Chapter One
Aspen
Our house always smelled like cinnamon.
Even in the dead of summer, when the Florida heat pressed down on you like sticky syrup and the ceiling fans spun lazily, barely moving the thick air. Even when the windows were wide open, and the scent of dry grass and dust drifted in from the yard. Still—it lingered.
Cinnamon. Warm, stubborn, and a little too sweet. Like the walls were trying desperately to convince us this was a normal home.
I wasn’t the scent that made it feel safe, though.
We did that.
Me, Ashton, and Cyrus.
The three of us—like some strange little unit stitched together by past backyard adventures, shared snacks, and a loyalty that always felt too big for our ages.
Ashton and I were twins. Sixteen, almost seventeen in a few months. Born fourteen minutes apart—me first, a fact I made sure he never forgot.
I was the louder one. Quick with a joke, quicker with a jab.
Ashton was the calm one. The glue that held everything steady. Warm and steady, like a soft light, the kind of person everyone gravitated toward. People trusted him. They leaned on him. He was the reason our little group never fell apart.
Especially Cyrus.
Cyrus Prynn was seventeen, but he always carried himself like he’d already lived through more years than that. Not just a little older in age, but older in spirit. His stillness made you notice him even when he didn’t want to be noticed.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with storm-gray eyes that seemed to carry a storm inside them. His black hair curled just enough at the ends, like it had been tamed once, but then gave up. There was something fierce and raw wrapped up in the way he held himself—controlled, watchful, like he was always waiting for the world to catch up.
His actual home?
Gated, spotless, three stories tall—cold as a mausoleum. You could probably scream at the top of your lungs and no one would hear. His mom was some high-powered exec, always away or buried behind glass walls. His dad? Just a rumor, a ghost nobody talked about. Cyrus never said anything about him and we never pressed.
We knew he didn’t belong there.
We saw it in the way his jaw clenched when the phone rang too long. In the way he flinched when voices got loud. In the bruises that never matched the stories he told—“a locker,” “a fall,” “a fight.” Just enough to keep us from asking too many questions.
He started coming around more in eighth grade. At first, for dinner. Then sleepovers. Then weekends. Eventually, he stopped asking permission. He just showed up—bag dropped by the door, shoes off, snagging granola bars like they were his. Because, honestly? They were.
He became part of our lives. My mom barely blinked when she did see him. Maybe because he fixed things without being asked—leaky sinks, squeaky doors, burnt-out bulbs. Maybe because he made her coffee exactly how she liked it—black, no sugar, and always silent. Maybe because she saw the parts of him that needed love.
We all needed something.
Cyrus needed it the most.
Maybe that’s why I started loving him before I even knew what love was.
There was something about him—the way he could be so quiet, so unreadable, until suddenly he wasn’t. The way his sarcasm was so dry it slipped past most people. I caught it. Every joke, every smirk, every almost-smile.
He teased Ashton like a brother, but with me? It was different. His eyes lingered. He noticed things. Like when I braided my hair, when I wore a new shade of lip gloss, when I was quieter than usual. I swore he could see right through me.
I told myself it meant something.
That night started like every other.
We were sprawled in the living room, lights dimmed, the ceiling fan thudding above us. Chip bags half-crushed on the carpet. Soda cans sweating condensation into the cushions. Ashton was half-crossed on the couch, laser-focused on his video game, tongue poking out in concentration.
“You’re going to lose,” I taunted, lying upside down on the armrest, my blonde waves dusting the floor.
“No, you’re gonna lose,” Ashton shot back without looking up. “You’re not even playing, dummy.”
I grinned and lobbed a pillow at him. He ducked, laughing.
Cyrus sat at the far end of the couch, legs stretched out, one arm slung across the back like a throne. He said little, but I could feel his eyes on me. That familiar flicker of amusement he always tried to hide. “Are you two ever normal?” he muttered, voice gravel and ice.
“Nope,” I said. At the same time Ashton smirked, responding, “Absolutely not.”
