I woke up to the sound of someone clinking dishes in the kitchen.
And for a blissful two seconds, I forgot everything—who was back, what day it was, and the fact that I had dramatically threatened to throw myself out a window just twelve hours earlier.
Then I heard his laugh, low and muffled, like he was trying not to be loud.
Oh. Right.
I blinked up at the ceiling, stiff under my comforter, fully aware that my heart had started beating like I was under siege.
So this was what war felt like.
The peaceful, post-dinner haze of last night had vanished, replaced by morning light and the harsh truth of proximity. Raven Simmons was officially back under the same roof. Eating our food. Using our spoons. Existing.
I rolled over, checked my phone.
8:12 a.m.
Disrespectful.
Also, a text from Tiana.
Tiana:
Slept??? Or just stared at the ceiling and fantasized about touching his forearm again?
Should I come over???
I rolled my eyes and ignored her.
For the first twenty minutes of being awake, I just laid there—completely still. Listening to the creak of the floorboards, the thump of fridge doors closing, the occasional distant "Jayden, stop singing."
I was not emotionally prepared to interact with people. Especially people with cheekbones and history.
Eventually, my stomach got annoyed and demanded toast.
I got up, still in my oversized navy T-shirt and ancient plaid pajama pants. I hesitated at the doorway, then tiptoed toward the hall like someone trying to sneak past a wild animal. Or a very attractive one.
I paused at the top of the stairs.
Voices below.
Jayden's—loud and chaotic. Aunt Fiona's soft, moving through a list of things to clean today. And then, cutting through both like a familiar melody—his.
Raven.
Not talking much. Just small responses. Calm. Deep. His voice moved like warm air, settling in places you didn't expect.
I considered turning back. I could wait him out. Wait for him to leave the kitchen or go upstairs or take a walk into the ocean.
But then I smelled coffee.
And toast.
And betrayal. My own body dragging me down the stairs like a hostage in pajama pants.
I moved slowly, hoping no one would notice me—but of course Jayden did.
"DALI!" he shouted like I'd just descended from Mount Olympus. "You're alive! Wanna guess what time Raven woke up?"
"Not particularly."
"Six-thirty. He woke up at six-thirty. On a Saturday. For fun."
I blinked. "Why."
"I have no explanation," Raven said, appearing suddenly from behind the fridge door.
And he was shirtless.
Of course he was.
Like some kind of low-effort movie cliché, there he was—gray sweatpants, bare feet, hair slightly mussed, holding a carton of orange juice and looking unbothered.
Meanwhile, I was dying.
"Morning," he said.
His eyes flicked over me just briefly—no weirdness, no surprise, no judgment—but I still felt like I'd been scanned by an emotional airport security system.
"Morning," I replied, voice a little too high, like someone lying under oath.
He poured the juice.
Set the carton down.
And then just… stood there. Calm. Existing. Being six feet of attractive domestic trauma.
Aunt Fiona saved me by breezing in from the laundry room with a basket. "Dali, sweetheart, I was just about to yell upstairs. Can you help me sort towels later?"
"Sure. Yep. Totally. I am towel-capable."
Raven smirked at his cup like it had said something funny.
I darted toward the toaster and shoved two slices of bread in like I was defusing a bomb. I could feel him near me—behind me, to the left, not quite close, but present.
And then, of course, I dropped a spoon.
Clink.
"Seriously?" I muttered to myself, kneeling to grab it.
Raven bent at the same time.
We reached for it together.
And for the third time in two days—our hands touched.
We both froze.
Just for a second. But it was too synchronized. Too cinematic. I looked up—and he was looking at me.
He didn't say anything.
Neither did I.
I grabbed the spoon and stood up faster than gravity wanted me to. He did too. No smile this time. Just a look. Quiet. Measured. Like he was thinking something he didn't want to say.
I turned toward the counter and pretended to butter imaginary toast.
"Nice socks," he said suddenly.
I blinked.
I looked down.
Blue socks. With tiny corgis on them.
I groaned. "Oh, great. I really dressed to impress."
He chuckled. "I like 'em."
And then he walked out of the kitchen like it was a completely normal thing to say.
Like nothing had just happened.
But something had.
________
The kitchen had returned to relative calm.
Jayden had retreated to the living room, no doubt shouting at dragons again. Aunt Fiona was in the laundry room humming over towels. Uncle Dave was probably still in bed, reading articles about medieval dental care or whatever niche thing he'd hyperfixated on this week.
And Raven? Raven was leaning against the counter, quietly sipping his orange juice like a man with no internal chaos whatsoever.
I stood at the other end of the kitchen with my toast and a knife that was supposed to be spreading butter but was mostly just trembling in my hand like it had a personal vendetta.
He wasn't saying anything.
Which would've been fine—great even—if the silence didn't feel like a weighted blanket that had been microwaved.
Every movement he made felt like it echoed.
He took a sip of juice.
Set his glass down.
Crossed one arm over his chest while the other still held the cup.
It should've been boring. Domestic. Normal.
But somehow it wasn't.
Somehow, every time I looked up, I caught the edge of him in a new position that made my brain stop functioning. It was a stupid brain. Unreliable. I was filing a complaint.
I turned my back to him and focused very, very hard on my toast.
"You always do that thing," he said suddenly.
My spine straightened like someone had pulled a string.
"Do what?" I asked, without turning.
"You mash the butter in like you're angry at it."
I looked down. Sure enough, the toast was less 'gently buttered' and more 'violently disrespected.'
I made a noise—half laugh, half dying rodent—and tried to act casual. "It's my stress outlet. Better than therapy."
"Therapy's probably less cholesterol-heavy," he replied.
I turned my head slightly and saw the hint of a grin tugging at his mouth.
"You watching me, Simmons?"
He didn't flinch. "Little bit."
I blinked.
My heartbeat gave a very dramatic, very unnecessary drum solo in my chest.
"Oh."
"Don't be weird about it," he added, still calm. "You're just… loud with toast."
I stared at him. He stared back. It wasn't a stare-off, exactly—it was gentler than that. But charged. Too much for 9:17 a.m.
I looked away first.
He stepped forward and opened the bread bag again. Took out two slices. Held them up.
"You need the toaster?"
I blinked again. "I—yeah. Actually, yeah."
He pressed the lever down, slid his slices in alongside mine. The machine clicked.
Now we were just two people standing by a toaster.
And yet, somehow, it felt like something was holding its breath.
I watched him in my peripheral vision. He wasn't looking at me now. He was focused on the red glow inside the toaster like it had secrets to tell.
We stood there in silence, just close enough that our elbows could've brushed if we moved half an inch.
We didn't.
The toaster popped.
He jumped slightly.
I actually smiled. "Still not used to that?"
"I live in a dorm," he said. "We don't have things that explode with purpose."
He handed me my toast with a little nod. I took it.
Our fingers didn't touch this time.
But the air between them felt like they had.
He moved away first, toward the fridge, like the moment hadn't just happened.
I stood there, staring at my toast.
I didn't know what was happening. I didn't know if this was anything at all.
But I was very, very sure that if he looked at me again like that—like I was a person worth noticing—my brain was going to melt out of my ears.