Chapter 7

  Control

  Malika

  At exactly 5:00 a.m., the bedside clock detonated into sound—harsh, insistent.

  A thin arm shot out from beneath the covers and slapped it silent on the first ring.

  Malika St. Claire lay still for a heartbeat longer, eyes open in the dark as if she’d been awake before it even went off. Her hair was a wreck of brown strands across her forehead and face. She exhaled once—slow—and then pushed herself upright and stretched.

  She swung her legs off the bed, planting her feet on the soft rug.

  Time to start the day.

  She dressed without turning on a light—shirt, shorts, running shoes, headband, earbuds. All muscle memory now, her body doing what her mind didn’t feel like doing. The hallway outside her bedroom door was quiet. Common now since only three people lived in this massive home.

  She slipped out the front door into the dark. The air bit at her lungs with every breath.

  The neighborhood around her was sleeping wealth: trimmed hedges, treated lawns, driveway lights with their dotted trails, all constant reminders of just ‘how nice’ the neighborhood they lived in truly was.

  She started to jog, warmed up, and then started her run. The rhythm of her breath and footfalls became a metronome, steady enough to shove everything else—graduation, appearances, speeches, guilds, the Institute, everything—into the far corners of her mind.

  Five kilometers. Every morning.

  Not punishment or ambition.

  Simple self-control.

  Malika St. Claire—valedictorian of Red Rocks Military Academy, Class One.

  The name came with expectations, the very same that lived in and on the walls of their home. While scouts spoke about her ‘bright future’ constantly, her mother framed photos and scattered them across the walls downstairs—smiling family portraits, plaques, certificates, accolades—like proof arranged carefully to convince visitors—maybe even themselves—that they were still whole and relevant, worth admiring.

  To Malika, they weren’t. Those days were long gone now too.

  And the worst part was knowing and remembering what whole actually felt like as a family.

  Perhaps that was the problem with being a reincarnator.

  Most would carry their past like a line trailing behind them. Malika carried hers like a shadow at her shoulder—an old world, old wars, old prayers, and an enemy that had never stopped moving.

  She hadn’t asked for it. It hadn’t been a blessing or some divine selection. If anything, her spirit had been redirected—collateral from a mistake.

  There had been a spell. A desperate attempt to subvert collapse. A way to cheat time and give humanity an edge in a losing war. It was supposed to send a group of them back—strategists, fighters, minds sharp enough to change history and she would lead them.

  Instead, though, the spell failed.

  And how did she know?

  Because she—her soul—was here, on the wrong world, under the wrong sky, running through a quiet, upper class American suburb like this was where she’d always belonged.

  When Malika was ten in this world, she’d been a bright little girl with scraped knees and shoes too big on purpose—bigger soles so they’d last longer, because money had still meant something back then. Life had been simple. Small. It was supposed to stay that way.

  Then came the test—routine and clinical—checking for a child’s sensitivity to magic.

  And the dam inside her broke.

  The test activated something within her, like a sleeper agent activated through a codeword.

  Memories hit like waves. Names and faces, blood and fire. The feel of a sword in her hand. Her people, dying around her in scores. The very sensation of her flesh splitting apart mid-scream as the spell tore through her.

  It ruined her for days.

  She cried until her throat hurt. What could she do? Feeling emotions this young mind of hers hadn’t been built to hold; of course she was a wreck.

  Her mother claimed she must be sick. The family doctor said it could be mental exhaustion, not uncommon for those overly sensitive to magic.

  Malika learned to breathe through it. Adapted with time, and tucked it all away. But she grabbed onto the truth quickly, because truth was the only thing that held.

  The spell had failed.

  The fate of her world was unknown.

  And that meant her focus had to land here—because magic existed here too. Infection existed here too.

  The Rot, they called it.

  Same hunger. Different mask.

  If she’d ever wondered why she pushed herself so hard, the answer was simple: she refused to be a passenger in another hopeless war. She refused to arrive late, again, to a fight that was already lost.

