Sins of Sisterhood

25. The Server Room

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~ 25 ~

Rule #25: Always play by your own rules

"Cause I'm feeling like a criminal, and I need to be redeemed"

Fionna Apple - 'Criminal'

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My fingers dance across the hangers in Dante's closet like I'm playing some fucked-up version of fashion roulette. It's weird how familiar his space feels—how I know exactly which drawer holds my emergency stash of clothes.

God, when did my life take turn?

I snag my favorite black hoodie—technically Dante's, but possession is nine-tenths of the law—and a pair of yoga pants that I'm 90% sure started out as Raven's before the mysterious cosmic force that shuffles clothes between sisters claimed them for my drawer.

They'll do. They have to do, because this night is about to become too much of a shitshow to care about fashion.

The living room is now spotlessly clean, Raven's is covered with a cozy blanket, and there's those hospital drip things which Dante skillfully improvised. She opens one eye to give me that look—you know, the one that says "I know exactly what those clothes were doing here and I'm judging you hard."

"What?" I snap, yanking the hoodie over my head with probably more force than necessary. "You want to compare bad life choices right now? Because I've got a spreadsheet. With citations."

She just smirks and closes her eyes again, which, bitch. But also... fuck. She looks so small right now, all pale skin and dark circles under her eyes. My chest does this weird twisty thing that I'm choosing to interpret as indigestion and not, you know, actual feelings.

I find Dante in the kitchen, methodically cleaning already-spotless counters because that's his stress tell. He's got his doctor face on—all professional concern and carefully maintained distance. It would be convincing if I hadn't seen him ugly-crying over cute dog videos at 3 AM.

"Hey," I say, and immediately want to punch myself because really? That's what I'm going with?

He looks up, and there's this moment—this stupid, charged moment where we both remember that the last time I was here, we were definitely not having professional conversations about my sister's drug problems.

"Hey," he echoes, then clears his throat. "She's stable. BP's good, heart rate's normal. She should sleep it off, but..."

"But she needs watching," I finish. "Look, I know this is weird and probably violates like seventeen ex-girlfriend codes, but—"

"I'll keep an eye on her," he cuts me off, saving us both from whatever awkward word vomit was about to follow. "Go do whatever illegal thing you're clearly about to do."

I blink. "How did you—"

"You're wearing your crime hoodie."

"I don't have a crime hoodie!"

He just looks at me.

"Okay, fine, maybe I have a crime hoodie. But in my defense, it's really comfortable and black goes with everything, including felonies."

That gets me a ghost of a smile, which feels like a win. "Just... be careful? Whatever it is?"

"Aren't I always?"