door. Opens it.
Cool morning air slips inside, brushing over my overheated skin.
He steps out onto the porch.
For a half second–just one–the set of his shoulders shifts like he's bracing for impact.
Quiet. Controlled. Absolutely maddening.
I stand there with my arms crossed, jaw clenched, one eyelid twitching like a cartoon villain seconds before the city explodes.
No one moves.
I can feel my mother's gaze on the side of my face. My father's concern sits heavy behind me like fog.
For half a second, I think about staying.
Sitting back down. Eating pancakes I suddenly can't taste. Letting the conversation pivot to normal birthday things—cake flavors, party times, whether I'm "excited to be twenty-one."
I could pretend nothing just happened. Pretend Will is just some guy Evan knows. Pretend my skin isn't buzzing with power and fear and something that feels suspiciously like recognition.
I could choose the lie.
The house feels like it's leaning forward, waiting.
The door clicks closed behind him.
Every light in the kitchen flickers once—just once—like the whole house exhales.
Mom's eyes snap to the ceiling. "Did you see that?" she whispers.
It isn't Will.
It's me.
I look at my parents.
Mom's face is pale, lips pressed tight, eyes too glossy. Dad's fingers are wrapped so tightly around his mug I'm surprised it hasn't shattered.
"Ang," Mom says carefully, "maybe we should all just—"
"I've got it," I cut in, voice flat. "Don't worry."
She doesn't look reassured.
Through the glass, he's a silhouette—broad shoulders, hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed like he's talking to the yard. Or the air. Or the gods.
His gaze lifts and finds me.
Even through the pane, it hits like a shove.
No surprise.
Just that calm, counting-down look.
I force my shoulders back.
"Don't blow anything up," I tell the kitchen, aiming for light and landing somewhere near frayed.
Mom takes a step like she wants to follow, then stops, fingers clenching the edge of the table.
"I'll be right outside," I add, because it feels like what I'm supposed to say.
I don't know if it's true.
My hand closes around the doorknob.
Metal. Cool. Solid. Grounding.
For a second, something pulses under my palm–faint,steady–like the house is listening.
I swallow and step outside.
The air hits me first—cooler than it was a few minutes ago, as if the storm coiled in my chest leaked into the weather. The yard smells like wet grass and distant rain, even though the sky is a bright, brittle blue.
He stands at the edge of the porch, back to me, hands still in his pockets. The posture is casual. The tension in his shoulders isn't.
Like stepping outside let him drop the mask that was for my parents–but not the one that's for war.
He turns his head slightly, just enough to show me his profile.
"Before you say anything," he murmurs, quiet as a blade, "you need to know this morning wasn't my idea."
His eyes flick to the tree line–quick, sharp.
"And we don't have as much time as you think."