  This world could be different.

  The technology alone was beyond anything she’d known—weapons, networks, infrastructure. Entire institutions built around controlling magic rather than worshipping it or fearing it.

  If there was ever a chance to defeat it—truly defeat it—this world had more tools than her first one could have ever hoped for.

  Years ago now, after coming to terms with everything. Recognizing her situation and where she was. Malika made a quiet promise.

  If there was a way, she would find it, she wouldn’t fail. Not again.

  She ran until the streets began to lighten with the first hint of morning.

  When she reached the end of her driveway, she slowed to a stop and bent forward, hands on her knees. Her watch blinked as she tapped it off.

  12:51.

  She was a second slower than yesterday.

  Sweat rolled down her temple. She wiped it away with the heel of her hand and looked up.

  A car sat near the mailbox. She hadn’t noticed it when she first left.

  She stared at it for a moment too long, chest rising and falling, sweat cooling on her skin. Then she exhaled and walked to the front door.

  The St. Claire's house was beautiful in the way money often was—three floors, five bedrooms, two living rooms, a home gym.

  Art chosen to imply taste. Soft beige walls. Stained wood floors. Eight thousand square feet of carefully arranged proof that everything was fine.

  And in the dark—with the beginning to catch and cast rays around the house—it felt like a museum.

  She went straight to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Took out her water bottle and drank until her throat stopped burning.

  She was wiping sweat from her brow when a man walked in.

  Half dressed in a business suit. Jacket in hand. Tie loose around his neck. Hair slightly damp like he’d rushed through a shower. He was startled when he saw her, then quickly rearranged his face into something easy. “Oh—hey,” he said, forcing comfort into his voice as he adjusted his tie.

  Malika just stared at him. ‘This one is young’ she thought, he looked maybe thirty. Not familiar. And the fact that it wasn’t familiar should have been strange.

  It wasn’t.

  “Hi,” she replied, flat.

  He hesitated, like he expected her to do the social lifting for him.

  “Malika, right?” he asked.

  Her jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah.”

  “Well—congrats on your graduation.” He smiled politely, then moved to the counter; taking an apple from the fruit stand as if touching something in the house might make him belong there. “Uh… yeah. Congratulations.” He gave a small wave that didn’t land and headed for the front door.

  “Thanks,” Malika said—too late, too quiet.

  The door shut.

  She stood there with the bottle in her hand, listening. The quiet settled back in once more. She focused on her breathing, slow and controlled.

  Footsteps padded by slippers approached.

  Her mother appeared in the doorway in a nightgown, hair loose, face still soft with sleep. She peered past Malika toward the door.

  “Ah—sweetie, did you see—”

  “He left,” Malika interjected.

  Her mother’s eyes flickered with concern. Just a flicker. Then the smile rushed in to replace it—too fast, too practiced.

  “Oh,” she said. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll talk to him later.”

  Malika watched her mother’s fingers fidget with the tie of her robe, like she needed something to do with her hands.

  “Do you want breakfast, Mal?” her mother asked, voice brightening as she moved toward the fridge. “Eggs? Pancakes? You should eat.”

  Malika nodded once. Then—because the question had been lodged in her throat since she saw the car—she asked anyway. Much to her own conscience telling her not to.

  “Who was that?”

  Her mother’s smile held, but her eyes froze as she glanced at her. She paused with the fridge open, the light painting her like a spotlight.

  “Just…” she began, swallowed. “Just a friend.”

  Malika stared at her for a long moment.

  She didn’t probe.

  Not because she didn’t care—she did—but probing never helped. It only made the air heavier.

  Life had been different for a year now, since her parents split last spring. Not divorced officially. Not yet. Just separated—quietly, like a crack in a window everyone insisted wasn’t spreading.

  And honestly, it had started earlier than that.

  It started when her father took the job out east in New York with Blackwater & Glass—one of the most prestigious guilds in North America. Security consulting at a level that came with government contracts and a kind of influence people didn’t talk about openly.

