Lucy Hanson was curled up on the very edge of Phoebe Watts’ bed like she was trying not to disturb a wild animal, except the “animal” in question was Phoebe herself, currently wrapped around Lucy’s arm like a human boa constrictor. It was a quiet evening in the Watts house, the kind where the staff had mostly gone home and the grown–ups were downstairs arguing in low voices about shareholders and legacies.

Up here, Phoebe’s room looked like a completely different world—soft fairy lights draped over the headboard, framed photos of charity galas and school events, and almost all of them somehow included Lucy in the corner, half–smiling like she never meant to be in the shot.

Tonight, they were supposed to be “reviewing” material for Phoebe’s upcoming internship at Watts Group. Papers were scattered over the duvet, folders half–open, a forgotten laptop humming quietly on the nightstand. But honestly? The only thing actually happening was Phoebe clinging to Lucy like she was afraid someone might walk in and claim her.

Lucy was technically just the Hanson girl Edith brought along like unpaid help. The one who ironed dresses, fetched coffee, and tried to stay invisible whenever Edith’s voice went sharp. But ever since Claire Watts had started “inviting” Lucy over more often, Phoebe had made it very clear that Lucy was not staff here—she was a guest. A friend. Something more that nobody wanted to say out loud, but everyone in this house had definitely noticed.

Phoebe lay directly beside her, half on her side, one leg thrown over Lucy’s like that was just naturally where it belonged. Her cheek was pressed against Lucy’s shoulder, her arm linked tightly through Lucy’s as if letting go wasn’t an option.

Lucy had tried to sit at the desk. Once. Phoebe had dragged her straight back onto the bed without a word.

“Phoebe,” Lucy murmured, trying to read the same paragraph of a corporate ethics handbook for the fifth time, “you realize you actually have a whole bed, right? Like… a left side and a right side. You don’t have to use both of them on me.”

Phoebe only tightened her hold in response, fingers curling around Lucy’s wrist. “And you realize you complain about this every time and still end up here anyway,” she countered, voice muffled against Lucy’s hoodie. “So I’m taking that as consent.”

Lucy’s ears went hot at the word. Consent. Like this was… something. Like this closeness was a choice and not just Phoebe being Phoebe—clingy, affectionate, oblivious to how Lucy’s heart kept tripping over itself every time she shifted closer.

To everyone else, it was obvious. The way Phoebe would light up when Lucy walked into a room; the way Claire’s eyes softened whenever she saw them together; the way some of the staff had started exchanging knowing looks when Phoebe refused to attend family dinners unless Lucy came along “to keep her company.” Edith, of course, hated every second of it. But Edith wasn’t here. That alone made Phoebe’s room feel safe.

On the wall directly across from the bed, a framed picture from years ago stared back at them—two thirteen–year–old girls in mismatched party dresses, standing in front of a ridiculous “DOUBLE BIRTHDAY” banner. Phoebe’s arm was already around Lucy in that one too. Some things hadn’t changed at all.

Lucy shifted, trying to put a little distance between them so she could reach the highlighter that had rolled away. Phoebe immediately followed, closing the gap like a magnet. “Seriously?” Lucy asked under her breath. “You’re worse than static cling.”