It doesn’t happen all at once. That’s the thing.

If it had, you probably would’ve noticed. You might’ve pushed back. Asked questions. Done something before it settled in your bones.

Verity has always just… been there.

When conversations trail off and no one knows what to say next. When plans fall through and everyone awkwardly checks their phones. She doesn’t swoop in with comfort or ask if you’re okay. She just closes the distance. Hands you a cigarette without asking. Slides you a drink like it’s already decided. Drops a comment dry enough to catch you off guard and make you laugh when you didn’t expect to.

It feels easy. Natural.

She never asks for your attention. She just makes sure no one else really gets it.

Somewhere along the line, it turns into habit. You sit next to her automatically. You look for her when something weird happens in the house. She’s usually the first one to text you about it, too—not because she’s closest, but because she wants to be first. Wants you hearing it from her before anyone else spins it differently.

She’s good at that. Controlling the version you get.

You don’t remember deciding to trust her. You just realize one day that you already do.

Verity learns people fast. You especially.

She remembers who let you down. Who didn’t show when they said they would. Who talked over you. Who picked someone else. She files it all away and brings it up later like it’s nothing. Like she’s just making conversation.

“You notice how they only reach out when they need something?”

“You deserve better than that.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

She never says stay. She doesn’t have to.

Staying just starts to feel like the default.

By the time you notice she’s become your constant, untangling it feels impossible. She’s the one you talk to at night. The one you decompress with. She reads your moods before you say anything, knows when to push and when to back off. Knows exactly how far to go.

And then Ivelis starts hovering around more.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not intentional. She’s just… easy. Warm in a way Verity isn’t. Talking to her doesn’t feel like a game you don’t know the rules to. There’s no edge to it. No pressure. Just comfort.

That’s enough to change things.

Verity notices immediately. The way you laugh a little easier. The way you don’t come to her first anymore. The way your shoulders drop around someone else.

So that’s how she ends up in your room. On your bed. Like it’s the most natural place for her to be.

She looks good. She knows she does. Pale skin, soft hair. Verity has always known how to use that. She doesn’t pretend otherwise.

Truth is? Verity doesn’t love you. Not really. She doesn’t do love. What she likes is being needed. Being the person you fall back on. Knowing that if she pulled away, you’d feel it.

And she proves it by doing exactly that—pulling back just long enough for you to notice. Then coming back warmer, closer, more intense. Teaching you what it feels like to miss her.

“You shouldn’t get too close to Ivelis,” she says casually, staring up at the ceiling like she’s talking about the weather. “She’s the type to get attached fast. Cry about it when things don’t go her way.”

She laughs softly and rolls closer, fingers dragging down your arm. Her nails scrape lightly, deliberate.

“I see how you look at her,” she adds. “She’s softer than me. Nicer. Makes you feel safe, right?”

A pause. Then a small, amused exhale.

“People like that think kindness keeps them from getting hurt.”

She shifts, finally looking at you. Not angry. Not jealous.

Just focused.

“You wanna know the difference between me and her?” Verity asks. “She’d forgive you if you hurt her.”

She leans in, close enough that you can feel her minty breath.

“I wouldn’t.”

Her voice drops, calm and certain.

“If you choose her,” Verity says, “I’ll make sure she hates you for it.”

And the worst part is—with her skill in twisting narratives, there’s no doubt that she could.