Chapter 3: Rules of Engagement

The truce lasted exactly forty-seven hours.

Elijah had counted, because tracking time was easier than thinking about the careful choreography they'd developed to avoid each other. Sam would shower first thing in the morning; he'd wait until he heard her bedroom door close before venturing downstairs. She'd eat lunch in her room; he'd use the kitchen for dinner prep after her art supplies disappeared back upstairs.

It was a delicate dance of avoidance that left the house feeling like a minefield, every shared space charged with the memory of what they'd done and the weight of words they couldn't take back.

Coward.

The accusation had been haunting him, following him through his shifts at the library, through sleepless nights when he could hear her moving around in the room next to his. She was right, and they both knew it. But being right didn't make this situation any less impossible.

Which was why, when she appeared in the kitchen doorway Tuesday evening while he was washing dishes, his entire body went rigid with tension.

"We need to talk," Sam said without preamble.

Elijah didn't turn around, focusing on scrubbing a plate that was already spotless. "I thought we said everything we needed to say."

"No, you ran away before we could finish the conversation." Her voice was carefully controlled, lacking the fire that had burned between them two mornings ago. "And this silent treatment bullshit isn't working."

She was right about that too. The house felt like a pressure cooker, the tension building with every carefully avoided glance, every moment of forced politeness when they passed in the hallway.

"What do you want to talk about?" He set the plate in the dish rack with deliberate care.

"Rules."

That made him turn. Sam stood in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing paint-stained shorts and an oversized flannel that made her look younger than her nineteen years. But her expression was pure determination, the same look she got when she was working on a particularly challenging piece.

"Rules?" he repeated.

"Ground rules. For how we're going to handle this until Mom and David get back." She moved into the kitchen, maintaining careful distance but making it clear she wasn't backing down. "Because what we're doing now isn't sustainable."

Elijah studied her face, looking for traces of the hurt he'd put there, the vulnerability he'd seen crumble under his rejection. But Sam had rebuilt her walls, and now she was all business.

"Okay," he said carefully. "What kind of rules?"

"First rule: it never happens again." The words came out crisp, matter-of-fact. "Whatever that was the other night, it was a one-time thing. An anomaly. We don't talk about it, we don't reference it, and we sure as hell don't repeat it."

Each word hit like a small blow, but Elijah nodded. This was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? A way back to their careful distance.

"Second rule: we go back to normal. Whatever passes for normal in this house." Sam's mouth twisted slightly. "We coexist. We don't avoid each other like we have some kind of contagious disease, but we don't seek each other out either."

"And third?" He could tell there was more by the way she hesitated.

"Third rule: we never, ever let our parents find out. This stays between us, forever." Her blue eyes met his, unflinching. "Because whatever our personal drama is, they don't deserve to have their marriage implode because we couldn't keep our shit together."

The rules were logical, practical, and exactly what any rational person would suggest. So why did they feel like a death sentence?

"Those sound reasonable," Elijah heard himself say.

"Good." Sam's smile was sharp-edged. "Then we have an agreement."

She extended her hand like they were sealing a business deal, and after a moment's hesitation, he took it. Her skin was warm, soft, and the brief contact sent electricity shooting up his arm. From the way her breath caught slightly, she felt it too.

They dropped hands quickly, the moment stretching awkwardly between them.

"So," Sam said, voice determinedly casual. "How was work today?"

The question was so normal, so perfectly ordinary after everything that had passed between them, that Elijah almost laughed. Instead, he found himself playing along.

"Fine. Quiet. Some freshman tried to check out the same romance novel four times because she was too embarrassed to actually take it home."

"Which one?" Sam asked, and there was genuine curiosity in her voice.

"Something called 'The Duke's Forbidden Desire.'" He couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at his mouth. "Very dramatic cover."

"Oh, I love those." Sam's grin was real this time, lighting up her whole face. "The more ridiculous the title, the better the book. It's like a law of the universe."

And just like that, they were talking. Actually talking, not the careful verbal warfare they'd perfected over three years, but something that resembled an actual conversation. It was strange, this glimpse of what they might have been if circumstances were different, if the attraction simmering beneath every interaction wasn't there to complicate things.

The truce held for three days.

Three days of carefully normal interactions, of shared meals where they discussed school and work and anything that wasn't the elephant in the room. Three days of pretending they didn't notice when their hands brushed reaching for the same thing, or when their eyes met and held a moment too long.

It might have lasted longer if not for Tyler Morrison.

Elijah was coming home from his Thursday evening shift when he heard the crying. Soft, muffled sobs coming from the living room that made his chest tighten with familiar protective instincts. He found Sam curled up on the couch, her phone clutched in one hand, tears streaming down her face.

Every rule they'd carefully constructed flew out the window.

"What happened?" He was beside her before he'd consciously decided to move, his hand hovering over her shoulder. "Sam, what's wrong?"

