Ten minutes.
I stare at the dark room like it’s personally betrayed .
Ten minutes is not enough ti to make good decisions.
"Oh my God," I whisper, already moving. "Oh my God, oh my God—"
I fling the duvet aside and bolt upright, heart racing like I’ve been given a five-minute warning before a life-altering event. Which, honestly, feels accurate.
I scramble out of the bed, nearly tripping over my own feet mirror. My phone sits abandoned on the bed, the screen dark now, as if it hasn’t just detonated my entire night.
"Okay. Okay," I mutter, as if my dark might talk back and offer guidance.
One step. Two. Three.
Why am I pacing?
I slow down, my limbs suddenly awkward and uncoordinated, I feel like a sloth moving in slow motion despite the frantic energy thrumming beneath my skin. I pause in the center of the room, taking a shaky breath. Then, with a sudden surge of... sothing, I dart to my closet.
My mind’s a battlefield. Part of is screaming caution, listing all the ways this could go disastrously wrong. The other part, the part that’s been ignited by a stranger’s late-night call and the undeniable thrill of his proximity, is practically shoving out the door.
I stare blankly at the rows of fabric like they’re written in a foreign language.
What do people wear at two in the morning?
What do normal people wear when a dangerously attractive man shows up uninvited outside their house and asks them to go out like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world?
Imdiately I grab sothing nice.
Too nice.
I pull it on halfway, catch my reflection in the mirror, and freeze.
What am I doing?
Why am I dressing like this is a thing?
I removed the dress and grab another outfit anyway. Then another. I hold one up against myself, glance at the mirror, grimace, and swap it out. My eyes flick over my reflection again like I’m being graded.
No.
No, no, no.
What am I doing?
Why am I acting like this is a thing at all?
It’s two in the morning. Two. This isn’t planned. This isn’t a date. This is... whatever this is. He literally suggested it because I couldn’t sleep. He didn’t say anything about dressing up. He didn’t say anything about where we’re going.
This is insane.
I toss the clothes aside onto the bed and rub my face with both hands.
What if he’s just taking for a drive?
What if he’s taking to... I don’t know... a diner?
Or worse—what if he’s taking sowhere weird?
Like a sauna?
Or a spa?
Or a massage place?
Or a sleep therapist??
"I just t him today," I hiss at my reflection. "What is wrong with you?"
I shove the nice clothes back like they offended and grab the safest thing I own: baggy sweatpants. And a tank top. Then a shirt. Black. Oversized. So oversized it practically swallows .
I blink at it.
When did I buy this?
Did I steal it?
Did it just... appear?
I don’t rember owning this shirt either.
I tug at the hem, inspecting it like it might answer . No logo. No mory attached. Just... there. Hanging in my closet like it belongs.
Weird.
I shove the thought away.
I rush into the bathroom, flick the light on, and then imdiately flick it back off, wincing.
Too bright. Too loud. It would wake my dad or my brother.
I move by the faint glow of my phone instead, crouched like a criminal.
Makeup.
I don’t wear makeup.
I stare at Aria’s things like they might bite .
Mascara.
Okay. Just a little. One swipe. Blink. Blink harder.
Lip liner. Why am I using lip liner? I don’t even know how to use lip liner.
I stop, stare at myself again, and panic creeping back in.
Wait.
Why am I doing this?
Why am I trying?
This is not a date. This is not planned. This is just... him being nice. A favor. Because I can’t sleep.
I wipe my mouth, grab my lip balm instead, and swipe it on aggressively like it owes money.
Now my hair.
Absolutely not.
I grab my brush.
One stroke.
Two.
It snags.
I wince, dragging it through anyway, tugging harder than necessary as if I can bully my hair into compliance.
"Rude," I mutter.
I give up and drop the brush with a huff and scoop my hair up into a ssy bun, securing it with an elastic I pull off my wrist. Stray strands fall loose around my face. I stare at myself again.
Good enough.
If he doesn’t like it, that’s his problem.
I don’t owe him effort.
I don’t owe him anything.
I step back into my room and look down at my feet.
Bare.
I open my drawer, rummaging for shoes, then freeze.
Sneakers feel like too much effort.
Sandals feel... wrong.
Anything with straps is a commitnt I didn’t agree to.
My eyes land on the fluffy slippers by my bed.
I hesitate.
Then shrug and slip my feet into them.
Comfort wins.
I don’t owe him my looks.
I glance down at the fluffy slippers hugging my feet and wince.
If he takes anywhere remotely public, I’m going to regret this.
But it’s two in the morning. Surely he’s not dragging into civilization.
...Right?
And yet—
The perfu on the corner of my vanity catches my eye, waving at seductively like it had been waiting for this mont all along. I stare at the bottle. It’s expensive. A gift from Aria that I usually save for "occasions." Is a 2 AM insomnia-fueled kidnapping an occasion?
Probably not.
But my traitorous hand moves anyway, like it’s been possessed by the ghost of a girl who actually has her life together. I spritz a tiny cloud into the air and walk through it, the scent of vanilla settling over my oversized black shirt.
"Perfect," I whisper. "Now I’m a holess-looking sloth who slls like a five-star hotel."
Ugh. Hypocrite.
A soft huff makes freeze.
I turn slowly.
Ivy is sitting at the foot of my bed, fluffy white tail curled neatly around her paws, staring at with wide, unimpressed eyes.
"Don’t look at like that," I whisper. "You’re not my mother."
She tilts her head.
"I’m not doing this for him," I hiss quietly. "I’d look like this anyway. Probably."
She continues to judge .
I crouch in front of her. "What do you think?" I whisper, gesturing vaguely at myself. "Do I look good? Don’t bark though."
Ivy blinks slowly, a look of profound canine boredom on her face. She then lowers her head onto her paws with an exaggerated sigh, as if to say, ’I was having a lovely dream about chasing squirrels, and now I have to witness this?’
"Yeah, well, you’re no help," I mutter, giving her head a quick scratch. "You are so cute though."
Her tail thumps once.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
I glance at the ti.
Thirteen minutes gone.
"Crap."
Panic, fresh and sharp, kicks into motion. I grab my keys and phone, then tiptoe to my bedroom door, easing it open inch by inch.
The hallway is dark. Still.
I have to get past my brother’s room and my dad’s room. The floorboards in the hallway are older than the house itself and twice as moody.
I channel my inner ninja. I navigate the hallway with the grace of a thief, hovering my weight on the balls of my feet (or rather, the plush foam of my slippers). Ivy pads after silently like she’s part of the mission.
Every creak sounds like a gunshot in the dead silence. I hold my breath until I reach the kitchen, bypass the alarm panel with shaky fingers.
At the front door, I pause.
My heart thuds so loudly I’m convinced it might wake the entire house.
This is reckless.
This is stupid.
This is absolutely sothing Aria would talk into.
"I’m really going to kill her," I whisper.
Ivy watches , unblinking.
"Don’t judge , Cutie," I murmur, reaching for the lock.
The door opens with a soft click.
Cold night air brushes my skin.
And before I can talk myself out of it—
I slip outside.
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