The last thing you expected to see today was him.

Conrad Fisher.

In Paris.

The city was loud and golden, morning light slipping between stone buildings as you clutched the back of Benito’s scooter. Your laughter still hung in the air from the reckless way he swerved around a corner, the wind tugging at your hair. By the time he pulled up in front of your building, your heart was still racing - half from adrenaline, half from the way Paris always felt like it was moving faster than you could keep up.

“Always dramatic, always late,” Benito teased, pulling off his helmet. His smile was easy, warm, familiar in a way Paris had made you crave. He hopped down first, steadying the scooter as you slid off, your legs shaky from the ride.

“You drive like you’re trying to kill me,” you shot back, laughing.

“That’s the Parisian way,” he grinned, leaning down to kiss your cheek. It was quick, European, effortless. Still, you felt the brush of his lips linger longer than necessary.

“À ce soir,” he said, tugging his helmet back on before kicking the scooter to life. The hum of the engine faded as he pulled away, leaving you with the smell of exhaust.

And then you froze.

Because standing on the sidewalk, not ten feet away, was Conrad.

Hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his khakis, hair a little too long, eyes fixed right on you like he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming. Your chest stuttered with disbelief, the world shrinking down to the span of cobblestones between you.

“Conrad?” you breathed. His name felt foreign in your mouth, sharp and tender all at once.

“Y/N,” His voice was quiet, careful. He shifted his weight, almost wincing. “I- sorry. I didn’t mean to just… show up like this.”

Your heartbeat was thunder. “What are you doing here?”

He exhaled like he’d been holding the breath for weeks. “There’s a conference in Brussels. With Dr. Namazy. It was a last-minute thing.” His eyes flicked toward your building, then back to you, full of nerves you hadn’t seen since you were kids. “And I thought… since it’s Belly’s birthday…” He trailed off, the words collapsing under the weight of his own doubt. “I can leave, though. If you’re busy.”

The old Conrad - the one who always pulled away before you could reach for him - was right there in front of you, already retreating.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, heart stuttering with too many things at once. The right thing would be to let him go, let him disappear back into the Paris crowd like a ghost you’d only imagined. But he was here, real, standing in front of you with that lost look in his eyes. And you couldn’t quite bring yourself to send him away.

“We… we have plans at eight. Belly and I,” you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be. “But until then…” You hesitated, fumbling for something that wouldn’t sound like an invitation but also wouldn’t be a rejection. “Let me drop your bag upstairs, at least. Before we go out. Play tourist for a little while.”

The words felt like a compromise, though you weren’t sure who you were trying to protect - him, or yourself.

Relief touched his face, small and fleeting, but enough. He shifted the strap of the bag on his shoulder, nodding. “Yeah. Okay.”

Inside your apartment, you left his bag neatly by the wall, needing a second to process the impossible reality that Conrad Fisher had just materialized on your street.

You splashed cool water over your wrists, staring at your reflection. Your head was swimming - shock, confusion, something else you refused to name. This didn’t have to be anything. Just a few hours of playing tour guide before sending him on his way. That was all.

When you came back, he was taking in the view of your street, staring down at the road where Benito’s scooter had disappeared.

“Ready?” you asked, slinging your purse over your shoulder before he could ask questions you weren’t ready to answer.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Conrad?” Belly's voice had you both turning to face her. Her eyes darted from you to Conrad and back again, disbelief flashing sharp and clear. "What are you doing here?" Her tone was fiery, unkind.

“Hey, Belly.” He straightened, shifting under her gaze. “I, uh- I had a conference in Brussels. Thought I’d stop in.” The words were identical to what he told you, but even shakier now.

Belly’s brows lifted, skeptical, though she didn’t press. Instead, she turned her gaze to you, a silent question in her eyes. You felt it like a current between you- big sister, little sister telepathy. Is this okay? Are you okay?

You forced a smile, heart hammering. “I’m taking him out to see Paris before dinner. Do you want to come?”

For a beat, she just studied you, like she could see straight through the calm mask you’d thrown on. Then Belly shook her head, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I think I’ll rest. Big night tonight. Don’t forget we have plans at eight.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you promised.

And then you had no choice but to step into the streets of Paris together.

---

Paris opened itself to you like it always did, cobblestone streets unfolding into wide boulevards, cafés spilling laughter and cigarette smoke onto the sidewalks. You walked a step ahead of Conrad, pointing out the things you loved.

He listened, mostly quiet, his gaze more on you than the city. You could feel it, the way his eyes traced the slope of your shoulder when you turned, the curve of your mouth when you spoke. It rattled you, made you hyperaware of every gesture, every step.

At Versailles, you slowed, brushing past him as you pointed toward a fountain. His hand grazed yours, barely, but the spark of it rippled through you both. Neither of you pulled away.

