Elijah Vega.
There’s something weirdly addictive about being in her room. Pink towel. Using girly soap that smells like strawberries and something neat. She doesn’t see me right away when I step out from the bathroom. She’s scrolling through her phone on her bed in damp hair. It’s curling across her shoulder and sticks to her white t-shirt, which, let’s be honest, is clinging in all the ways it shouldn’t.
I should help her braid it before she sleeps.
When Rebekah and I were younger, we used to fight like hell. Screaming matches, broken remotes, cold wars that lasted days. My mom had a way of dealing with it—she’d lock us in a room together until we came out either laughing or crying. Somewhere in that chaos, I started braiding her hair and I never forgot how.
I don’t go to Paloma rig
