Page 65 of Midnight Curfew

“Wake up,” I tell her.

She doesn’t stir in the slightest. I narrow my eyes, watching her chest for signs of breathing.

“Sophia,” I bark.

Kneeling down, I scoop her up, half in my arms as her head flops back, lifeless.

I pinch her arm, and she immediately winces.

Opening her eyes, she scowls up at me. “Ow.”

You little faker.

“I told you to wait for me at the courtyard at school,” I growl.

“I finished early.”

“You’re not supposed to come home alone.”

She tilts her head to the side, smiling as she whispers, “But he’s gone.”

Tingles spread up my arms, the quiet house surrounding us, and it finally hits me, too.

We’re free. For a little while.

I look around, noticing the first thing she did was build a tent in the sitting room, complete with chairs to hold the curtains wider, a basket of snacks and drinks, her favorite snow globe, and some books.

I release her and stand up. “Did you eat?”

She sits up. “Dallas brought a lot of food for lunch and shared,” she tells me, taking my hand to pull herself up. “He said he wanted to be full, because he was going to drink his dinner.” She dusts off the crumbs on her legs, peering up at me.

I shake my head, sighing.

I lead her to the kitchen. “I wish you’d help other teachers,” I state. “Or volunteer at the animal shelter. You like cats.”

She plops down on a stool at the island as I pull out a bowl the housekeeper left us. Opening it, I smell jambalaya.

“I like his room best,” she tells me.

I set the container in the microwave and start heating it. “I don’t want you in there. Understand?”

“Don’t make me leave,” she bursts out.

I look over my shoulder at her, seeing her eyebrows pinched together in panic. Her chest rises and falls faster.

“I don’t want to change anything,” she cries. “Callum…”

“Calm down, Sophia.”

I grit my teeth together. Jesus. She has to have a damn meltdown every time someone fucks with her world in the slightest.

The microwave stops, and I remove the bowl, stirring the contents. When I put it back in for another minute, I turn to her, seeing the tremble in her chin as she stares at the countertop.

My shoulders slump a little. God, I need a drink.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” I say, my voice gentle again. “I just don’t like him.” I fix us two glasses of pink lemonade. “And he might not be there long anyway. I don’t want you getting attached.”

Why the fuck did she have to run into him?