Cyrus rolled his eyes but didn’t shift when my foot nudged against his thigh. His gaze slid to me—gray and unreadable. He said nothing. Just let the contact stay.
That was Cyrus.
Silent, brooding, steady as stone.
Always there.
Later that night, Ashton had burned the pizza so badly the smoke alarm went off, and Mom wasn’t home to save us from ourselves. We cracked all the windows, letting the heavy humid air drift in, thick with the sound of cicadas buzzing so loud it felt like they were inside the walls.
I was curled up in bed, pretending to scroll through my phone, but really, I was listening.
To the clatter of dishes in the sink. To Ashton’s off-key humming down the hall. To the familiar creak of the stairs. Slow. Uneven.
Cyrus.
My stomach fluttered, even though I told myself it was nothing. That he wouldn’t come upstairs. That he wasn’t thinking about me.
But then my door creaked open—just an inch. Just enough for him to slip through.
He didn’t knock.
He never knocked.
I sat up too fast, heart leaping into my throat. “What are you—?”
He shut the door behind him gently, like he had all the time in the world. Like this was normal.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” I whispered, tugging the blanket tighter around me. I was only in a T-shirt and underwear, my legs bare and my face burning.
He leaned against the doorframe with a lazy confidence, arms crossed, one shoulder dipping. But I saw the tension in his jaw, the way his thumb tapped once against his bicep like he didn’t know what to do with it.
“Want me to leave?” he asked, voice smooth, like he already knew the answer.
I twirled a piece of hair around my finger before I could stop myself.
His eyes flicked to the movement, then back to my face—smirking, but not saying anything yet.
“I didn’t say that,” I mumbled.
“You didn’t have to,” he said simply, like it was obvious.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re annoying, you know that?”
He grinned. “You’ve told me. At least twice a day since we were twelve.”
I bit my lip, trying not to smile. “Where’s Ashton?”
“Still downstairs. Yelling about how the oven betrayed him.”
I laughed under my breath. “It probably did. That thing hates him.”
Cyrus stepped away from the door, slow and quiet, like he was giving me time to change my mind.
I didn’t.
He stopped a few feet from the bed, eyes skimming over me, taking in the mess of blankets and my flushed face, the piece of hair I was still curling without realizing.
“You’re doing the thing again,” he said.
“What thing?”
He nodded toward my hand. “The hair. You always do that when I’m around.”
“I do not,” I said way too fast.
He raised a brow. “You totally do.”
I groaned and flopped back against the pillows. “God, stop.”
He chuckled—low and warm—and sat down on the edge of the bed.
I froze.
The air shifted.
He didn’t say anything for a second, just looked at me like he was trying to figure out what to say next. Then, softly:
“I know.”
I sat up again. “Know what?”
“That you like me.”
My stomach dropped straight through the mattress.
My fingers stilled. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” he asked, not smug, just steady. “You look at me like I’m gravity.”
I swallowed. “You’re not.”
“Then why do you keep falling?”
My breath hitched, and I hated how much he could undo me with one sentence. “You’re really full of yourself, you know that?”
He tilted his head. “Maybe, but I’m not wrong.”
I shook my head. “So what, you came up here just to mess with me?”
He went quiet, then leaned forward, his voice lower. “You think that’s what this is?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
He looked at me like he could see everything I was too scared to say.
“I’ve known for a while,” he said. “And I didn’t say anything because of Ashton. Because we were kids. Because I didn’t want to make it weird.”
“But it’s already weird,” I said softly.
His smile was sad and knowing. “Yeah. It is.”
He reached out, brushed his knuckles across my knee, slow and featherlight. I tensed, then relaxed into the touch.
“I didn’t come up here to tease you,” he said.
“Then why did you?”
His eyes searched mine. “Because I’m tired of pretending.”
A beat passed. Then another.
He leaned in, but I stopped him. “Don’t kiss me,” I whispered, “unless you mean it.”
