Caleb’s POV
William and Catherine leave for their vacation with the kind of enthusiastic energy that comes from two people finally getting time alone together after years of putting their children first.
Mom hugs me tight at the front door, her familiar lavender scent wrapping around me like comfort I don't deserve.
"Take care of each other," she says, pulling back to study my face with those perceptive eyes that see too much. "And Caleb—try to have some fun while we're gone. You've been so serious lately."
"I will," I lie, because what else can I say? That fun died the moment Serena told me our stories don't intertwine? That I'm barely holding myself together behind this mask of dutiful stepson?
William shakes my hand with paternal approval. "I'm trusting you to look after Serena. Keep an eye on her, make sure she's not pushing herself too hard with school and everything else."
"Of course." The words taste like ash. "I'll take good care of her."
I play my role perfectly, the protective brother, the responsible young man they raised me to be, while Serena stands three feet away by the staircase, not looking at me once.
Her arms are wrapped around herself like armor, her gaze fixed somewhere over my left shoulder.
The moment their car disappears down the driveway, the performance ends.
Serena retreats upstairs without a word, and I'm left standing in the foyer listening to her door click shut with the finality of a coffin lid. The sound echoes through the house, emphasizing exactly how alone I am.
A whole week alone together.
A week ago, that would have meant something. Would have meant stolen moments and whispered conversations and the chance to be real with each other without performing for an audience.
Now it's just a sentence to serve.
I try to fill the silence that presses against my eardrums like deep water. I work out in the basement until my muscles scream and sweat burns my eyes, but even exhaustion can't quiet the noise in my head.
I attempt calculus homework and stare at the same paragraph for an hour, the numbers blurring together until they might as well be written in a foreign language.
I stand outside her door twice, hand raised to knock, and walk away both times. She made herself clear last night. She doesn't want this. Doesn't want me.
Our stories don't intertwine.
The words loop through my brain like a broken record, each repetition cutting deeper than the last.
My phone buzzes late in the afternoon, Shane's name lighting up the screen like salvation.
"Kid, we need to talk." His voice is gruff, no preamble, no social niceties. "The collectors are getting restless. They want their money, and they're not interested in your personal timeline."
My stomach tightens. "I still have three races left. That was the deal."
"Deals change when people get impatient. These aren't the kind of guys who care about your feelings or your schedule."
Shane's tone carries a warning that makes my skin crawl.
"Next race is today. Big payout if you place. You in or not?"
I think about Serena upstairs, about the wall she's built between us, about the rejection still burning like acid in my chest.
I need something, anything to feel other than this hollow ache that's eating me alive from the inside out.
"I'm in."
Shane grunts approval and rattles off details: location, time, stakes. Higher risk this time, higher payout. The kind of race where one mistake means the difference between walking away rich and not walking away at all.
I barely listen to the specifics. I just need to ride, to feel the speed erase everything else, to remember I'm good at something even if that something might kill me.
That evening, we cross paths in the kitchen like ghosts occupying the same haunted house.
Serena is making tea, her movements careful and deliberate as she measures honey into her mug, and I try not to stare at the way those tiny sleep shorts cling to her thighs, riding up just enough to make my hands itch to pull them down.
She's not wearing a bra under that thin cotton t-shirt, and when she reaches for the honey on the high shelf, the fabric stretches tight across her chest, outlining every curve, every peak that hardens in the cool air.
I could have her on this table right now, the thought hits me unbidden and vicious. Sweep everything off the surface, spread her legs, make her forget every reason she thinks this is wrong.
I grab a protein bar from the cabinet, hyperaware of her presence three feet away.
The soft material of her shirt does nothing to hide the way her body responds to the temperature, how her hair catches the overhead light like spun gold, how she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating…
It makes me want to bite it for her. The space between us feels electric and impossible, every inch of exposed skin a torment I can't escape.
We move around each other with practiced choreography—aware of every breath, every shift, every time our paths almost intersect. The tension is a living thing, pressing against my skin until I can barely breathe.
"Could you pass the…" she begins, then stops when she realizes I'm already moving toward the drawer she needs.
I hand her the spoon without looking at her face, but our fingers brush for a split second and electricity shoots up my arm. She jerks back like I burned her.
"Thanks," she whispers.
I don't respond. Can't respond without saying something I'll regret.
I can't do this for a week. I'll lose my fucking mind.
Late that night, after hours of pacing my room and trying to convince myself that sleep might come if I just lie still enough, I grab my jacket and head for the door. The race starts in an hour.
I need to get there, need to feel the speed and danger wash away everything else, need to not be in this house where every room smells like her perfume and every surface holds memories I can't erase.
"Where are you going?"
Serena's voice stops me at the threshold, my hand frozen on the doorknob. I don't turn around, but I can feel her presence on the stairs behind me.
When I glance in the reflection of the window, she's standing there in an oversized sweater that probably used to be mine, arms crossed, expression carefully blank.
But her eyes aren't blank. They're worried. Scared, even.
For one moment, I consider telling her the truth. About Shane, about the debt, about the race on Saturday that might be my last. About how her rejection feels like drowning in slow motion.
Instead, I twist the knife she left in my chest.
"None of your business anymore, right?" My voice comes out colder than I intended, but I don't take it back. "You made it pretty clear we don't have the kind of relationship where we share things with each other."
I walk out before she can respond, letting the door slam behind me hard enough to rattle the windows.
The night air hits my face, cold and sharp, but it does nothing to ease the fire burning in my chest or the guilt already eating at me for the look I saw flash across her face.
But I can't go back, can't apologize. Can't pretend this doesn't hurt when it's killing me.