She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, and the devastation he saw there made him want to hit something.

"Tyler," she said, voice thick with tears. "He... God, I'm so stupid."

Tyler Morrison. Elijah knew the name—some guy from her art program she'd mentioned a few times, always with a particular smile that had made his jaw clench in ways he'd refused to examine.

"What did he do?" His voice came out rougher than intended.

"He's been seeing someone else. For weeks." Sam wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "I found out through Instagram. She posted a picture of them together with some caption about 'my amazing boyfriend.' Apparently, everyone knew but me."

The raw hurt in her voice was like a knife to his chest. Sam might drive him crazy, might push every button he had, but seeing her in pain was unbearable.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "That's... that's really shitty of him."

"The worst part is, I thought..." She took a shaky breath. "I thought he actually liked me. Not just the idea of me, or what I could do for him, but actually me. I'm such an idiot."

"You're not an idiot." The words came out fierce, protective. "He's the idiot. Anyone who would hurt you like that—"

"Would what?" Sam looked up at him, something shifting in her expression. "What would you do to someone who hurt me, Elijah?"

The question hung between them, loaded with implications that made his pulse spike. Because the honest answer was that he wanted to track down Tyler Morrison and make him regret every choice that had led to Sam's tears.

"I'd make sure he knew it wasn't acceptable," Elijah said carefully.

"How very diplomatic of you." But Sam's smile was watery, grateful. "Thank you. For caring, I mean. Even if we're... even with our rules."

The rules. Right. The carefully constructed barriers they'd built to keep this exact scenario from happening—him wanting to comfort her, her looking at him like he might actually be able to fix something.

He should have left then. Should have offered some generic condolence and retreated to his room. Instead, he found himself sitting down on the couch beside her, close enough to feel her warmth.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked.

Sam studied his face for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether this was real or just politeness. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied her, because she curled up against the arm of the couch and began to talk.

She told him about Tyler's charming smile and the way he'd made her feel special, chosen. About art critiques where he'd seemed genuinely interested in her work, about late-night conversations that had felt meaningful. About the slow realization that she'd been building a relationship in her head that had never existed in reality.

"I keep thinking about what you said," she admitted quietly. "About me not understanding things because I'm nineteen. Maybe you were right. Maybe I don't know anything about how this stuff works."

"That's not—Sam, no." Elijah turned to face her fully. "What I said was unfair. Your age doesn't invalidate your feelings or make you naive for trusting someone."

"Doesn't it though?" Her laugh was bitter. "I mean, look at me. Crying over some guy who was probably just using me for studio access and homework help."

The self-deprecation in her voice made something fierce and protective rise in his chest. Without thinking, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek.

"Any guy who doesn't see how incredible you are is an idiot," he said softly. "Your passion, your talent, the way you light up when you talk about something you love—you're not someone people use, Sam. You're someone they should feel honored to know."

The words hung between them, more honest than anything their carefully constructed truce allowed for. Sam's breath caught, her blue eyes searching his face.

"Elijah..." she whispered.

And then somehow—he was never sure who moved first—they were kissing again. Soft and desperate, comfort bleeding into want with devastating efficiency. She tasted like tears and something essentially her, and kissing her felt like coming home after being lost for days.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, the weight of their shattered rules settled between them.

"We said we wouldn't," Sam whispered against his lips.

"I know."

"This complicates everything."

"I know."

"I don't care." The admission was fierce, defiant. "I don't care about the rules or the complications or any of it. Do you?"

Elijah looked at her—really looked. At her paint-stained fingers and tear-streaked cheeks, at the way she was looking at him like he held all the answers to questions she'd been afraid to ask. At the girl who'd been driving him crazy for three years and who now fit in his arms like she'd been made for them.

"No," he said quietly. "I don't care either."

This time, when she kissed him, it was with the kind of desperate intensity that made rational thought impossible. They stumbled upstairs together, hands tangled, rules forgotten in favor of something that felt inevitable.

Later, lying in her bed with afternoon light streaming through paint-splattered windows, Elijah tried to convince himself this was temporary insanity. A response to stress and proximity and the general impossibility of their situation.

But when Sam traced patterns on his chest and looked at him like he'd hung the moon, he knew he was lying to himself.

The rules were broken. The careful distance they'd maintained was gone. And despite every rational part of his brain screaming that this was going to end in disaster, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

Not when Sam smiled at him like that. Not when she fit against him like she belonged there.

Not when, for the first time in three years, the tension in his shoulders had finally eased.

They were in trouble—deep, complicated, potentially family-destroying trouble. But as Sam fell asleep in his arms, her breathing even and peaceful, Elijah realized that some kinds of trouble were worth it.

Even if it meant admitting he was exactly the coward she'd called him—a coward who was finally brave enough to want something just because it was worth wanting.