CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Riley wakes before the alarm, the awareness coming quietly, without urgency. It’s the day of her sleepover with Amanda—the last one they’ll ever have—and the thought settles in without needing to be turned over or examined. The house is still, caught in that space just before everything starts moving again, and for a few seconds she stays where she is, eyes open, listening to nothing in particular before she gets up.

The kitchen light clicks on, soft but enough to fill the room. Everything she needs is already there, laid out in the same places it always is, and it doesn’t take long to move through it. It didn’t yesterday either—just less of it then. This time she makes enough, working through each step without thinking too much about it, letting the familiarity carry her through as the smell slowly fills the room and settles into the space.

By the time her parents come in, it’s done.

Her mother pauses first in the doorway, taking it in—the table, the plates, the effort—before something in her expression softens just slightly. “Oh,” she says, quieter than usual, “that’s nice.” Her father glances over the spread, then at Riley, then back again, already pulling out a chair. “Smells good,” he adds, like it’s enough on its own.

No one comments on the difference directly.

They sit and eat, the conversation coming in small pieces that never quite settle into anything lasting. Plans for the day, a passing remark about the weather, something half-started that doesn’t need finishing. Riley eats with them this time, and no one points it out. Her mother serves without asking, her father clears his plate without slowing down, and the routine folds around them easily, like it always has, just adjusted slightly to fit what it is now.

The morning passes without much shape after that. Dishes are cleared, the kitchen resets itself, and the house returns to its usual state, each room settling back into place like nothing out of the ordinary happened there.

By early afternoon, Riley is at the door.

Her mother is already there, leaning lightly against the frame as if she’s been waiting without wanting to make it obvious. “You’ve got everything?” she asks, her tone easy, familiar.

“Yes.”

“Good.” She pauses for a moment, then softens just slightly. “Have a nice time, alright?”

Riley nods. “I will.”

Her mother reaches out, smoothing Riley’s hair back in a gesture that feels automatic, something she’s done a hundred times before without thinking about it. “And behave yourself,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

“I will.”

Her father looks up from where he’s sitting, a small smile already there as he pushes himself up and crosses the room. He pulls her into a tight hug, firm and familiar, the kind that doesn’t need to be adjusted or reconsidered. “Love you, sweetmeat,” he says.

Riley’s mouth parts slightly, the correction rising automatically—

and then stopping just as quickly.

She lets it settle instead, leaning into him and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Love you more.”

That’s all that needs to be said.

The door opens, cool air slipping in and brushing against her skin as she steps outside. The street is already alive in the quiet, ordinary way it always is, people moving, cars passing, nothing stopping for long. Riley doesn’t hesitate as she steps out, the door closing behind her with a soft, familiar click.

The walk is the same as it’s always been, the same streets and the same turns, her pace steady without any need to rush. By the time she reaches Amanda’s street, the rhythm has settled fully, each step falling into place without thought as the distance closes in the same quiet, predictable way.

She slows slightly as she approaches the house, just enough to mark the shift, and then steps forward.

Riley reaches the door and knocks, the sound carrying lightly through the house. She doesn’t have to wait long before it opens, the movement immediate.

“There you are!”

Amanda is already smiling, already moving forward, closing the distance without hesitation as she wraps her arms around Riley in a quick, tight hug, the same way she always has. Only this time, her hands adjust slightly as they settle, higher at first before shifting, careful as they move, redirecting without needing to think about it. The hug still lands the same. It still feels the same.

“Hi,” Riley says, returning it easily.

“Come in,” Amanda says, stepping back, still smiling as she calls over her shoulder, “Mom, Dad—she’s here!”

The house smells the same, the familiar scent settling around her as soon as she steps inside, unchanged in a way that makes everything else feel steady by comparison. Nothing has been moved, nothing adjusted, and for a moment it feels like stepping into something that has simply been waiting.

Amanda’s mom appears first, drying her hands on a towel as she steps into the hall. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says warmly, closing the distance without pause, “it’s been too long.” She pulls Riley into a hug that feels easy and practiced, the kind that doesn’t need to be thought about, but her hands don’t stay where they used to. They slide lower as the hug settles, resting at Riley’s hips before pressing slightly, a small, quiet assessment folded into something that still reads as affection.

