Thirty-seven hours without sleep, and my brain has decided that replaying the worst decision of my life on a loop is a productive use of the time.
Saturday was an exercise in strategic invisibility. I timed my movements through the house to avoid Kai—breakfast after he leaves for his run, dinner after he retreats to his room, the spaces between filled with walks around the estate grounds.
The interior door between our rooms haunts me. That first night after the classroom, I lay in bed staring at it, watching the thin strip of light beneath it flicker as he moved around on the other side. Listening for footsteps. Waiting for the handle to turn.
It never did turn.
But I could not take the chance. The next morning, I shoved my dresser against it—a heavy oak piece that scraped against the hardwood and probably damaged the floor.
The barrier is psychological more than practical. He could still knock. He could still call her name through the wood.
But at least I would have warning. At least I would have time to arrange my face into something other than want.
I catch myself wondering what his room looks like. The master suite. His parents' old bedroom, renovated and claimed.
Is it dark? Minimal? Does he have books on his nightstand or just evidence of the life he performs for everyone else?
I imagine pushing the dresser aside and slipping through in the middle of the night, just to look. Instead, I stay on my side, and I do not sleep.
Sunday morning arrives gray and quiet. I sit on the edge of my bed, exhausted in a way that goes deeper than physical.
The kiss replays on a loop I cannot stop. His mouth on mine. His hands in my hair. The way he lifted me onto the desk like I weighed nothing. The sound he made when I bit his lip—low and hungry, a sound I should not want to hear again.
You talk too much, sister.
The word should kill the memory. Yet, my traitorous brain edits it out, rewrites the scene without the interruption.
What would have happened if he had not said it? If I had not slapped him?
I press my thighs together. The ache between them is unbearable. I am wet from just a memory, aroused by a man I should despise, and the shame of it does nothing to make the wanting stop.
I think about my father. Alistair Fraser would have hated this. All of it. He would have looked at Kai and seen through him in an instant.
‘The measure of a person isn't what they take, Skye. It's what they give when they have nothing left to spare.’
I hear his voice so clearly it hurts. Scottish vowels softened by decades in America, the cadence of a man who chose his words carefully because he believed they mattered.
I miss him with a ferocity that steals my breath. And I wonder what he would say if he knew what I did in that classroom.
Breakfast. I will make breakfast. My father's favorite sandwich: rye bread, sharp cheddar, sliced turkey, a smear of grainy mustard. He made it every Sunday morning when I was a child, humming off-key while the coffee brewed.
Mrs. Aldén has Sundays off. Heinrich and Diane left yesterday for some event in the city. I am alone in this house.
Alone except for Kai.
I push the thought away and head downstairs. He must have already gone out for a run.
The kitchen is empty. I assemble the sandwich with care, layering the ingredients the way my father taught me. I set the coffee maker brewing. I hum without thinking about it—an old Scottish song, the melody rising unbidden from memory.
For a few minutes, I feel almost normal.
A voice cuts through the quiet behind me. "Didn't take you for a morning person."
My heart detonates in my chest. I spin so fast the knife nearly flies from my grip, the blade catching the light as I whirl to face the doorway.
"Jesus fucking Christ!"
"Relax." Kai leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with that half-smirk that makes me want to throw the knife at his head. "It's just me."
"That's not as reassuring as you think it is," I say.
He's wearing nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, his hair still damp from a shower. Water droplets cling to his shoulders, tracking down his chest in paths my eyes follow before I can stop them.
Has he already been running?
His eyes travel down my body, taking in my pajamas. An old t-shirt that hits mid-thigh. Bare legs. No bra. I feel the gaze like a physical touch and resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
"Nice outfit," he says.
"Right back at you." I set the knife down. "Did you forget the rest of your clothes, or is this a deliberate choice?"
"Deliberate." His smile sharpens. "Problem?"
"Only with your ego."
He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me, and I force my gaze to stay on his face instead of the way his sweatpants sit dangerously low, the V of muscle at his hips disappearing beneath the waistband.
"Shouldn't you be running?"
"Decided to skip today."
"Why?"
"Because I heard someone in the kitchen, and I was curious." He reaches across the island and picks up my sandwich, his bare arm brushing past me. He takes a bite before I can stop him, chews, considers. "Not bad. Weird mustard choice, though."
"Hey, that's my sandwich!" I reach for it, but he holds it just out of grasp.
"Was your sandwich. Now it's community property."
"There is no community." I snatch it back and take a pointed bite. "There is me, and there is you, and there is a very clear line between us."
"Is there?" He circles the island, stepping closer with each word. "Because last I checked, you had your tongue in my mouth and your legs around me. That seems like the line got a little blurry."
"That was a mistake." I hold my ground even as my pulse picks up, even as my traitorous eyes dip to the ridges of his stomach before snapping back to his face.
He watches me with evident amusement. He caught that. Of course he caught that. "You moved furniture in front of the door."
I do not respond.
"The dresser, right? I heard it scraping." Another step closer. "Were you afraid I'd come through?"
"I was being cautious."
"Were you afraid you'd want me to?"
"Go fuck yourself, Kai."
"I'd rather fuck you, I told you, Skye." His voice drops low, and the irony of our names—different by a single consonant—registers against my will.
I should step back. I should put the island between us again, reestablish the distance, remind us both that this cannot happen. I should stop noticing the way water still beads at his collarbone, the way his sweatpants leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
I do not move.
"I've been doing some research," he says, and his tone shifts into something that makes my stomach tighten.
"Research."
"Mm. About you. Your career." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "Your very sudden departure from your last school."
The air leaves my lungs.
"So I have a question." He leans in. Close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. Close enough that if I swayed forward, our lips would touch.
"Who the fuck is Dylan Cooley?"
The name drops between us like a grenade. My vision narrows. My hands start to shake.
Dylan Cooley. The student who ruined my life. The scandal that has followed me from position to position, poisoning every reference, killing every opportunity.
And now I'm here—dependent on the charity of a man I barely know, living in his son's childhood nursery, kissing that son on a classroom desk like I learned nothing from the last time a student decided he wanted me.
And now Kai knows.
Now we are equals. I have Ms. Dotson. He has Dylan Cooley. We are holding guns to each other's heads, and neither of us can pull the trigger without getting shot.
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