Chapter 7: Scent

The house sounds different in the afternoon.

Morning noise had been sharp and intrusive, filled with boots scraping concrete, voices bouncing off unfinished walls, the clang of metal on metal. It had been impossible to forget there were people everywhere, tearing the place open, leaving it exposed.

Now the sounds are muted.

The workers have moved upstairs. Their presence registers only as distant thuds, the occasional vibration through the floorboards, like a pulse rather than a disruption. The walls also feel thinner without being loud about it.

The house feels… aware.

I carry a towel down the hallway, bare feet silent against the floor, and lock the bathroom door behind me. The click is soft but final. Habit more than necessity. I’m not sure privacy exists here in any real way anymore.

The mirror catches me before I can look away.

I don’t recognize myself, well not fully.

My hair is flattened on one side, tangled on the other. Sleep has left shadows beneath my eyes, faint but noticeable, like fingerprints that won’t wash off. My mouth looks softer than usual, fuller, as if it’s still remembering something.

I stare a second too long.

Then I turn on the shower.

The pipes complain before the water evens out, steam blooming quickly, swallowing the mirror, erasing my reflection until there’s nothing left to look at. Relief loosens something tight in my chest.

I step under the spray.

Heat slides over my shoulders, down my spine, settling into places I didn’t realize were holding tension. I brace one hand against the tile, bowing my head as water drums against me, steady and relentless.

I tell myself it’s just a shower.

I tell myself it’s just another afternoon.

I tell myself nothing has to mean anything.

The heat makes a liar out of me.

Devon’s hands come back first warm, sure, not hesitant even when everything else was. Then his voice, low and steady, saying my name like it fit there, like it belonged.

I shut my eyes hard.

The water keeps falling.

The shelf beside me is crowded with bottles I don’t recognize. Most of them are his, plain, dark containers, nothing decorative. Everything about them feels intentional. Efficient. Like him when he’s pretending he isn’t affected by anything.

I reach for my soap and then I stop.

Right beside it sits his.

It’s stupid. I know that. Still, my fingers hesitate.

I pick it up before I can talk myself out of it.

The cap flips open with a quiet snap. I squeeze some onto my loofah, and the scent hits me immediately.

It’s the smell of him.

Clean and warm and understated. The kind of scent that stays close to the skin instead of announcing itself.

My chest tightens.

I don’t stop.

The soap foams easily, thick and slick, sliding across my skin as I wash. The scent blooms with the steam, clings to me, sinks into places I don’t want to think too hard about.

My breathing changes before I notice it has.

Every thought circles back to him. To the way he stood too close earlier. To the way he hadn’t looked at me like he didn’t want to but like he was afraid of what would happen if he did.

I rinse off slowly.

The scent lingers anyway.

My heart is beating too fast when I reach for the curtain.

The sound stops me.

The door.

I freeze.

Steam fogs everything, the curtain still drawn, my vision reduced to vague shapes and shadows. For a split second, I convince myself it’s nothing. Pipes. Footsteps passing.

Then I hear his breathing.

Devon.

Neither of us speaks.

The awareness is instant and electric. He can’t see me. I can’t see him. The curtain is a thin, ridiculous barrier, and somehow that makes it worse.

My fingers curl into the loofah. My pulse roars in my ears.

“I—” He stops himself.

The sound of it, a cut-off breath, a word he doesn’t finish, slides under my skin.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, his voice low and measured. “I didn’t know you were in here.”

I don’t answer.

If I open my mouth, I won’t be able to stop.

Fabric shifts. He hasn’t left yet.

“I’ll come back when you’re done,” he adds.

The pause stretches.

Long enough to feel deliberate.

Long enough to feel like a choice.

I stay still. He stays where he is. The steam thickens, the scent of his soap heavy in the air between us, like evidence we’re both pretending not to see.

Then he moves.

The door opens. Closes.

The lock doesn’t click.

I stand there long after he’s gone, water cooling as it runs, skin buzzing in a way that has nothing to do with heat.

When I finally step out, the bathroom feels altered. Like something has shifted and the walls have taken note.

I wrap the towel tight around myself and lean briefly against the door, breathing through the pressure in my chest.

He didn’t look.

He didn’t say anything wrong.

He didn’t touch me.

It feels worse than if he had.

I dress carefully and slowly. Choosing clothes that don’t invite anything. Layers of clothing with structure and a fabric that doesn’t cling.

When I leave the bathroom, the hallway is quiet.

I don’t see him right away, but I feel him somewhere nearby, contained and restless, like energy trapped in too small a space.

We cross paths near the kitchen.

He looks up.

Looks away.

“Everything okay?” His voice is neutral. Controlled.

“Yes.” Too quick.

He nods. “Good.”

That’s it.

He turns back to the paperwork spread across the counter, phone in hand, attention deliberately elsewhere. The distance is intentional. It’s a choice he’s making.

Default Devon.

The one who organizes. The one who steps in when things get complicated. The one who pretends nothing messy ever touches him.

I stand there, watching him, heat coiling low in my stomach.

No.

I won’t let him bury it.

“So,” I say lightly, “do you usually walk into bathrooms without knocking?”

His shoulders stiffen.

“I apologized.”

“I know.” I step closer, not touching him, but close enough that he can feel my presence behind him. “Just checking if that’s part of your routine now.”

He finally looks at me.

His gaze lingers, drags, then snaps away like he’s burned himself.

“Harriet,” he says quietly, “don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

He exhales, slow and controlled. “Don’t push this.”

“Push what?” I tilt my head. “Normalcy? Because this…” I gesture vaguely between us. “…isn’t it.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m trying to keep things steady.”

“They weren’t steady to begin with.” Not after he had come back from wherever he went to and not now.

Silence drops between us, heavy and charged.

“I don’t want you acting like my brother,” I say, softer now. “Not after everything.”

His eyes darken not just with want, but with something deeper like guilt or fear. The kind of restraint that costs something to maintain.

“That’s exactly why I have to,” he says.

He gathers the papers, creating motion where there was none, then moves past me, putting space between us with careful precision.

I watch him go.

Something settles in my chest and it’s not calm or relief it’s resolve.

If he wants to pretend, I won’t stop him.

But I won’t disappear for his comfort either.

Not after the way his voice shook when he said my name.

And definitely not after the way his soap still clings to my skin.