I duck under the rope as a ringing laugh echoes from behind the closed double doors, and a warm feeling instinctively rushes through me.

Then I realize who the laugh belongs to.

“Amun-Re, I’ll kill him,” I growl, kicking the doors open. Tyler doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed of herself; she’s sitting in the corner on the floor, reading something out loud off her phone. Ry laughs again, not looking up from where he is paging through the plans. My plans. For my room.

I let off a stream of the foulest cursing I can think of, the Croatian rolling off my tongue as it usually does in times like these. “Get your hands off of my papers,” I snap when I finally run out of names to call him. His smile has dropped away, and underneath his olive skin the blood has drained from his face.

Tyler’s eyes are wide, but she still looks like she’s enjoying everything. “Was that Arabic?”

“No, it was Elvish. What is he doing here?”

Ry shakes his head, as though coming out of a fog. “I’m helping.”

“You are not—” My mouth freezes as I look around the skeleton of the room. Three-fourths of the bracings are up, perfectly placed. It is precision, quality work. When I left two hours ago, only a third of them were done, and I had been working since 3:30 a.m.

Oh, no.

“But . . . Michelle said they have no budget for help,” I stutter.

“Volunteering,” he says with that brilliant, dimpled smile. “Looks great on college applications.”

“How did you—?” I put my hand against one of the bracings.

“Theater tech crew since middle school. I’ve built dozens of sets. Plus my dad is an artisan. I’m best with metal, but I should be able to handle all this work and the wiring.”

The wiring. That’s been my biggest concern from the beginning. I’ve never handled wiring in any of my designs, and even though I know how I want it to work, I’ve been sort of hoping that somehow it will work on its own. The special-ordered lights and equipment are sitting, perfectly boxed, stacked against the wall in my room at Sirus’s house. I can’t even look at them without feeling sick.

If the lights aren’t perfect, there is no point to this room. If I blow this room, I prove to Michelle (and myself) that I can’t handle big projects.

“You really think you can do the lights?”

“I’m sure of it.”

I close my eyes and put a hand over my aching forehead. I don’t want him here. He makes things weird and complicated and I hate that I have his face memorized, that I can recall exactly how his hand felt slipping into mine.

Because the worst part, the real reason I haven’t let him call me, the real reason I am now terrified of him?

Part of me wonders how bad it would have been to let myself feel what I wanted to feel, and see where things went with letting him hold my hand.

I can’t do that. I can’t set myself up for loss. I can’t want something that can never be lasting or real.

But this room is real, and, chaos take me, I need him.

“I own you,” I say.

Ry’s dark eyebrows rise in a silent question.

“For the next week you have no life outside of this room. I own your time, your brain, and especially your truck. You do exactly what I tell you to do without question. This is my room and you are only here as long as I want you to be. Understand?”

Ry nods, his smile sloppy with happiness that has no reason to be there.

“Good thing Scott isn’t here,” Tyler says, still texting. “He’d be totally hot for you after that speech.”

“You.” I point at her and she looks up, her expression exhausted. I soften my own and smile at her. “Go get food for everyone, because we’re all going to be here for a long time tonight. Take my card, and take your time.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Tyler jumps up, mock-saluting. “I love it when you get bossy. It’s kind of adorable.” She rummages through my bag for my wallet, and runs.

I take a deep breath and grab the next bracing. Ry is instantly at my side, helping me move it into place. His movements are strong and assured; Tyler and I fumbled through this together, neither of us particularly skilled. He holds the awkwardly long two-by-four in place while I position the nail gun.

He waits to start talking until I’m in a rhythm. “So.” Thunk. “About the other night.” Thunk. “I got the feeling—and correct me if I’m wrong because I don’t speak Girl, though I’ve tried desperately to learn it—that you were”—thunk—“a little upset.” Thunkthunkthunkthunk.

“You’re at least remedial level in Girl,” I say through gritted teeth.

“What did I do?”

I turn to glare at him. He ruined everything, that’s what he did! “What part of ‘just friends’ didn’t you get?”

His smile is a masterpiece, a da Vinci study in innocence. But his blue, blue eyes spark with something else. “Friends hold hands.”

“Oh, do they?”

“All the time.”

“So you hold hands with Scott a lot, then.”

“Had to quit. Sweaty palms.”

“Tyler?”

“Too bony. Brought up childhood nightmares of dancing skeletons.”

“Any other friends I don’t know who you regularly clasp digits with in this apparently very normal aspect of friendship?”