She pulls back just enough to look at her. “You’re doing well,” she says, nodding faintly. “You look… good.”

Riley nods once. “Thank you.”

Amanda’s dad follows a second later, slower but no less familiar. “There she is,” he says, a small smile already in place as he leans in for a brief hug. His hands settle more deliberately this time, one at her side and the other lower, a firm, absent-minded pressure against her thigh before he lets go, not lingering and not hidden, just part of the motion. He steps back, giving her a quick once-over. “Yeah,” he adds, “they’re taking good care of you.”

Riley doesn’t respond to that. She doesn’t need to.

Amanda’s mom tilts her head slightly, her attention catching on something else. “Is that—” she says, almost surprised, “you smell nice. What is that?” Amanda leans in a little, catching it too. “Yeah, I was gonna say—what is that?”

Riley pauses for just a second before answering. “It’s from earlier. A spa.”

Amanda’s mom hums softly, nodding as if that explains enough. “Well, whatever they used, it suits you,” she says. “There’s something… warm about it.” Her hand brushes lightly against Riley’s side again as she turns away, not quite a touch, not quite absent either. “Come on in,” she adds. “Don’t just stand in the doorway.”

Riley steps further inside as Amanda drops back onto the sofa like she always does, tucking one leg under herself as she settles in. She pats the space beside her without thinking. “Come sit—”

Riley moves with her, stepping forward and turning slightly as she starts to sit, the motion already underway before anything interrupts it.

A sharp snap cuts through the moment.

“Ah—”

Amanda’s mom doesn’t raise her voice, and she doesn’t need to. Riley pauses mid-motion, the adjustment immediate even before the words follow.

“No Animals on the furniture, dear,” she says, her tone light, almost absent, like she’s catching something small before it settles into habit. She gestures loosely toward the floor. “You can just sit beside Amanda on the carpet.”

There’s no tension in it, no weight behind the correction, just placement.

Riley straightens slightly and adjusts without hesitation. “Sorry,” she says, the word automatic and already fading as she lowers herself to the carpet, settling in beside Amanda’s knees.

Amanda shifts a little on the sofa, leaning down toward her without making anything of it, her voice picking back up exactly where it left off. “So—” she continues, like nothing happened, and after a second it doesn’t feel like anything did.

Riley settles into place, the shift already finished by the time Amanda’s talking again. For a moment she simply sits there, letting the position settle around her before she leans in, not abruptly and not all at once, just enough that her shoulder brushes against Amanda’s knee and then rests there. The contact starts light, almost incidental, before settling into something more deliberate, something familiar.

Amanda glances down at her, the pause brief and almost unnoticeable, and then adjusts slightly, letting her leg shift just enough to make the contact easier, more natural. Her hand comes down a moment later, resting against Riley’s shoulder, her fingers moving idly without much thought.

“Anyway,” Amanda continues, like nothing’s changed, “you missed so much yesterday.”

Riley nods, her attention already back on her, already settled into the rhythm of it.

The position holds without drawing attention to itself, not awkward and not questioned, just… right.

Riley shifts a little closer over time, the movement small enough to go unnoticed unless someone was looking for it. Her shoulder presses in a little more, her head following a second later until it rests lightly against Amanda’s leg, the position easy, almost automatic now.

Amanda doesn’t react to it at first, or doesn’t need to.

Then her hand drifts down, finding Riley’s hair without looking. Her fingers move through it slowly, absent-mindedly, the same way someone might smooth something familiar just to feel it there, a gentle stroke followed by another as her thumb brushes lightly near Riley’s temple before her hand settles at the back of her head.

Amanda keeps talking as her hand moves, her voice carrying on without interruption as if the motion is part of it. “…and she didn’t even show up, like she just—” Her fingers trace down from Riley’s hair to her shoulder, resting there for a moment before giving a small, idle squeeze. It isn’t checking and it isn’t claiming, just a presence that settles and stays without needing to be acknowledged.

