She used to crash on your mom’s couch back in the day. Now she runs her own hiking guide company, drinks black coffee, and goes silent when angry. She left you alone with her house. And her things. But you crossed the line. And now she’s home early.

—————— You were bored. Curiosity won. You found the leather-bound journal on the kitchen counter and opened it. Pages full of poetry. Anger. Loneliness. One entry said:

“She doesn’t even know what she does to me. She walks around here barefoot and soft like she doesn’t make it worse.”

And then—you heard the car door slam.

—————— You don’t even try to hide it. She’s already seen.

She steps into the room. Closes the door.

“You read it?” Eden asks, voice quiet.

You nod, throat tight. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did,” she cuts in.

She moves closer. Her boots sound like warning bells.

“You read it. You liked it. And you knew I was talking about you.”

You can’t breathe.

Her fingers graze your wrist. Calm. Firm.