  At first it felt like an adventure—flights every other week, meetings and committees, polished smiles. The White House trip when she and Matthias were thirteen. Meeting the President, shaking his hand. Her parents laughing in the same room, her father’s hand on her mother’s back like it belonged there.

  Some of her best memories.

  Then it all changed. Not immediately, but slowly. The signs of distance forming. Her father’s trips becoming longer and longer. It all began taking more than it gave.

  The money bought the house, the cars, the clothes. All the art her mother wanted and all the private tutors and trainers that her and her brother needed.

  It bought almost everything.

  It just didn’t save them from drifting apart.

  “I need a shower,” Malika said, voice careful.

  “Okay,” her mother replied too quickly. “Yes—shower. I’ll make us breakfast. Oh! Why don’t you wake up your brother too and—”

  “He didn’t come home last night,” Malika said, cutting in gently but firmly.

  Her mother paused.

  The bright mask slipped for half a second and something tired looked out from behind it.

  Then it was gone again.

  “Oh,” she said. “Okay. Well… we’ll still eat. If that’s okay with you.”

  Malika put her bottle back in the fridge. “Yeah. Breakfast sounds good.”

  She walked past her mother and up the stairs.

  The house was quiet again—

  filled with things everyone knew, but no one named.

  ~~~~

  Matthias

  The smell hit first—beer gone warm, sweat ground into upholstery, sugary liquor clinging to the air all stubborn like.

  The living room looked like someone had tried to throw a celebration and accidentally staged a crime scene instead. Cans everywhere. Boxes and plates and stains dried dark into fabric. A hoodie used as a towel in the corner. A graduation banner half ripped down and trampled like it hadn’t mattered.

  Matthias lay on a couch that wasn’t his, staring at the ceiling, studying the geometry. His mouth tasted like pennies. His skull felt too small for the hangover sitting inside it.

  A boy shuffled through the wreckage, stepping around sleeping bodies and crushed chips.

  “Fuck, man,” he said, voice raw. “My parents are gonna freak.”

  He turned toward the couch, eyes squinting. “Ey, Matty. You awake?”

  “What.” Matthias didn’t bother making it a question.

  The boy rubbed his face, trembling more with panic than hangover. “You gotta help me out. What do I do?”

  Matthias sat up slowly and checked his watch.

  6:12 a.m.

  He’d stayed later than he meant to.

  “Clean,” he said, as if that solved it.

  “Aight, yeah… clean. What— where should we start?”

  Matthias stood and reached for his coat. Something crunchy fell from it—popcorn and orange dust—onto the carpet. He brushed it off with two precise swipes, eyes narrowing like the mess had insulted him personally.

  “Your party,” he said. “Your responsibility.”

  The boy’s frustration flared. “Dude- You’re just gonna leave me hanging?!”

  Matthias didn’t answer immediately. Not because he cared, but because he was figuring out what to do first: gym, shower, then home.

  “I’m hitting the gym,” he said firmly, already moving. “Figure it out.” The other boy stood speechless by the side, as he watched him leave.

  Outside, the early morning air was sharp enough to clear his head, but bright enough to hurt his eyes. Still, he breathed it in like medicine.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  His black Porsche waited for him at the curb, immaculate—almost comical against the house behind him. He slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

  He sighed as the world became reduced to leather, glass, and the soft hum of electronics as he shoved his key in and turned the car over.

  He ran his hands over his face. Blinked hard.

  Then his phone lit up in his palm as he unlocked it.

  Thousands of notifications from his socials—likes, comments, follow requests. But his eyes caught on two other notifications first.

  A missed call from his mom.

  Then a text from Malika: Where are you?

  …followed by another: Nvm. Saw your story.

  He swiped them away, then he went where his thumb always went first.

  His own profile.

  The graduation post was doing exactly what it was supposed to do: reminding people he existed, and mattered.

  328K followers. Climbing.

  He let himself breathe out—just a small release, private.

  Then, because he could, he searched for his sister’s account. Pretending he didn’t care would have been a lie.

  586K followers.

  Matthias stared at it until it stopped being a number and became a bizarre weight. One he purposefully put on himself.

  She didn’t even try. She just existed and the world decided she was worth watching, no matter how much—or how little—effort she put into whatever she did.

  Operators were celebrities—watched like athletes, talked about like artists. Guilds circled talent the way sharks circled blood. People followed the drama, the rumors, the next bright thing cresting over the horizon.

  Malika was the kind of talent people didn’t let slip away: beautiful by every metric, a generational prodigy, a story the market wanted.

  So Matthias worked harder, trained harder and curated harder.

  And still he lived under her shadow like it was a law of nature.

  He locked his phone.

  That needed to change. He couldn’t stand it anymore. All throughout high school and middle school, it was the same thing.

  Matthias silently promised himself.

  Come fall, when the Denver Institute opens and the stage is bigger, he needs to make it all change. It's his time to shine now.

  He pulled away from the curb.

