✦ ・𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒.

Had her life really fallen so low from its marble pedestal? Had she really had sex with someone who said words like 'pie skin'? Some things even several scalding showers, complete denial, and self-inflicted overtime hours at work could not cure. They really fuck with these apples. Adeline lets out a long breath through her teeth. "Fine. Simply... don't interact with me. If I see you in the vegetable section next, however? That's it for you."

Matty wasn't sure if he was going to cry or throw up or some combination of both of them. To be fair, he really, really wasn't good with stress and maybe he cared a little too much about what people thought about him and the fact that this girl thought he was, what, some kind of freak—and shockingly this wasn't even an isolated incident so he had to be doing something really, really wrong—it tore him up. He just wanted to fix it.

Reuben tries to fend off the smirk at his sister hanging off the back of the couch, but doesn’t win. It doesn’t matter that she’s in her twenties now, because he can still see flashes of her doing this as a little kid, when their birth mothers were still best friends and before he’d become her primary caregiver; he might have been coerced into joining in once. “Any requests? Otherwise, I’m making baked potatoes and chicken drumsticks.”

Carmen considered it, pursing her lips as she tried to imagine the dinner he proposed compared to what she was craving—and then as if struck by a genius idea, she gasped. "Oh! Yes. Chicken drumsticks yes, but can we do fries with it instead of baked potatoes?" And then for extra effect (read: little sister buff), Carmen jutted out her lower lip and fluttered her lashes (because she was very precious and innocent, as he knew). "Please? I had a long day."

When he opens the door, Matty will find one Alyssum Serling staring at him with an intensity reserved for people other than him. With no greeting, she grabs him by the shirt and pulls him down a few inches until she can press her nose to his, staring into his eyes like an omen. "Matty Atkins. Where the hell have you been?"

"Well, it is," Jaren complains, as if right now is the appropriate time to argue his skills in bed. When the kid approaches them, Jaren's face goes white, like they're approaching a firing squad and not a literal child. It's not that he doesn't want a kid, like, ever. He kind of literally has to, in order to continue on his family's or the founding family's bloodline or whatever. But he'd kind of imagined it not happening until he was in his forties! And when he had several hot nannies to do all the work for him? He doesn't actually have almost a single memory of either of his parents doing anything that resembled a caretaker role? Well, once, his mother had dismissed a cook for giving a little Jaren food that caused an allergic reaction, and one time he'd played baseball with his dad for a father-son event when his brother ended up sick, but other than that? Zilch.

"Okay, okay, yeah. I can help by texting the groupchat and posting on Murmur," Jaren volunteers, as if he's really taking on the brunt of the parenting as he starts tapping away at his phone. "Do you think we should order him takeout or something? Or I could EatsUber... a bottle of milk? You can't... do that, right?" Jaren asks very quietly, gesturing to her breasts.

He could help—Jade almost about fainted on the spot in shock until Jaren detailed exactly how he hoped to help them. And then she shot him a look. "You're not posting on Murmur. I can't have this getting out to the public—you have no idea how—" A pause, and she covered it up with a roll of her eyes. "—how this would look to the public. Think about it."

She stepped into her place, shooting Jaren a look. "Jaren." His voice left her lips as it had often before—expectation, a little bit of irritation, somehow a willingness to deal with his moments—when that little boy looked up at her and said, "Yeah, Mommy?" In his tiny little voice.

"Is that what this is? Answer me." they demanded. "Feed the broken ones enough sugar and maybe they'll forget nobody wants them?" The words left her, something flickered across their face. Not regret, exactly. More like sadness trying to break through and failing. They took a step back instead of forward. "I'm not hangry," Ophelia snapped, though their voice wavered. "And I don’t need you fussing over me." Their eyes dropped to the counter again despite themself. It all looked so warm and safe... Why were they acting this way? "I didn’t ask you to be nice to me."

No, something was clearly not right with them—they'd never say anything like this under normal circumstances. What that could be was evading Madeleine—maybe someone had tricked them and slipped them something that was making them act differently.

