Chapter Five — Rule Number One
522 Words
(Harper’s POV)
By the time I finally gather the nerve to talk to Jace again, the next evening sun is already fading behind the trees. The house hums with its usual summer sounds—Noah’s music upstairs, the clink of dishes from Mom in the kitchen. I find Jace on the back porch, legs stretched out, nursing a bottle of root beer like it’s something stronger.
He looks up when I step outside. “Hey, Writer Girl.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“Fine.” His grin tilts. “You ready to talk about your… research?”
I cross my arms. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re enjoying this.”
“Oh, I definitely am.”
I sigh, but there’s no real bite behind it. “I just meant… I could use help with the emotional parts. What it feels like when two people are—” I stop, searching for a safe word. “—close.”
He studies me for a moment, all teasing gone. “You’re serious about this.”
I nod. “If it’s going to feel real on the page, I need to understand what people mean when they talk about connection. The little things. Not—” I wave my hands helplessly. “—the graphic stuff.”
Something in his eyes softens. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Then we set rules.”
“Rules?”
He nods. “If I’m helping, nobody can find out. Especially your brother. That’s rule number one.”
“Agreed.”
“Rule number two,” he continues, leaning back in his chair, “you don’t use this as an excuse to hide behind your book. If you want to learn about connection, you have to live a little too.”
I arch a brow. “Meaning?”
“Talk to people. Go out. Let life happen. Promise me you’ll do that.”
That wasn’t what I expected. “You’re… surprisingly wholesome for a guy who used to throw water balloons at me.”
He smirks. “Growth, Lane.”
We fall into a comfortable silence. The cicadas hum. The sky deepens into soft blue.
Then he says, almost to himself, “Rule number three.”
I glance at him. “What’s that one?”
His eyes meet mine, steady and unreadable. “Don’t let this mess up what we already have.”
My throat tightens. “And what do we have, exactly?”
He hesitates. “History,” he says finally. “A friendship.”
The word friendship hits harder than it should.
“Right,” I say, forcing a smile. “Friends.”
He pushes himself up, setting the empty bottle on the railing. “Good. Then we start tomorrow. You write, I help you figure out the real parts. Just… feelings. That’s it.”
“Got it.”
As he walks past me toward the door, I can’t help noticing the faint smile still tugging at his mouth.
And I can’t help wondering if we’ve already broken rule number three before we’ve even begun
- Writer