His voice was barely audible. “I’ve been trying not to kiss you since your thirteenth birthday. You were barefoot, covered in frosting, wearing that awful green dress—and yelling at Ash about Blink-182.”
I laughed, breathless. “I thought you forgot.”
“Never.”
His hand slid up, brushing my jaw, fingers curling lightly at the back of my neck.
He leaned in slowly again. This time, I let him kiss me.
Soft. Careful. Like he didn’t want to scare me. Like he’d been waiting years for this and didn’t want to get it wrong.
I kissed him back before I could think too hard, my hand finding his shirt and tugging him closer.
He smelled like mint and heat and something I couldn’t name.
His other hand found my waist, resting beneath the hem of my shirt—just warm skin on skin, not pushing, just being there.
The kiss deepened, and suddenly, it was harder to breathe.
My pulse raced, but I didn’t stop.
Neither did he.
We said nothing else. Not when his forehead rested against mine. Not when his thumb traced slow circles against my hip. Not when everything felt like it was finally, finally happening.
When morning came, the sunlight in my room was already too bright. It spilled through the half-open blinds, painting long gold stripes across the sheets—empty now, except for the faint impression his body left behind. The space beside me was warm, but fading fast.
He was gone.
For a moment, I didn’t move. I just stared at the dent in the pillow, the tousled edge of the blanket where he must’ve slipped out quietly, and the worn T-shirt folded neatly on my desk chair—mine, not his, but I knew he’d picked it up last night when he thought I was asleep.
A knot twisted in my chest. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but this—this hollow quiet—made me feel like I’d dreamt the whole thing.
I reached for my phone, not to check the time, but to do something with my hands. My thumb hovered over my texts. There was nothing from him. No teasing message. No explanation. Just silence.
I pulled the blanket tighter around me, suddenly cold.
Then came the footsteps.
Heavy, familiar, uneven.
My heart stuttered. The door creaked open a second later, and he slipped inside like a ghost who didn’t belong but couldn’t stay away.
“You left,” I said quietly.
He paused, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking to the bed and then back to me. “Didn’t want Ashton to see me coming out of your room.”
I nodded, biting my lip.
He took a slow step closer. “I wasn’t leaving you, Aspen.”
I swallowed hard. “It kinda felt like it.”
His expression shifted. “I didn’t mean to make it feel that way.”
I didn’t answer. I just watched him, watched the way his jaw clenched and unclenched like he didn’t know what to say next.
Cyrus dragged a hand through his hair, a familiar nervous tic. “I thought you’d still be asleep. I didn’t want to wake you. And I figured… I don’t know, maybe it’d be easier this way.”
“Easier?”
He winced. “Less pressure. Less real.”
I blinked at him. “It was real.”
“I know,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what scared me.”
Silence stretched between us.
Then he crossed the room, stopping just short of touching me. His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach for mine, but wasn’t sure he could.
“I’ve been trying to stay away from you for years,” he said. “Last night didn’t make that easier. It made it worse.”
I gave him a look—soft, skeptical, hurting. “Then why come back?”
“Because I didn’t want you thinking I regretted it.”
I let that sit between us.
Then nodded slowly. “Ashton can’t know.”
He let out a breath. “I know.”
“Not yet,” I added.
He nodded once, understanding.
I reached for his hand, slipping my fingers between his. “Just… don’t disappear again. Not like that.”
He exhaled, relief flickering across his face. “Okay.”
A crash sounded downstairs, followed by Ashton yelling, “Aspen! Are you up?! I think I broke the toaster again!”
I groaned. “Why is he so dysfunctional all the time?” I muttered under my breath as I moved to get up.
Cyrus pulled me back down., smiling faintly. “I got it. You rest.” He turned, but I tugged his hand before he could go. He looked at me over his shoulder.
“Tonight?” I asked.
A smile pulled at the edge of his mouth. “Yeah. Tonight.”
Then he was gone again, soft footsteps vanishing down the hall.
I was left with the fading warmth of his touch, a hollow in the sheets beside me, and a secret that suddenly felt a lot heavier than it had last night.
