home alone

Chapter Seven— home alone

★maliya's pov★

The house was still empty when I got back. I carried my shopping bags upstairs and dumped them on the bed, too numb to put anything away properly.

My phone buzzed again. Another text from Stephanie, this time with a link to the party and about fifteen emojis.

I tossed the phone aside and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

I'd given Micaiah exactly what he wanted. Two years of wondering, of questions, of unfinished business—I'd handed him the answers on a silver platter. And now he was done.

The humiliation burned through me like acid.

I'd been so stupid. So desperate to believe that maybe, just maybe, last night meant something more than just him proving he could have me if he wanted.

But that's all it was. A conquest. A way to settle the score before moving on to the next girl who'd sit in his classroom and look at him like he hung the moon.

My door was locked. I'd checked twice.

But it didn't matter anymore.

Micaiah had already gotten what he came for.

I spent the entire day in my room, pretending I wasn't listening for the sound of his car in the driveway.

The shopping bags sat untouched on the floor. I'd tried to unpack them around noon, but my hands kept shaking and I gave up after folding the same sweater three times. Instead, I sat by the window, my laptop open to an essay I wasn't writing, my eyes constantly drifting to the driveway below.

Empty.

One o'clock came and went. Then two. Then three.

I told myself I didn't care. That I was just keeping track of time, making sure I knew when he'd be back so I could avoid him. That's all this was. Strategic awareness.

Not waiting.

Definitely not waiting.

By four o'clock, my stomach was growling. I'd skipped breakfast, too nauseous to eat. Skipped lunch because the thought of going downstairs made my chest tight. But hunger was starting to override humiliation, and I couldn't hide in this room forever.

I crept downstairs like a thief in my own house, listening for any sign of him. Nothing. His keys still weren't on the hook. His shoes weren't by the door.

Where the hell was he?

I opened the fridge and stared at its contents without seeing them. Patricia, the housekeeper, had stocked it before Mom and Richard left. Fresh vegetables, chicken breast, pasta, all the ingredients for actual meals.

I should just make something for myself. A sandwich. Cereal. Something quick that wouldn't require thought or effort.

Instead, I found myself pulling out chicken, garlic, tomatoes. Pasta from the pantry. Olive oil. Basil.

I wasn't making dinner for him. I was just cooking because I was hungry and there was food and it had nothing to do with the fact that chicken piccata was his favorite and I remembered that detail despite spending two years trying to forget everything about him.

The kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and lemon. I set two plates on the counter, then stared at them.

Two plates.

What was I doing?

I shoved one back in the cabinet with more force than necessary. I was making dinner for myself. Just myself. Because I was hungry and he clearly wasn't coming home and I didn't care either way.

I hated him.

Hated the way he'd touched me last night like I was something precious, something worth keeping. Hated the promises in his voice, the heat in his eyes, the way he'd made me believe that maybe this time would be different.

Hated that he'd left without a word and proved that nothing had changed at all.

The pasta boiled over. I swore and turned down the heat, my eyes burning with something that definitely wasn't tears.

I plated my food—one plate, just one—and ate standing at the counter because sitting at the table felt too formal, too much like admitting I was alone.

The chicken was good. Perfect, actually. I'd always been a decent cook, something I'd learned from watching Mom before she'd married Richard and hired people to do everything for her.

I wondered if Micaiah remembered that I could cook. If he'd thought about it at all over the past two years.

Probably not.

I dumped my plate in the sink and checked my phone. Six thirty. Still no messages.

I went back upstairs, my footsteps echoing in the too-quiet house.

⁠✿

By eight o'clock, I'd reorganized my closet, responded to Stephanie's texts with noncommittal answers, and checked the driveway so many times I'd lost count.

Still empty.

I told myself this was good. That his absence meant I wouldn't have to face him, wouldn't have to see the smug satisfaction on his face when he looked at me and remembered what I'd let him do.

But a small, pathetic part of me kept expecting to hear his car. Kept listening for the sound of the front door, his footsteps on the stairs, his voice calling my name.

It never came.

By nine, I gave up pretending to be productive and collapsed on the bed with a book I'd been meaning to read. Some thriller about a woman uncovering family secrets. The kind of thing that usually pulled me in and didn't let go.

But I kept reading the same paragraph over and over, the words blurring together.

Where was he?

I pressed my palms against my eyes, willing myself to stop caring. He was out. Probably at a bar, or a friend's place, or with someone who didn't come with complications and a shared bathroom down the hall.

Someone who wasn't his stepsister.

Someone who wouldn't look at him the next morning and see every reason why this was wrong.

My phone lit up on the nightstand. For a split second, my heart jumped.

But it was just Stephanie again, sending me a photo of her outfit options for the party next weekend. As if I cared. As if anything mattered beyond the fact that Micaiah had walked out this morning and hadn't looked back.

I put the phone face-down and returned to my book.

The main character was discovering that her father had been lying to her for years. That everything she thought she knew about her family was built on secrets and carefully constructed fictions.

I could relate.

Two years ago, I'd thought I understood what Micaiah was to me. Stepbrother. Family. Someone I was supposed to keep at arm's length because crossing that line would destroy everything.

But that night had shattered every boundary I'd believed in. Had shown me that the heat between us wasn't something I could run from or ignore or pretend didn't exist.

And then I'd run anyway. Because I was a coward.

And now he'd proven I was right to run. That giving in only led to mornings alone and silence that felt like abandonment.

I made it to chapter three before my eyes started drifting to the window again.

The driveway was still empty. The house was still quiet. And I was still here, waiting for someone who'd made it very clear he had better places to be.

I forced myself to keep reading. The main character was confronting her mother now, demanding answers about the lies. The mother was crying, saying she'd only done what she thought was best.

Familiar territory.

By eleven, my eyes were heavy and the words were swimming on the page. I should sleep. Should turn off the light and stop torturing myself by listening for a car that might not come back at all tonight.

But what if he didn't come back?

What if last night had been exactly what it looked like—him getting what he wanted and then walking away, leaving me alone in this house with nothing but regrets and the ghost of his touch on my skin?

I closed the book and turned off the light, lying in the darkness and hating how much I cared.

Hating that some part of me was still hoping to hear his key in the lock, his footsteps in the hall, his voice saying my name like it mattered.

But the house stayed silent.

And eventually, exhausted from a day of waiting for someone who never came, I fell asleep.

I dreamed of his hands. His mouth. The way he'd looked at me last night like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And then I dreamed of waking up alone.

Over and over and over again.