Conrad’s voice was low when he finally spoke. “I’ve imagined this,” he said. You glanced up at him, startled. His eyes were on the skyline, but his words were for you. “What your life would look like here," He breathed out a shaky laugh. “I wish I could see Paris the way you do.”

Something in your chest tightened. Without thinking, you said, “I know where to take you.”

The rooftop was one of your secrets. The city glowed in the distance, and below, the streets buzzed with life.

Conrad’s breath caught audibly. “God.” His voice broke into a whisper. “You seem… very comfortable here. In Paris.”

You leaned against the low wall, staring out at the city that had taken everything from you and, slowly, given it back. “It took me a year to feel that way,” you admitted. The truth lodged like glass in your throat. “But I got here.”

Conrad turned, his face lit by the shimmer of the lights, and you couldn’t tell if it was the night or his expression that made your stomach lurch. “I always knew you could.”

The air between you thickened, charged - like the rooftop was its own small universe where anything could happen. His fingers brushed yours again, deliberate this time, lingering just long enough to make your heart stutter.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself back into motion before you drowned in it. “Listen… there’s a pre-birthday dinner tonight. For Belly. My friends are throwing it.” You risked a glance at him. “You could come. Catch a later train to Brussels.”

His mouth curved, soft and unsure. “You want me there?”

You hated how much you did. “It’s for Belly,” you said, and your voice was almost steady.

But when he nodded, eyes holding yours too long, you knew he saw straight through you.

---

Back in your apartment, you tried to keep your hands from shaking as you put on your finishing touches. The black dress felt like armor, the red lipstick a shield, but when you glanced at your reflection, your heart still stumbled. Because no matter how much you told yourself this night was for Belly, you knew Conrad would be watching.

You left him with her in the bedroom, bracing yourself for tension -sharp words, cold silence, maybe worse. But when you emerged, smoothing down your dress, you froze in the doorway. Belly was laughing, her face soft in a way you hadn’t seen in months. Conrad was grinning faintly, like he’d been waiting years just to hear that sound again.

For the first time, relief eased something tight in your chest. Maybe they could still find their way back to each other, in their own way.

Conrad’s gaze flicked up then, landing on you. His expression stilled, and you felt the heat rise before he even opened his mouth.

“You look…” His voice caught, then steadied. “Beautiful.”

You looked away, cheeks burning. “We should go,” you murmured.

Hugs were exchanged as soon as you and Belly walked through the door. The room was crowded with your friends, wine glasses clinking, laughter spilling into the night air. Belly glowed under the attention.

Introductions circled, your friends offering curious and impressed eyebrows when they saw your arm candy. You were thankful Conrad didn't know a lick of French.

Benito was the last to say hello, giving you a kiss on the cheek that lingered just a bit too long. Grinning at Conrad with sharp curiosity, they exchanged introductions. “We’ve heard everything about you,” he said. “You’re like a legend in Paris.”

Conrad’s brow arched, amused but wary. Before he could answer, Benito tugged Belly aside, insisting on giving her her gift.

Before long, the group found themselves sitting around the table, wine glasses filled for the second and even third round.

“So tell us,” Benito said, tilting his glass. “Why are you really here?” His question to Conrad laced with condescension.

Belly jumped in quickly. “He’s here for work. A conference in Brussels.”

Benito didn’t buy it. His smile was tight. “Funny. Brussels is far from here, surely there would've been an option for a direct flight, no?”

The air shifted, every pair of eyes on Conrad. He hesitated - just long enough for your pulse to quicken - then spoke quietly, his gaze flicking to yours.

“I changed my flight,” he admitted. “Because I wanted to see Y/N.”

A hush lingered, broken only by the clink of someone’s fork against a plate. Then one of the girls laughed, waving a hand. “Ignore Benito. He’s still bitter Y/N shot him down. And Belly didn’t exactly want to get her sister's sloppy seconds.”

The irony bit deep, but you only smiled faintly, turning to Benito. “Don't worry, you’ll always be the boy who taught me how to ride a scooter.”

Conrad’s voice cut in, “And I’ll always be the one who taught her how to ride a bike.”

The table erupted into teasing oohs and laughter, but you caught the flicker in his eyes.

Later, as Belly opened gifts, Conrad leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. His voice dropped to a murmur only you could hear.

“So, Benito. Not your boyfriend?”

You kept your gaze on Belly, lips curling into a small, steady smile. “I never said he was.”

Conrad didn’t reply, but when you dared to glance at him, the look in his eyes made it impossible to breathe.

Conrad cleared his throat. “I, uh- actually got you something.”

Belly blinked, surprised. “For me?”

He nodded, reaching into his bag. What he set on the table wasn’t wrapped, but somehow that made it more intimate: a small glass vial, filled with pale sand.