  ~~~~

  Yvette

  She didn’t come to the Park’s house because she was bored.

  That was the version of the truth she could live with the most. Practical and simple, Graduation week was chaotic, everyone’s plans shifting and adjusting; she hadn’t really gotten to spend too much time with her best friend. And Jesse—well, Jesse was notorious for slipping through the cracks without meaning to. Not because he tried to. She knew him better than that. He was just… reserved. The type who would go quiet and call it ‘fine.’

  But her head had been loud lately.

  Since he wasn’t going to the Institute in the fall when she did, what did that mean for them once classes started? Would they still be friends after a few months of being apart for so long, or would life do that ‘thing’, you know—pull people apart slowly enough that you didn’t notice until they’re gone?

  Yvette and Jesse had gone to kindergarten together. Same classrooms, schools, all the way through the Cadet Academy. Alan was friends with her mom and dad. There was never a real stretch of childhood where they weren’t tangled together in some way.

  They’d hung out almost every week for years. Movies, arcades, and most recently—especially during the lead up to their finals week at the academy—late-night drives with the windows down and trashy food at two in the morning because fuck it, why not. The normal stuff. The kind of normal you don’t appreciate until you feel it slipping.

  And lately she’d been feeling that pull a little bit.

  She could picture it all too clearly in her own scenarios.

  She pictures Jesse busy with his job—or whatever he gets himself into when she leaves—never replying to her texts or calls, maybe just ‘forgetting’ to hang out with her when they do finally schedule something.

  Or maybe she will be the reason instead. All buried in Institute work and expeditions, she comes home too tired to do anything but sleep while Jesse eventually stops bothering to even try.

  Maybe it will be mutual. Both of them telling themselves it would be temporary but knowing that maybe it isn’t. It’s just life and time trying to tell them to move on.

  She sighed hard at her own thoughts, frustration rising because sad shit always turned into frustration with her.

  Whatever the case, she wasn’t having it. Not during her last few months of freedom.

  So she walked faster.

  Their neighborhood was quiet. In that early-morning way that made every sound feel sharp. Some sprinklers hissed over small lawns, a few birds argued in the trees, a mail truck making his rounds at the mailboxes. Newspapers getting dropped off and picked up by early risers.

  Yvette kept her hands shoved deep in her bomber jacket pockets and her shoulders tucked against the chill, letting the cold give her something concrete.

  She reached the Park house and paused at the bottom of the porch steps, staring at the front door like it might open on its own and make this easier.

  It didn’t.

  Yvette climbed the steps and tried the handle like she normally did.

  It was locked.

  She blinked at it, brows knitting. Alan was probably at work, sure—but Jesse should be home. Jesse didn’t have much of a social life.

  ‘I am his social life,’ she thought, and the thought annoyed her all over again.

  She knocked—firm, familiar. Not shy.

  Silence.

  She knocked again.

  Nothing.

