Chapter 2

The next morning, sunlight bled through the thin curtains of the house, painting stripes across the hallway floor. The silence was ordinary—birds chirping, the hum of the refrigerator kicking on—but beneath it, tension coiled like a spring. Chloe stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a mug with unnecessary force, her knuckles white. She hadn’t slept. Not really. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Leo’s face—flushed, desperate, consumed—and felt the ghost of his hands on her hips, the weight of him inside her, the way her body had responded, shamelessly.

She wore jeans and an oversized sweater now, layers to rebuild the armor she’d torn apart the night before. But her skin still tingled. Her thighs ached.

Leo shuffled in, eyes shadowed, hair disheveled. He didn’t look at her. Not directly. He poured cereal into a bowl with trembling hands, the spoon clinking too loud in the quiet. The fridge door slammed shut with a finality that made Chloe flinch.

They didn’t speak.

But the air between them was charged, thick with unsaid things—confessions, threats, promises.

Then the third presence entered.

Gemma, their sister came in slow, wrapped in a frayed cardigan, nose buried in a dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights. She paused in the doorway, her sharp, dark eyes flicking from Leo, then to Chloe, then back again. She didn’t miss the way Leo’s breath caught when Chloe turned. The way Chloe’s fingers curled tightly around her mug.