“This is from a Fourth of July,” Conrad explained softly. “A few summers ago. I started keeping it with me whenever I felt homesick. Having a little piece of Cousins… it makes me feel connected to everyone. I thought maybe, if you missed home too - you’d want to have it.”

Belly’s eyes shimmered in the candlelight. She leaned forward and pressed a quick, tender kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Conrad.”

Something in your chest swelled so painfully you almost had to look away. No matter what, he was always looking out for her - for her heart. That part of him never changed.

Later, after dinner, Belly insisted on staying out with her friends to ring in her twenty-second year. She called it the perfect birthday. Which left you and Conrad walking alone beneath the amber glow of Paris streetlamps, the city’s hum softened by the lateness of the hour.

“I’ll be honest,” Conrad said, hands tucked in his pockets. “Before I came here, I thought… maybe you were hiding out. Punishing yourself for everything that happened.” He glanced at you, expression gentle. “But now? I see you’ve made this incredible life for yourself. And I’m glad I got to see it.”

You gave a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’re not wrong. At first, I was hiding out. I felt lonely. I put everything into making sure Belly was okay and forgot about myself.” A pause. The words scraped their way out. “And… I know I was the villain in all of it. I reacted irrationally-”

“Don’t,” Conrad cut in quickly, firm. “Don’t think of yourself like that.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of things unsaid. Then Conrad exhaled. “Jere knows I’m here. He told me… ‘good luck.’”

That tugged a startled laugh out of you, your chest warm and aching all at once.

Conrad tipped his head back, staring at the Paris sky. “I like being under the same moon as you again.”

Something trembled in the air, like he was about to add more, but you stopped him. “Come on. There’s one more place I want to show you.”

The Seine glittered under the lamps, the city’s reflection rippling across dark water. A sweet melody played softly from a radio nearby. Conrad slowed, then turned to face you fully. “Dance with me.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Here? Now?”

“Why not?” His hand reached for yours.

You took it. His palm was warm, grounding, even as your heart knocked against your ribs.

“Do you remember the last time we danced?” you asked quietly.

He thought for a moment. “Summer house. We were kids. Must’ve been.”

“That feels like a million years ago.” You swallowed hard. “For a while… your letters kept me going. When I was lonely, when I missed home... I’d read them. Over and over.”

His eyes darkened, searching yours. “Then why did it take you so long to write me back?”

The ache of that question lingered. “Because I had to move on. And I couldn’t do that if I was still holding on to you.”

The night seemed to still around you, waiting. Conrad’s voice broke the quiet. “Have you?” His gaze held yours, unflinching. “Moved on?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you surged forward, rising onto your toes and kissing him like you’d been waiting your whole life for this.

It wasn’t soft or tentative. It was every swallowed word, every letter left unanswered, every summer night you’d lain awake thinking of him. His mouth crashed against yours with the same ferocity, like he’d been starving and only now allowed to taste.

The world fell away. Paris, the Seine, the years between you - all of it blurred, inconsequential compared to the electric pull of his lips on yours. His hands framed your face, trembling as though he couldn’t believe you were real, and you fisted his shirt like if you let go, he might disappear.

“Come home with me,” you breathed, your lips brushing his, desperate, pleading.

Conrad didn’t hesitate. The kiss deepened, urgent, greedy, as though you were trying to memorize each other in one night. You barely registered the taxi ride, too caught in the press of his forehead to yours, the quiet hitch in his breath every time your mouths met again.

By the time you stumbled through your front door, you were still kissing, still pulling at each other like gravity itself demanded it. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing the two of you inside, and suddenly it didn’t matter how much time had passed. His shirt fell forgotten on the floor, your hands sliding into his hair, tugging him closer.

The years apart, the misunderstandings, the silence - they all funneled into this one moment, this frantic need to make up for everything you had lost. The city outside went on without you, but in here, it was only him.

And when your lips finally slowed, when the frantic urgency gave way to something softer, steadier, you realized with bone-deep certainty: this was the kiss you’d been waiting for all along.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath unsteady, his hands still trembling where they held you. In the quiet between heartbeats, he whispered, raw and unguarded,

“I’ve been dreaming of this. You.”

---

The room was dark except for the faint glow of the city bleeding in through the curtains. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his arm draped heavy and warm across your back. For a fleeting moment, it felt like you could stay there forever.

Then your gaze caught the red digits on the clock. 4:02 a.m.

“You missed your train,” you murmured.

Conrad shifted slightly, eyes half-lidded, a sleepy smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ve been thinking about skipping the first day of the conference. Leaving tomorrow night instead.”

Your stomach tightened. “You shouldn’t change your plans for me.”

He lifted his head, brows knitting. “Why not?”