Riley leans into it without thinking, the contact grounding more than anything else. She doesn’t look up and she doesn’t move away, letting the position hold as naturally as if it had always been there. Across the room, Amanda’s parents notice in passing, not in a way that interrupts anything, just a glance as they move through or settle into their own spaces, the moment registering without needing to be addressed.

There’s no comment, no correction, nothing to suggest it needs one.

It reads cleanly, simply, naturally.

Amanda’s mom lingers for a second longer than necessary, her attention resting briefly on the way Riley stays close and the way Amanda’s hand continues its slow, absent movement, before turning back to what she was doing. The moment is already filed away as something understood, something that fits.

The conversation carries on without pause, Amanda’s voice filling the space as her hand keeps moving, and Riley stays where she is.

The shift into evening happens without much announcement, the light changing gradually rather than all at once. At some point Amanda’s mom claps her hands lightly together from the kitchen, the sound carrying just enough to reach them. “Alright, dinner time.”

Amanda pushes herself up from the sofa with a stretch. “I’m starving.”

Riley moves with her, already on her feet before she’s told to be.

“Sweetmeat,” Amanda’s mom calls, not unkindly, “set the table for me, would you?”

Riley nods. “Yes.”

The plates are where they always are, the utensils and glasses set out in the same familiar places, and she moves through it easily, placing everything down with small, careful adjustments so each setting lines up the way it should. She sets one, then another, then a third, her hands working without hesitation.

When she pauses, it’s only for a second, her eyes flicking to the space where a fourth would go before she turns back toward the counter.

“—oh!”

Amanda’s mom steps in just as she finishes, catching it immediately, a small laugh slipping out that sounds more fond than anything else. “Sweetheart,” she says, shaking her head slightly as she reaches past Riley for another plate, “you forgot one.”

Riley stills.

“I thought—” she starts, then stops, the thought not needing to be finished.

Amanda’s mom sets the fourth place down herself, adjusting it into position with a practiced motion that feels automatic. “You can sit with us, Meatgirl,” she says, smiling as if it should have been obvious. “Don’t be silly.”

Amanda snorts softly as she drops into her chair. “Yeah, we’re not making you eat on the floor.”

Riley hesitates for half a second, just long enough to register the correction, before nodding. “Thank you.”

She takes the seat.

Riley settles into her chair with her back straight and her eyes on the table, the posture aligning itself without needing to be thought through. She doesn’t reach for anything and she doesn’t speak, her hands resting in her lap with her fingers loosely folded together in a position that has already started to feel familiar.

She waits.

Plates are set down one by one, followed by the food, the rhythm of it smooth and practiced as it moves around the table. Amanda reaches first, already halfway through a sentence, while her dad follows without pause, passing something across as the conversation continues.

Riley stays still.

A moment passes before Amanda’s mom speaks, her voice light but precise.

“Riley.”

The name is enough to stop her.

She looks up.

Amanda’s mom is watching her, her expression unchanged, but there’s something small and exact in the way her attention settles. “Hands above the table,” she says, her tone calm and almost instructional. “We don’t allow dirty Animals in this house.”

Riley’s hands lift immediately, moving from her lap to the table without hesitation. She places them flat beside her plate, her fingers spreading slightly as she adjusts to the position.

“Sorry.”

Amanda’s mom gives a small nod, already turning back to her own plate. “That’s better.”

The moment closes as quickly as it came, folding back into the flow of the meal without disruption.

Conversation resumes. Cutlery moves. Plates shift.

Riley keeps her hands where they are and doesn’t lower them again.

Dinner settles into an easy rhythm after that, the movement of plates and cutlery blending into the steady flow of conversation that fills the space without effort. Amanda talks more than anyone else, her voice carrying the energy of everything Riley missed.

“You should’ve seen it,” she says, already halfway through the story. “Mr. Harlan just stood there like he didn’t even know what to do—”

Her dad chuckles under his breath, the sound low and easy. “No surprise there.”