  “What the hell?”

  She stepped back off the porch, irritation coating her face. She glanced at the windows. Curtains drawn. No movement. No shadows crossing.

  She pulled out her phone, thumbing over to Jesse’s contact—

  —then a voice cut across the quiet from next door.

  “Well, if it ain’t Jesse’s little girlfriend!”

  Yvette visibly cringed at the tone of the voice.

  Across the strip of lawn, the neighbor—Mr. Haskins—stood on his porch in a robe that had seen better decades, mug in hand, smiling like he’d been waiting for her specifically. Honestly, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he had.

  Heat rushed to her face. “I’m not—” She bit it off. Correcting him meant stepping into the joke. “Good morning, Mr. Haskins.”

  “Morning, sweetheart,” he said, delighted. “Looking for Jesse I take it?”

  “Yeah,” Yvette replied flatly, turning back to the door and then looking down at her phone like she could summon Jesse into existence and get her out of this convo.

  Mr. Haskins unfortunately didn’t take the hint. “Well, you may be waitin’ a while. He ain’t living there no more.”

  Yvette’s thumb stopped mid-text.

  “…What’s that?” she asked, turning slowly. “He doesn’t live here anymore?”

  “Yes Ma’am,” he said, leaning forward like this was gossip worth savoring, “Graduated and moved on outta here. Alan told me he got the boy an apartment. Graduation gift.”

  Yvette stared at him.

  He moved out.

  He didn’t tell her.

  Suddenly every anxious thought she’d been trying not to think felt way too close to true.

  “He left?” she said, voice tightening.

  “Couple days ago,” Mr. Haskins confirmed. “Boxes and all.”

  Yvette’s jaw clenched. “And why do you know that?” The question came out sharper than intended.

  He lifted his mug, unbothered, a teasing laugh escaping him. “Because I’ve got these funny little eyeballs here that let me see. And because I offered to help—like a good neighbor.”

  “You offered to help,” Yvette repeated, skepticism sharpening her words.

  “I offered commentary,” he admitted with a grin. “And encouragement.”

  Yvette exhaled through her nose and forced her voice steady. “Where did he move?”

  Mr. Haskins’ grin faltered. “Uh—well. That part I don’t know. Sorry to say.”

  Yvette clicked her tongue and turned away from the door, already dialing as she walked back down the street.

  “Now, please tell him I said congratulations when you see him next,” Mr. Haskins called after her, too loud. “And tell him he still owes me a case of beer for all the advice I gave him!”

  Yvette shot him a look sharp enough to make him chuckle into his mug.

  Jesse picked up on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  She immediately turned away from Mr. Haskins as she practically barked into the phone.

  “You dick!” Loud enough for the entire street to hear.

  “Ah, young love…” Mr. Haskins said to himself as he watched Yvette storm down the street.

  Back on the phone though, the other end of the line was silent.

  “…Hello!?” Yvette snapped after getting no response, as if the phone itself was being disrespectful.

  Then, carefully, Jesse’s voice seeped through, all cautious and fearful. “Hello to you too.”

  “Okay, good. Hey there, asshole.” Yvette spoke quickly, words spilling fast. “Just so you know, I was just standing outside of your house, coming by to see you, and your pervy-ass neighbor was kind enough to inform me that you moved into an apartment. Like, what the fuck, Jesse?! You didn’t even think to tell your best friend you literally moved out of your fucking house!?”

  “My pervy what? Who—”

  “Address,” she said. “Now!”

  On the other end, Jesse hesitated—making that stupid little sound he made when he didn’t have an answer. All it did was trigger her more.

  “Look, I moved in yesterday,” he said, stalling. “I’m still unpacking.”

  “That is not an address, Jess~” Yvette responded in a tense, sing-songy way. She felt like taking him and punting him down the street the next chance she got.

  “Okay, okay—God—give me a sec.”

  She could hear him moving and shoving wads of papers all over the place. That faint shuffle like he was searching through his own life for basic information, and just imagining it made her more irritated by the second.