“Because I wouldn’t change mine for you,” you said quietly. “I have a life here.”

The weight of the night pressed down then - the heat of skin on skin, the kiss that had cracked you open, the way his love always felt too big, too dangerous. It reminded you of that morning when Belly told you she was engaged, and suddenly the air felt too thin, the room too small.

“The next train’s at five,” you whispered, pulling back from him. “You should go.”

Conrad sat up, watching you closely. “Or… we could get breakfast. Just us.”

You shook your head, voice sharp with panic. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

His expression flickered, wounded. “Is everything okay? Did I do something?”

Your throat burned. “Conrad… what do you think is happening here? You show up at my door, unannounced. What even was your plan?”

“I didn’t have one,” he admitted, raw and unflinching. “I just knew I wanted to see you. To tell you that I love you. To ask if any part of you still loves me.”

The silence after that was unbearable.

“You don’t love me anymore?” he asked, his voice breaking on the word anymore.

Your chest cracked. “Of course I do. I always have. That’s the problem.”

He blinked at you, confused.

“Maybe the only reason we were ever together was because of Susannah,” you confessed. “Maybe there’s a reason life kept pulling us apart. A reason you kept leaving. If your mom had never gotten sick, would I have been there to hold you up? Would you have even looked at me that way? Or was it always about Belly - that she didn’t want you, so you came to me instead?”

“That is not why I love you.” His voice was low, fierce. He leaned forward, eyes burning into yours. “I have tried everything not to love you - for Jere’s sake, for your sister’s, for mine. I didn’t want to drag you down into my grief. But I couldn’t stop. I felt it way before that summer, before my mom got sick, before all the mistakes with Belly. You’ve always been a precious person to me. At some point, I started to see you differently, and it terrified me. Because I didn’t want things between us to change.”

Your breath shuddered out, but he wasn’t done.

“If I met you for the first time tonight,” Conrad said, voice trembling, “I would still love you.”

You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve changed everything about myself,” he said. “And the only thing I haven’t been able to change is how I love you.” He was crying now, tears reflecting gently in the glow from the light outside.

Your heart split clean down the middle. “Conrad, I wish I could be as sure as you. But I can’t. I’m sorry.”

He held your gaze for a long, unbearable moment. Then he nodded, just once, and reached for his bag.

“I’m not sorry,” he said softly. And then, quieter still: “I’m going to try to catch the 5 a.m. train.”

And just like that day at the dedication, the world became suffocatingly small.

---

You watch him go before you really understand you’re watching him go.

The apartment hums with the residue of skin and breath and the quiet aftermath of everything you let happen. You tell yourself you’re practical; of course he has to catch the train. It’s 5 a.m. and the world is doing the tidy thing it always does: moving on.

But the thing about feeling like you’ve been stitched together only moments before is that the thread can catch and pull again.

You stand on the balcony, bare feet on cold concrete, and you think of the way he held you like he was making up for years. You think of the way his voice trembled when he said he’d tried not to love you. You think of how light the city seemed when he kissed you, like someone had opened a window and let the sun in.

You want to believe you’re different now. You want to be the grown version of yourself who can hold a life in Paris without ghosts wrecking the corners.

But the truth is steadier and harder:

you are still her -the girl who loved too loudly and followed her heart until it bled.

Was that girl so bad? She made mistakes, yes. She hurt people. She also kept going. She kept loving. You inch your hand to your mouth and the thought surfaces like a breath you can’t hold down.

I still love her, you tell yourself - meaning the version of you that kept trying, that still deserved a chance.

And then: I still love him. I will always love Conrad Fisher.

The realization is both a surrender and a lit fuse.

He’s not there. The silence pushes back like a tide.

You don’t think. You move.

You throw on jeans, a sweater, anything. Your fingers are clumsy with urgency; you fumble for your phone, for your keys. The taxi ride is a blur of brake lights and breath that fogs the window.

The train station is bright with a million signs. You run because there is no other movement that matches the speed of what your chest has become. People surge past you, sleep-slick and indifferent. A woman with a stroller throws you a look. A man in a suit curses when you clip his heel. Everything minor in the world sharpens into something urgent and incandescent: him.

You step into the carriage of the 5 a.m. headed to Brussels, and everything hushes. The scrape of fabric, the puff of your own breath loud in your ears as you frantically search through the rows.

The wave of relief you feel when you spot him is indescribable.

“Is this seat taken?” you ask, and your voice sounds like it belongs to someone who has been underwater.

He looks up slowly. Surprise softens into something stunned and then, impossibly, an incandescent smile that makes the world tilt right.

“Conrad,” you say, and it is the most ordinary thing you could possibly say to him, but it carries everything. “I choose you - of my own free will. If there are infinite worlds, every version of me chooses you in every one of them.”