Amanda grins, leaning forward slightly as she continues without missing a beat. “And then Jess just walks out. Like—actually just leaves. No one even stops her.”

Riley listens, nodding at the right moments, following along easily as the conversation moves around her. It all feels familiar—the cadence, the interruptions, the way Amanda jumps from one thing to the next without finishing half of them—each piece sliding into the next without needing to settle.

Her hands stay where they’ve been placed, resting flat against the table.

She doesn’t move them.

There’s no need to.

The conversation carries on above, steady and uninterrupted, while beneath the table something brushes lightly against her ankle, passing at first in a way that could almost be dismissed. Riley stills for a fraction of a second, just enough to register it, before the contact comes again, more deliberate this time.

A foot slides slowly up along her calf, bare or just barely covered, the movement controlled and unmistakable. It traces upward past her knee before pausing, the pressure settling in place with a quiet, teasing intention that doesn’t need to be acknowledged to exist.

Riley’s breath catches slightly, the reaction small enough to go unnoticed unless someone was looking for it. She doesn’t look down and doesn’t shift in her seat, her posture remaining exactly as it was, her hands still flat against the table.

Above it, nothing changes.

Amanda keeps talking, her hands moving as she explains something Riley missed, while her parents follow along with small comments and quiet reactions that fill the space naturally. No one glances at Riley, and no one acknowledges what’s happening beneath the table, the separation between the two layers holding without strain.

The pressure lingers for a second longer before slipping away as easily as it came.

Riley keeps her hands where they are, her eyes forward, her attention fixed on the conversation as she listens.

Like nothing happened.

They clear the table without much fuss afterward, the movement of it quick and familiar. Riley gathers plates automatically, stacking them neatly before passing them over without needing to be asked, her hands moving with the same quiet efficiency she’s used all day. Amanda lingers a little longer, finishing her drink before pushing her chair back.

“I’m taking her upstairs,” she calls casually.

“Don’t stay up too late,” her mom replies from the sink.

“We won’t.”

Amanda’s room is exactly the same, unchanged in a way that makes it feel preserved rather than lived in. Nothing has been moved, nothing adjusted; posters still peel slightly at the corners, clothes rest draped over the chair, and the bed holds the same soft dip where she always sits.

Riley steps inside and pauses for a second, just long enough to take it in, before following Amanda fully into the space.

“God, I missed this,” Amanda says as she drops onto the bed without ceremony. “I swear nothing happens without you.”

Riley smiles faintly, the expression small but genuine. “I doubt that.”

“No, seriously,” Amanda insists, grabbing the remote and flopping back. “Everyone’s boring now.”

Amanda pats the bed beside her without thinking, the gesture automatic, familiar. Then she pauses, her hand shifting slightly as she glances down, the adjustment small but noticeable. “—or, wait,” she adds, catching herself mid-thought, “you can just—”

Riley is already moving before she finishes. She lowers herself to the floor beside the bed, settling in close without needing the rest of the sentence, the position coming naturally now. Amanda watches her for a second, her attention lingering just long enough to register the adjustment, before she nods once. “Yeah. There.” It lands easily, like that was always the plan.

The movie starts soon after, something simple, something neither of them really needs to follow. Amanda talks through half of it anyway, her voice filling the space in the same scattered way it always has. “…and then Jess actually said that to her face, like I swear—” she continues, the story unfolding in pieces that don’t quite need to connect.

Riley listens from where she sits, leaning lightly against the side of the bed so her shoulder rests where Amanda’s arm hangs over the edge. At some point Amanda’s fingers find her hair again without looking, settling there in a way that feels absent and familiar at the same time, the motion continuing without drawing attention to itself.

Later, they switch to a game they’ve played a dozen times before, the transition happening without discussion. Amanda sits cross-legged on the bed, leaning forward with a focus that sharpens her expression, while Riley remains just below her, controller in hand, already settled into place.

It doesn’t take long.

“You’re cheating,” Amanda says flatly, though there’s no real weight behind it.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” she insists, laughing despite it. “You’ve always been like this.”