Then she offered him a shirt from her room. Jonah’s gaze lifted to hers. For a second, he only looked at her, quiet and searching. There was a good chance she meant exactly what she said. A shirt. Something dry. Something simple. Easy. But there was also the way her hands were touching him. The way her eyes kept dropping and returning. The way her voice caught around simple words like she wanted to tell him something.

"Your room," he repeated, softer this time. Not teasing. Not backing away. Just making sure she heard it too. His hand stilled at her side, thumb resting lightly against her skin. "Vi," he said, and her name came out lower than he meant it to. "I'll wear the shirt." His gaze flicked to her lips, slower this time, no longer pretending it was an accident. "I just don’t want to misunderstand you," he said quietly.

He looked back at her. "If you're just offering me something to wear, I can do that." His voice stayed quiet, careful, but there was no distance in it. "I can be good." His thumb brushed small lines against her waist. But if you're asking me to go to your room for any other reason…" The words hung there, unfinished for half a second. Jonah swallowed hard. "I need you to mean it."

A small, unsteady breath left him. "Because I want to go with you," Jonah admitted, voice rough around the edges. "I really want to." His hand tightened at her waist, just barely. "But I don’t think you understand how long I've been trying to be good... If I touch you the way I want to, I'm not sure I'll be able to let you go."

Why was he looking at her like that? It was so distracting—she couldn't think straight, couldn't name all of the reasons why this wasn't a good idea and why she should stop this before he realized it was a mistake and before he caught on that there was nothing good about her, nothing he could find beneath the front she put up—but the frustrating part was that Jonah never seem to be tricked by that front anyway. He'd seen the darkest parts of her and he'd never run away.

Did Jonah realize his hand was still on her? She hoped not, she hoped he left it there because it was making her head spin. Why did he smell so good? Fuck, she couldn't think straight. So many things ran through her mind—a lamp, a promise, a kiss—and then now his eyes looking at her so softly that Violet couldn't help but lean in closer. Maybe she'd get lost in them and never need to leave him.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, hoping she wasn't misreading Jonah—she couldn't lose him (though the chances of that happening now were, well, they were pretty low to be entirely fair)—goosebumps erupted across her skin where his thumb touched and her fingers pressed into his skin just ever so slightly more, like she could make her mark and never allow anyone else to see him like this—besides her—ever again.

She did say she was selfish, to be entirely fair.

Violet couldn't stop looking at him. Maybe there really was blood loss, maybe it got to her because she felt dizzy—or maybe that was all him, maybe it was just hearing him say things she'd only ever imagined late at night when no one else was around.

"What if I don't want you to let me go?" Finally she spoke, something uncharacteristic of her—of the two of them, in fact, for Jonah to speak so much and for Violet to listen, though she'd always loved the sound of his voice, even more now—her hands slid up his chest to rest on his shoulders, her eyes never leaving his.

"I want you to come to my room," She clarified firmly. "I don't need you to be good. I just want you. Okay? I just—I want you."

"Thank you," he chuckled. "Dancing gives you flexibility. Without that, you're just like every other muscle head. I get the appeal." Her question made him take another sip from his drink. Maybe it was alcohol, maybe it was the broken heart, or maybe he was just comfortable, but he didn't mind telling her. "I was a dancer at a club for a while... I did all kinds of special performances." He shrugged and smiled. "Taught me how to treat women, that's for sure."

"Oh?" Well, that certainly intrigued Jade. The glass she'd lifted to her glitter gloss-painted lips did nothing to hide the smirk she just couldn't fight off as she tried to imagine her bodyguard as a dancer at a club. Oddly enough, she could—and even stranger, she liked what she thought of.

She leaned back against the seat, raising her brows at Don. "Okay, so you know how to treat women. Noted. Maybe not something you should be telling me while you're on the clock. I think I might need to report you to your superior," She told him, the tone of her voice unclear if she was teasing or not, especially when paired with that poker face of hers—minus that smirk she wasn't able to fight off. "Special performances like what, though? You can't say that and then not elaborate. Professionally, of course."