Silence drops like a curtain. For an absurd, suspended second you wonder if the motion of the train has stopped the rest of time from breathing.

He stands then, like something answered that had been waiting long enough to be prayer. His palms are warm as he takes your face gently, two hands cupping both sides as if he needed to check that you were actually there.

“I love you, Y/N,” he says - the words tumbling out with the weight of everything that came before them. It’s not reckless. It’s not careless. It’s a confession matured in the kind of earnestness you’ve watched hide behind his usual reserve.

The words land in the hollow of your ribs and set you on fire.

You answer before you can measure the consequences because measuring felt cowardly and because you want this truth to be solid and ongoing, not some promise stolen in the dark.

“I love you too,” you whisper, and the sound of it is both surrender and triumphant claiming.

He leans in and kisses you like the world is ending and beginning at the same time.

His mouth is warm and steady, the press of his forehead against yours a punctuation that feels like home.

Around you, the carriage rocks and people sleep and announcements scrape over the loudspeaker like far-off rain. But inside your chest, it’s a storm breaking open - thunder rolling through your veins, lightning sparking where his hands hold you steady.

You let out a laugh that is half sob, joy strangled with years of waiting. He smiles into the curve of your face, and it feels like standing in the eye of something once dangerous, now finally calm.

When he pulls back, his voice is raw and certain:

Reader's POV

Following Belly’s AirTag led you to more than just her stolen backpack.

The next few months blurred like spilled paint. You and Belly found a dingy flat with too many roommates and paper-thin walls. Rent was cheap, the bathroom sink never stopped dripping, and the kitchen smelled faintly of garlic no matter what anyone cooked. But it was yours.

You both found work. You bartended in a smoky bar where the floors stuck to your shoes. Belly handed out tickets and swept aisles at a neighborhood theater. Neither job was glamorous, but they paid enough.

Belly started taking online classes, chipping away at her degree. Watching her inspired you. So between shifts that stretched until dawn, you re-enrolled too. Your laptop perched on the rickety kitchen table, essays lit by the glow of a bare bulb.

Little by little, it started to feel like life was stitching itself back together. The chaos had rhythm. The city became yours.

But as November bled into December, homesickness crept in like frost. You missed the hum of the Cousins house, your mom’s dry humor, Steven’s easy warmth. Worst of all, you missed him. Conrad.

You hated admitting it, but it was true. No matter how far you ran, no matter how many crowded metros you pushed through or pastries you devoured on cobblestone corners, he lingered. His absence had a shape, sharp and unbearable.

And then, as if he’d read your mind, his letter arrived.

He imagined what your days must look like here: you with a bitter coffee in one hand, a flaky croissant in the other. He guessed at which bars you might haunt, which streets you might get lost in. He wrote about Paris like he’d walked it beside you, like he knew. And at the end, he wished you a Merry Christmas. Said he hoped Paris was everything you dreamed it would be.

You read it three times. Then you folded it away.

Belly was glowing, though. She’d met a boy, Benito. He had dimples that made her blush and the kind of easy charm that pulled her into laughter. For the first time in months, her eyes lit up again. You were grateful for that.

Christmas Eve came and went. Belly was swept away by Benito, and you spent it alone. The streets outside glittered with lights, voices spilling from bars and cafés. But inside your apartment, you sat curled by the frosted window, aching for home, aching for everything you’d left behind.

New Year’s brought Taylor. She breezed into Paris with her big laugh and bigger opinions, and suddenly your cramped apartment transformed into a party. Music thumped, your new friends crowded the space, bottles passed hand to hand. For one night, the heaviness lifted.

Benito arrived late, knocking at the door with a crooked grin and a package in his arms. “This was downstairs for you,” he said, pressing it into your hands.

Your chest tightened when you saw the handwriting. Conrad’s.

Inside was another letter. And a stuffed animal. The one he’d won for you on the boardwalk years ago.

Belly’s eyes softened. Taylor’s narrowed knowingly.

“Is this why?” Taylor asked. “Why you won’t let yourself try with anyone here?”

You shook your head quickly. “That's not it. It’s me. I don’t want to hurt anyone else...”

Taylor arched a brow. “Newsflash, Y/N - hurting people is inevitable. You can’t live your whole life avoiding it.”

Her words clung like smoke.

When midnight struck, you forced yourself to be brave - or maybe reckless. A stranger with kind eyes stood nearby, and you leaned in, kissed him as fireworks thundered outside. His lips were warm, steady.

But the moment it ended, a hollow ache spread in your chest. It felt wrong. Off.

Because no matter how many strangers you kissed, you knew the truth: you would never be able to get Conrad out of your system.

---

Conrad's Pov

The months since you’d left blurred into a kind of gray. On the surface, I functioned. Classes, work, study. I smiled when people expected it, nodded when they spoke.

