YURI

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Last night was a nightmare. No matter how hard I tried, sleep refused to come. Every time I closed my eyes, his face was there—those eyes, that quiet intensity, that maddening half-smile. I imagined his breath warm against my neck, his lips brushing mine, and each time the thought alone sent a shiver down my spine that made me snap my eyes open again.

It was torture, the kind that you almost don’t want to end. I tossed and turned, stared at the ceiling, hugged my pillow like it could squeeze the thoughts out of me—but nothing worked.

After what felt like hours of battling my own imagination, exhaustion finally won, and I drifted into a restless sleep.

When I woke up, the sunlight was already pouring into my room, sharp and accusing. I reached for my phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen.

12:04 p.m.

Great. Half the day gone, and I was still tangled in my sheets, still thinking about him.

I quickly got up, dragged myself into the shower, and let the hot water pound against my skin, hoping it would wash away the remnants of last night’s thoughts. No such luck. By the time I was dressed and headed downstairs, I’d managed to at least paste on a neutral face.

Kirby was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in her hand.

“Why didn’t anybody wake me up?” I asked, walking straight toward the fridge.

She smirked over her cup. “Mom said we should let you sleep in. She said you had a long… night—” she even did the little air quotes, “—I quote.”

I froze mid-step. “And what exactly does she mean by that?”

Kirby just raised one shoulder in a lazy shrug, her eyes twinkling like she knew something but wasn’t about to share.

I narrowed my eyes. “Right. Well, I hope you guys left something for me. I’m starving.”

I opened the fridge and grabbed the container of chopped fruits, popping a grape into my mouth while pulling out some eggs from the tray. I’d barely set them on the counter when Maggie appeared out of nowhere, hands on her hips like she’d caught me committing a crime.

“Missy, why don’t you go to the garden for a bit? I’ll have something ready for you in no time,” she said, her tone sweet but laced with that unshakable *Maggie authority*.

I tilted my head at her. “I can make eggs, you know.”

“I’m sure you can, but not in *my* kitchen,” she replied, stepping closer and plucking the eggs right out of my hands. “Go on now. Sun’s out, breeze is nice—you’ll thank me later.”

I sighed dramatically but knew better than to argue. Maggie’s kitchen is her kingdom, and anyone who dares intrude quickly learns it’s a dictatorship, not a democracy.

“Fine, fine,” I said, holding up my hands in surrender. “But if I starve, I’m haunting you.”

She smirked. “You won’t starve. Now go.”

With that, I wandered toward the back door,