Page 84 of A Million To Fall

“There were strangers in your house. At night. You were terrified. That is something.”

She opens her mouth, looking like she wants to argue, but I keep going.

“Of course your brain’s gonna associate being alone at home with that night. That’s how trauma works. You don’t need to have been hurt for it to mess with you. Fear is trauma.” Trust me, I know.

Her breath seems to get stuck in her throat. “Is it?” she asks like I’m finally confirming what she’d always suspected but somehow never let herself believe.

Why not?

“Yeah, Stormy. I’m not surprised you hate being alone, and I don’t think you should be. Not when it fucks with you this much.”

She inhales, deep, shaky, and for a second I think she might cry. I hold my hand out. She takes it without question. It’s not lost on me how perfectly her hand fits in mine. “Alright, let’s make sure nothing and no one is inside Monroe Mansion.”

She laughs, then unlocks the front door, and holy shit.

I’ve never been to Skye’s house. Not this one. She moved in sometime after my childhood collapsed, but let’s just say the place is massive.

And lit up like the world’s most expensive Christmas tree.

I bet she purposely left the lights on before coming to find me.

I step into the house first, struck by how pristine it is. It’s a lot like Jake’s home, clean and spacious. No stained carpets or beat-up furniture, not a single dust mote floating in the air. Actual curtains on the windows rather than bedsheets or dented blinds.

I try not to let my boots scuff the floor, try not to breathe too loud. The whole place looks like it would reject my presence if it could. I don’t belong here. But weirdly, Skye doesn’t seem like she belongs here, either.

Still, I hold on to her hand as we walk through each room, checking windows and locks. I even drop to my knees to look under beds, causing Skye to laugh.

By the time we make it back to the foyer, we’ve ensured every nook and cranny in the house is clear.

“Everything looks good,” I say.

For a moment, we just stand there, looking at each other.

“You ready to eat?”

She nods and leads the way into the living room, where she plops onto the sofa. The very expensive-looking sofa.

I hesitate before sitting. “You want to eat on the couch?”

Skye blinks. “Uh, yeah? Unless you want to… sit in the dining room?” She’s looking at me like I suddenly sprouted another head.

“I just want to make sure it’s okay. I mean, I’d hate to get the couch dirty.”

“Boss,” she says, grinning. “It’s a couch. It’ll survive even if we accidentally spill some lettuce.” She pats the spot next to her, so I sit.

She mans the remote while I pull the burgers and fries from the paper bag.

“Our TV has an automatic shutoff. If you don’t switch the channel for an hour, it’ll ask if you’re still watching and then just… shut off,” she says, browsing the guide. “Anything in particular you want to watch?”

I glance only briefly at the TV. “Not really.”

The last time I had true, unfettered access to a television, it was usually commandeered by two tiny people at war with each other over which cartoon to watch. And now I feel like I’m too far behind to be allowed an opinion.

She settles on some reality TV show set on a boat. Strike that—yacht.

She glances at me sheepishly. “Sorry, I know it’s brainrot, but it’s a nice way to unwind. Doesn’t require me to think too much, you know?”

“Hey, you don’t need to apologize. We all have our guilty pleasures.”