But underneath, everything hurt.

I was happy for you. At least, that’s what I told myself when Taylor mentioned Paris, when she dropped hints that you were settling in, that you and Belly were okay. I wanted to be glad. And some part of me was. But the other part - the louder, uglier part - ached with the knowledge that I’d almost had you back that summer. And then I lost you all over again.

And Jeremiah.

The guilt of both cut sharper than anything else.

I called Laurel a few days before Christmas. “Would it be okay if I came? Even with Jere there?” My voice caught. “And… would it be okay with Y/N?”

Silence, then: “They’re not coming home this year. Belly and Y/N are staying in Paris.”

The relief and ache tangled until I couldn’t tell them apart.

“I was thinking of reaching out,” I admitted quietly.

“Take the risk,” Laurel said gently. “If you’re thinking about her, let her know.”

So I wrote.

When Christmas came, I found myself in Cousins anyway, at your family’s house. The rooms felt hollow, like they were waiting for you. Even the air seemed different, missing something essential.

Steven sat on the couch, a controller in his hands. The sounds of his video game filled the silence, but neither of us really cared about the game.

I sat on the edge of the armchair, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. The words came before I could stop them.

“Does everyone still hate me?”

Steven’s hands stilled on the controller. He didn’t look at me right away, just let out a long sigh. “No,” he said finally, voice quiet but firm. “They don’t. I just… I wanted to protect my sisters. You don’t always make it easy.”

His words hit something deep. My throat tightened, but I forced myself to speak. “I know. And I’m sorry. For everything. For Belly. For Y/N. For… all of it. I never meant to make it harder on anyone, I just…” My voice cracked, and I had to swallow hard before continuing. “I thought I was protecting them too. And maybe I was wrong. No- I was wrong.”

Steven set the controller down, finally turning to look at me. His gaze was softer than I expected.

“I know you’re sorry,” he said after a beat. “That’s the thing. You carry it around like a backpack full of bricks. But Conrad…” He shook his head. “Sometimes saying sorry isn’t the point. Sometimes it’s about being the guy they can actually count on, not the guy who decides for them.”

The words landed heavy, but not cruel. Honest. Exactly like Steven always was.

“I want to be that guy,” I said, my voice low, almost a whisper. “For them. For her. I just don’t know if I can ever make it right.”

Steven leaned back against the couch cushions, blowing out a breath. “Look, you’ve put them through a lot. You’ve put yourself through a lot. But you’re here, right? That counts for something. Belly knows you care. Y/N knows it too, even if she won’t admit it right now. Time has a way of softening things.”

I blinked hard, relief stinging the back of my eyes.

And then Steven smirked, picking the controller back up. “Besides, if I can forgive you, anyone can. I mean, you did used to steal all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms and blame it on me.”

A laugh broke out of me before I could stop it, sharp and almost painful with how much it loosened in my chest. “They were Y/N's favorite part," the memory brought a small smile across my lips, "You still holding onto that?”

“Damn right I am,” Steven said, eyes back on the screen, but the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “But I guess I’ll let it slide. This time.”

Later, wandering upstairs, I found myself in your room. Empty bed. Books stacked on the desk. And there, shoved up in the corner of your closet, the stuffed animal I’d won for you years ago.

I picked it up, thumb tracing its worn fur. And I knew what I had to do. I boxed it carefully, wrote another letter, and sent it across the ocean.

---

It was April now, and the cemetery smelled like wet earth and lilies. Five years since Mom. I carried flowers to her grave, but stopped short when I saw Jeremiah already there, hands shoved in his pockets, head bowed.

For a while, neither of us spoke. Just the wind and the faint rustle of leaves.

Finally, I forced the words out, almost a whisper. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

His shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t look at me. “You pretended to help with the wedding while you were trying to ruin it. And you did.”

The accusation landed like a blow. I lowered my eyes, “I know.”

He turned then, finally, and his face was hard- like every ounce of pain had crystallized into anger. “Do you get it, Con? You destroyed the one thing I thought I could hold on to. You made me believe you were on my side, and then you ripped the floor out from under me.” His voice cracked, sharp and ragged. “You think I don’t already hate myself for Cabo? For what happened with Y/N?”

My chest caved at her name.

Jeremiah shook his head, eyes glassy. “I only did that because I felt like everything was crumbling. Like I had to beat you at something, even if it made no sense. Even if it meant…” He trailed off, jaw tight, and I knew what he wasn’t saying.

“I tried to stop loving her,” I whispered, my throat raw. “I tried to keep my promise to Mom - to put you first, always. But I couldn’t. I failed you, Jere. I failed her. And I failed Mom too.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Until finally, he looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in months. His eyes weren’t just angry. They were hollowed out with grief.

