The morning light filters through the lake house windows, soft and golden, like it's trying to wash away the night. I wake up first, tangled in the sheets beside Cyrus, his arm draped over me possessively even in sleep.

Cleo's still out on her side of the bed, but her breathing's steadier now, the pallor fading from her cheeks. My heart twists—a mix of triumph and ache—as I slip out carefully, pulling on my sundress from last night. The fabric smells like him, like us, and I press it to my nose for a second, inhaling the memory.

That secret from the reeds, from years ago, feels alive again, pulsing between us. But Cleo... she's here, a reminder that our love is always shadowed, always stolen.

I head to the kitchen, start the coffee, scramble some eggs, slice fruit. Mundane motions to ground myself, to pretend this is normal. Cyrus wanders in first, hair tousled, eyes meeting mine with that quiet intensity, the unspoken hanging heavy.

He brushes past me, his hand grazing my hip—deliberate, electric. "Morning, Rachie," he says, voice low, rough from sleep.

"Morning," I reply, keeping my tone light, but my pulse quickens. We don't say more; we don't need to. Cleo appears a few minutes later, looking rumpled but brighter, her smile tentative. "Hey, guys. I feel... human again. Whatever that was last night knocked me out cold."

We sit at the old wooden table, the one with nicks from our childhood summers, plates clinking as we eat. The conversation flows easily, surface-level stuff to fill the air.

"These eggs are perfect, Rachel," Cleo says, forking a bite.

"You always know how to make breakfast feel like home."

I smile, stirring my coffee. "Years of practice. Mom taught me—remember those pancake disasters, Cyrus?"

He chuckles, leaning back in his chair, his foot nudging mine under the table—subtle, but it sends a spark up my leg. "Yeah, the ones that were more charcoal than food? We survived somehow."

Cleo laughs, reaching for the orange juice. "Sounds like my attempts at baking. Last week, I tried muffins for the office—ended up with hockey pucks. Speaking of, Cyrus, did you hear back from the caterer about the gluten-free options?"

He nods, sipping his coffee, his eyes flicking to me for a split second—loaded, lingering. "Yeah, they can do it. But let's not dive into wedding stuff yet; it's too early for checklists."

"Agreed," I say, keeping my voice even, though my mind flashes to last night, his body on mine, his whispers in my ear. We shift to safer ground—the weather turning crisp, that old boat in the shed we should fix up, stories from work.

Cleo's talking about a patient who drew her a picture, Cyrus mentions a case that's dragging on, and I share a funny ER mishap with a guy who superglued his hand to his forehead.

It's comfortable, almost normal, but underneath, Cyrus's gaze keeps finding mine, a silent pull that makes my chest ache. We're star-crossed, bound by something deeper than words, and moments like this remind me how fragile it all is.

After breakfast, I volunteer to run to the store. "We need more coffee, some snacks for the weekend—maybe wine for tonight?" Cleo nods gratefully, and Cyrus gives me a look that's half-reluctant, half-promising. "Don't be long," he says, voice casual, but his eyes say more.

The drive is quick, and the small town market is stocked with basics. I grab coffee beans, fresh bread, a bottle of red that reminds me of nights we'd sneak sips as teens. My mind wanders to him, to us—how we've always danced around this, loving in shadows since that first time at the lake. It feels like fate, cruel and beautiful, pulling us back no matter how hard we try to resist.

When I return, bags in hand, the house is quiet at first. I set the groceries down in the kitchen, then hear it—voices, low and murmured, coming from the bedroom. A laugh, Cleo's, soft and breathless.

Then a groan, unmistakably his. My stomach twists, curiosity sharpening into something sharper. I creep down the hall, heart pounding, the floorboards creaking under my feet. The door's ajar, just a crack, and I push it open silently, peering in.

There they are. Cyrus and Cleo, tangled on the bed—the same bed from last night. She's beneath him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands in his hair as he thrusts into her, slow and deep.

The sheets are rumpled, sunlight streaming in, casting them in a glow that's almost romantic. Cleo's head is thrown back, moaning softly, and Cyrus... God, Cyrus is murmuring into her neck, his voice rough and intimate, the same words he whispered to me in the dark.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, his hips rolling, just like he did with me. "Always have."

She gasps, arching into him. "Cyrus... don't stop. Just like that."

"I can't stop this," he says, voice thick, echoing the ache he gave me hours ago. "I don't want to."

Anger surges through me, hot and jealous, like acid in my veins. How dare he? After last night, after everything we've shared—the secrets, the touches, the love that's always simmered between us.

This feels like betrayal, him giving her the pieces of himself that should be mine. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms, but I don't burst in. I don't scream or shatter the moment. I hold it in, swallowing the rage, letting it burn inside me like a coal.

This is our curse—loving in fragments, never whole. I back away quietly, closing the door with a soft click, my breath shaky.

I retreat to the kitchen, unpacking the bags with trembling hands, forcing a smile for when they emerge. But inside, the jealousy festers, mixing with the love that's too deep to let go. We're bound, Cyrus and I, even in this pain.

Fate's cruel joke, but I'll endure it—for now.