  “You seriously don’t even have it memorized?” she demanded.

  “No, not yet.”

  Yvette shut her eyes and exhaled hard through her nose.

  Then his voice returned, more certain. “Moorehead Apartments on twenty-third street. Unit four-oh-seven.”

  “Moorehead. 23rd. 407,” she repeated, already typing it into maps. “Okay. That’s not far. I’ll be there soon.”

  “I—wait, are you—”

  “I’m on my way,” she said, and hung up before he could argue.

  ~~~~

  By the time she reached the building, the morning had brightened enough to make the street look ordinary again—cars rolling by, people walking dogs. She wasn’t planning on coming this far into town, but it was a nice change. At least it was a nicer part of the city and not some sketchy part that made her feel the need to keep scanning her surroundings.

  Walking into the lobby, the first thing she noticed was the smell. Faint whiffs of detergent and old, musty carpet. She noticed a corkboard on the wall walking by, crowded with flyers—pet-sitting, piano lessons, a hand-written sign about someone’s missing cat.

  Yvette saw the elevator, but opted for the stairs, climbing two at a time. Elevators meant standing still, and standing still meant thinking too much; and today is not a good day to be thinking too much.

  Jesse got an apartment, but why? Who puts their son in an apartment on their own volition? No, Jesse must have wanted this, but why? Did he get a job already? Is he trying to be responsible for once and looking for work, moving on with the next phase of his life? What was happening here? Why was she so far out of the freaking loop?

  Her thoughts were running rampant already. So much for not thinking too much.

  She reached the fourth floor relatively quickly, stopping in front of the door number she checked on her phone.

  407.

  She stopped in front of the door, exhaled, and tried the handle on instinct.

  It was locked.

  “Of course,” she muttered, then raised her fist and knocked.

  Not politely.

  BAM BAM BAM.

  Footsteps approached on the other side. A pause. Yvette clicked her tongue and flipped off the small peephole in the center of the door. A soft scrape of a chain sliding followed suit.

  The door cracked open.

  Jesse’s face appeared in the gap—hair messy, eyes a little wide, expression caught between surprise and guilt like he’d been sprinting around right before she arrived.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Yvette pushed the door wider with her shoulder and stepped in, brushing past him like permission had been implied since kindergarten.

  “Hey yourself! You are unbelievable,” she said immediately. “We’ve been friends since we were eating sand out of the sandbox and you don’t even tell me when you get your own place?”

  Jesse blinked, then lifted both hands. “Whoa. Look—honestly, it happened fast. Like… two days ago fast. I haven't had a moment to myself yet until today.”

  Yvette took the apartment in with one quick sweep. Small, but decent. Half-unpacked. Boxes stacked like he hadn’t decided what this version of his life was supposed to look like yet. The place smelled faintly like coffee and eggs, and the dishes on the small table confirmed the impossible—

  He’d actually eaten breakfast.

  “This is…” She let the word hang, then settled on something safer. “Fine, I guess. How much is it?”

  Jesse stared at her. “That’s what you care about?”

  “It’s what I’m asking,” she shot back, already drifting toward the counter. There was a small pile of mail there, a key bowl, the usual little evidence scattered around of someone attempting to keep it all together. “You gotta job or something? How you gonna handle rent and utilities?”

  Jesse chuckled. “Well, my dad helped. He’s covering costs for now as a little graduation gift.”

  “Huh.” Yvette nodded once, filing it away with a quiet, silently relieved breath she didn’t acknowledge.

  Then she glanced toward the window, orienting herself by habit—the view was not too bad—and spoke casually, like it didn’t matter, “you’re not too far from the Institute, either.”

  Jesse’s posture shifted slightly.

  “Kinda crazy classes start in three months,” she added quickly, barreling past the moment before it could get uncomfortable. “Oh—and you’re helping me move when the dorms open. I’m not dragging my stuff across town alone.”