“I promised her too,” he said hoarsely. “That I wouldn’t let anything come between us as brothers. And I broke it.”

We stood there, two broken halves of the same family, the weight of Mom between us. The weight of her absence.

Then, almost without thinking, we stepped forward and embraced. It was rough, like we were clinging to something that might slip away again. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But something.

When we pulled apart, Jeremiah’s voice was softer. “I don’t think Belly and I will ever work, don't think she'll ever forgive me. And…” His mouth trembled before he steadied it. “and if Y/N ever forgives me, she deserves to be with someone who really loves her. Not someone who just needed to win.”

The words gutted me. Not a blessing. Not entirely. But the closest thing to one I’d ever get.

And for the first time in months, I let myself breathe.

---

Later, I wrote you again. Told you Jere and I had made up, or at least started to. And then: “In case I haven’t made it clear, I think about you a lot. You’re pretty much all I think about.”

Weeks passed. And then it came.

A postcard. From Paris.

Your handwriting.

You thanked me for the stuffed animal, for the letters. Said you and Belly had found a permanent place. Ended with: “I hope you’re well.”

The words were brief. But to me, they were everything. Proof you hadn’t erased me, hadn't shut me out forever. Proof I still mattered, even in some small way.

I read it until the ink blurred, until the edges wore soft beneath my hands. I folded it up into my wallet to keep it close.

It was the postcard, and also a bit of encouragement from Agnes, that convinced me to go. I was already scheduled to be in Brussels for a conference with Dr. Namazy.

So I changed my flight.

Not Brussels.

Paris.

Reader's POV

You almost let your legs do it. Almost let yourself run straight to him the second you saw him sitting there in that awful chair at the airport gate. His hair fell into his eyes, his duffel slouched at his feet like he’d been waiting for hours.

It took every ounce of restraint you had not to cross that polished floor, not to say his name. You could already imagine how it would go - his head snapping up, that startled, wrecked look he always wore when he was trying too hard not to fall apart in front of you. Maybe he’d stand. Maybe you’d let yourself fall into his arms.

But before you could even lean forward, before your lungs could draw in the breath to call out, Belly’s hand was around your wrist, tugging.

“Come on,” she whispered.

And then you were moving, her pulling you down the jetway, boarding the plane, away from him.

You told yourself not to look back. That was the rule. Don’t look back.

But the heat in your chest felt unbearable, like you’d swallowed fire, and when the plane lifted off the ground you almost believed you’d left your heart behind at the gate.

You pressed your forehead to the cool oval of the window and told yourself this was what you wanted - space, distance, silence. But your mind wouldn’t stop circling back to the words he’d left you with.

“I’m sorry for screwing everything up." His voice had cracked.

You’d called him a runner before. Told him he always found a way out when things got too close. But now here you were, running too. Thousands of miles away from Cousins, from him, from all of it. Hypocrite, you thought bitterly, digging your nails into the armrest.

The plane was loud but also suffocatingly quiet. Belly beside you tried to distract herself with a magazine, flipping pages without reading them, biting the inside of her cheek. Eventually she nudged your arm.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

"I should be the one asking you that question," you gave her the most sympathetic smile you could muster, "I saw him at the gate...”

Her shoulders sagged. “I know. I did too. That’s why I pulled you.”

A humorless laugh slipped out. “Thanks for saving me, I guess.”

Her hand stilled on the crumpled magazine. “No. Thanks for saving me.”

You turned toward her, surprised by the rawness in her voice. For a moment she looked so small, like the little sister who used to trail behind you with scraped knees and sticky hands, begging you to wait up. You leaned your head against hers, and she let out the breath she’d been holding.

The city greeted you with gray skies and the smell of roasted chestnuts drifting from a vendor cart. It was overwhelming - foreign signs, different rhythm, the kind of beauty that only reminded you how far you were from home.

By the time you and Belly found a small café, your bodies felt heavy with exhaustion. You slid into a table by the entryway.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Belly mindlessly stirred the drink she bought. Finally, she whispered, “You’ve always been here. For me. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Especially then.”

You blinked at her, throat tight.

“I’m sorry,” she added. Her voice trembled. “For what I said at the wedding. For all of it. You were right.”

The air between you shifted. You reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “You’re my sister,” you said. “That’s never going to change.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief, a small smile pulling at her lips. For the first time since you’d boarded the plane, you felt something other than regret.

But then reality hit. “We should call Mom,” Belly said softly. “She’s probably worried sick.”

You dialed, your heart pounding, and Laurel picked up on the first ring. The sound of her exhale was sharp, almost desperate.

“Tell me where you are,” she demanded. “I’ll come get you.”

You hesitated. “We’re… in Paris.”

Silence. Then: “Paris?”