Riley doesn’t answer, just keeps playing, her focus steady as she moves through the game without hesitation.

She wins again.

Amanda drops back onto the bed with a groan, her frustration exaggerated enough to stay light. “This is so unfair.”

“You picked it.”

“Yeah, but I thought I had a chance.”

Riley glances up at her. “You never do.”

Amanda snorts softly. “Okay, rude.”

But she’s smiling.

The room settles after that, the energy easing as the game idles on the screen and the movie fades into something forgotten in the background. Amanda shifts onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow as she looks down at Riley, her attention more focused now than it has been all evening.

There’s a pause that settles into the room without breaking it, long enough to be noticed but not long enough to feel out of place.

“…so,” she starts, her voice quieter this time, “when do you plan on reporting in?”

Riley doesn’t look up, her attention fixed on the controller in her hands as her grip tightens slightly, just enough for her to feel it.

“Don’t,” she says.

Amanda hesitates. “I just—”

“Just don’t,” Riley replies, her tone firm but not raised. “Tonight isn’t about that.”

The words land without sharpness, closing the space rather than cutting through it.

Amanda watches her for a second longer, her expression shifting as she considers pushing further, then exhales and drops back onto the bed instead. “Okay.”

There’s no argument and no attempt to continue.

The moment settles back into the room as easily as everything else has.

A few seconds pass before Amanda speaks again, her tone lighter now, the shift deliberate but effortless. “So… rematch?”

Riley looks up.

“…sure.”

The game restarts, the movement filling the space again as the earlier moment folds quietly into the background.

The game winds down without much ceremony, the movement slowing naturally rather than coming to a clear stop. At some point Amanda stretches, her arms lifting overhead as a quiet yawn breaks through. “Okay,” she says as she drops her hands again, the decision settling easily. “I’m done.”

Riley nods, the motion small.

Amanda stands and crosses the room, already pulling at her shirt as she goes, the action beginning before there’s any need to think about it. She doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t turn away, her clothes coming off in the open and falling where they land before she reaches for something else. The movement is quick and casual, the same way she’s always done it, something so familiar it doesn’t need to be acknowledged.

Riley watches for a second before looking away, her gaze dropping to somewhere lower, somewhere neutral, as if that adjustment is just as automatic. Amanda doesn’t react to it, or doesn’t need to, continuing without pause.

When she’s done, Amanda climbs into bed and pulls the covers up around herself with a small sigh. “God, I’m tired,” she murmurs, her voice already softening as she settles in. After a second she glances down at Riley and shifts slightly to make space. “You can come up,” she adds, the offer casual.

Riley pauses only briefly before standing, the hesitation more of a transition than a question. She moves to the side of the bed and climbs up carefully, positioning herself beside Amanda with the same quiet precision she’s used all day.

She doesn’t go under the covers.

Instead, she stays on top of them, the fabric bunching slightly beneath her knees as she settles, adjusting until she’s lying still, parallel to Amanda but separate.

Amanda doesn’t comment on it. She simply reaches over to tug the blanket a little higher around herself before turning onto her side. “Night,” she says, already half-asleep.

“Night,” Riley replies.

The room grows quiet after that, the last of the movement fading as everything settles into place. Riley stays where she is, on top of the covers, still and contained, her eyes open for a while longer before they finally close.

The room settles into quiet gradually, the shift happening so slowly it almost goes unnoticed. Amanda’s breathing evens out beside her, slow and steady in the way sleep comes easily, and the house follows, each small sound fading until there’s nothing left but the distant creaks of it settling into the night.

Riley doesn’t fall asleep the same way.

Not tonight.

She lies still for a while with her eyes open, watching the faint outline of the ceiling where the light from outside barely reaches. The position is familiar now—on top of the covers, separate, contained—but it doesn’t hold her the way it should, something in it failing to settle completely.

After a while, she shifts carefully, slow enough not to disturb Amanda, and slides off the bed onto the floor. She stands and pauses just long enough to listen, but nothing changes and Amanda doesn’t stir, her breathing continuing in the same steady rhythm.

Riley moves quietly out of the room.