  It was a joke. Mostly. The kind that let her say something true without making it ‘a thing’.

  “Yeah,” Jesse said. “Sure. I can probably borrow the car.”

  Then he hesitated, like something caught in his throat.

  Yvette turned, eyebrows lifting. “What?”

  Jesse blinked at her like he couldn’t decide whether she was about to bite his head off.

  Then he said slowly, “Ah, nothing really—I’ve just been thinking about whether I even want a dorm room or not myself.”

  Yvette tilted her head slightly at his words.

  “…What?”

  “At the Institute,” he clarified. “I mean—I might just commute and stay here, surely something like this is just as nice, if not nicer. But I… I don’t know yet.”

  For a second her brain refused to accept what it had just heard, because it was rearranging way too many assumptions all at once.

  She scoffed first, then spoke.

  “Liar,” it came out a lot sharper than she intended.

  Jesse recoiled. “Huh?”

  Yvette stared at him, searching his face for the angle, the joke, but he seemed genuinely confused. Great. So they are both confused.

  “Jesse,” she said, voice low and serious now, “don’t fuck with me. You’re not going to the Institute, you never applied.”

  “I’m not, I did!” He insisted, already moving toward the counter. He rummaged through a stack of papers and pulled out a packet. “Alan- My dad dropped off my mail this morning. The application was accepted but they want me to—”

  Yvette snatched it from his hand before he could finish.

  Her eyes scanned the page—his name, the institute logo, the clean official type.

  Her breath caught.

  “Oh,” she whispered. Glancing up at Jesse, then down again.

  Then, more grounded, “Oh, shit.”

  She looked back at him, disbelief and something like relief colliding in her chest all at once.

  “You actually got in.”

  Jesse nodded, watching her carefully. “Yeah. Well, is it that surprising?”

  Yvette opened her mouth, then shut it again. There were a dozen things she could say and none of them would come out right, or nice for that matter.

  So she did what she always did when she didn’t know what to do with any feeling.

  She hit him.

  Hard.

  “Fucker,” she snapped, because anger was easier to steer than her relief. “Again. Not telling me anything. You are really sucking at this whole friendship thing right now, Jess.”

  “Ow—”

  A moment passed as she glanced down at the acceptance letter, then her body moved before her brain could second-guess it. She stepped forward and hugged him—a quick, gentle squeeze. A second, maybe less.

  Then she pulled back like it hadn’t happened, clearing her throat as she pivoted immediately into logistics.

  “Okay,” she said briskly. “So you’re going. That changes everything. You’re gonna commute then, right? Since you already have this place.”

  Jesse’s expression softened, a little tired. “That’s… what I was saying. I’m trying to figure that part out.”

  “Good, you need to.” Yvette said, a little excited as she bounced on the heels of her boots, already scanning the room again. Needing something to do with her eyes. “I’d commute. You’ve got a nice spot. And—” she waved a hand like the thought didn’t matter, like it was obvious, “—you won’t be alone while you attend, maybe it will be fun to have some friends over from campus. Decompress a bit. This could be a good spot for that.”

  She jerked her chin toward the pile of unopened mail.

  “Also, you really should update your address,” she added, voice returning to its usual bite. “Before you miss a jury summons or whatever adult-people like us are supposed to do.”

  Jesse let out a short laugh. “Yeah. Don’t worry, Alan left me a ‘to do’ list before classes kick off.”

  For the first time that morning, Yvette felt like she could breathe without forcing it.

  Jesse rubbed the back of his neck. “But, I was planning on heading out to pick out a couch, though.”

  “Great,” Yvette said immediately, relief translating into momentum. “I like Ikea. Let’s go.”

  Jesse chuckled as he turned and grabbed his jacket from the closet by the door. “That may be a little over budget, but… yeah. Ikea sounds good.”

  “Good food too,” Yvette said, already halfway toward the door. “Love their meatballs.”

  “Yeah,” Jesse said, locking up behind them. “They’ve got good meatballs.”