Belly leaned close to the phone, speaking quickly. She explained how everything had been too much, how she just needed time and space, how you’d come to keep her safe.

After some convincing, Laurel’s voice softened. “Whatever you need to heal, Belly. I trust you.”

Her words landed heavy. She hadn’t asked about you. Not once.

When the call ended, you both stood to pay, Belly digging for her wallet, then freezing. “My bag,” she whispered. “Y/N, my backpack’s gone.”

Your eyes darted around the café. Empty chairs. A couple by the door. No backpack.

“Oh my god,” Belly’s voice pitched higher, panicked. “My passport-my- my ring-”

You rolled your eyes, already unlocking your own phone. “Relax. AirTag, remember?”

Her face lit with frantic hope as you opened the tracking app. A blinking dot appeared a few streets over.

“Come on!” you urged, grabbing her hand.

And then you were both running through the Paris streets, weaving between startled pedestrians, chasing the little dot that might lead you back to her bag.

---

Conrad's POV

The airport was too bright. Too loud. Announcements kept splitting the air, one after the other, voices echoing through speakers that crackled. I sat hunched in a chair, duffle bag slouched against my foot, staring at the scuffed tile floor. My flight wasn’t for another hour, but I couldn’t sit still. My leg bounced; my fingers curled and uncurled.

When my phone buzzed, I almost didn’t answer. But it was Dad.

“Hey, bud,” Adam said, his voice steady, almost casual. “Listen. I need you to check on Jere. He must feel horrible with the wedding getting called off.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut.

“The… what?” I kept my voice even, though my throat tightened.

“The wedding. It’s not happening. Look, I'm going to be stuck here for awhile cleaning up...” Dad kept talking, something about Jeremiah needing someone, but my brain wouldn’t focus. The wedding’s off.

“Yeah,” I said finally, my voice hoarse. “I’ll go.”

A laugh tried to claw its way out of my chest, ugly and wrong. Instead, I shut my eyes. The relief came fast, like a wave, but it made me sick. Because yes, I was glad it was over. I was glad Belly wasn’t going to marry Jeremiah, and that made me the worst brother alive.

But beneath all that, a flicker of something almost unbearable: hope. Hope that maybe, without that wedding between us, Y/N and I weren’t doomed after all.

Except I’d ruined it. I’d betrayed her. I’d told her sister what she had trusted me to keep. And now she was gone.

The bar glowed warm through the window when I pulled into the gravel lot. Denise, Redbird, a handful of others were inside. My eyes caught on Jeremiah immediately - slumped forward on a stool, his face dim under the hanging lights.

I froze. The last time I’d seen him, he’d made it clear he never wanted to see me again. My hand tightened around the steering wheel, even though the car was already in park.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel. Taylor, Steven just behind her. They intercepted me before I could make it to the door.

Taylor crossed her arms, her glare sharp enough to cut. “Congrats. You must be thrilled.”

I didn’t bother defending myself. “I messed up,” I said, the words flat. “Completely.”

“Half,” she snapped back. “The other half’s on them. Jere and Belly.”

The distinction didn’t lighten the weight in my chest.

I glanced toward the bar window again, at the blur of my brother hunched inside. “I just want to help him,” I murmured. “He’s my brother.”

Taylor studied me for a beat, then her expression softened just slightly. I hesitated, then asked, quieter than before, “Have you heard from Y/N?”

Taylor shook her head. “No. Not yet.”

I nodded once, but the answer landed hard. My stomach twisted. If Taylor didn’t know, it meant nobody knew. Which meant you could be anywhere. Alone. Upset.

“She probably just needs some space,” Taylor said. “If I hear from her or Belly, I’ll let you know. But right now? Jere doesn’t need you in there. Not like this.”

Her tone wasn’t cruel, but it left no room for argument.

I swallowed down the urge to press further, to ask if she was sure, if she’d keep her promise. My chest ached with the kind of worry I couldn’t say out loud - the kind that made me picture you in every worst-case scenario. But I kept my face even, the way I always did.

“Okay,” I said.

Turning back toward my car, I caught one last glimpse through the window: Jeremiah bent low, shoulders curved in on himself. Y/N somewhere I couldn’t reach. Both of you hurting, and me on the outside.

---

The Cousins house was too quiet when I got there. Too still. Every room felt swollen with memory, like the walls themselves remembered more than I could bear.

I couldn’t sit still. My body carried me in circles. From the living room to the kitchen, back again. My footsteps echoed against the floorboards Mom used to scold us for scratching up. She’d hated when we dragged furniture across them. Now every creak sounded like a reminder: she wasn’t here to scold, to laugh, to tell me I wasn’t as terrible as I felt.

I couldn’t get your face out of my head. The way your eyes had widened when I told you I loved you - like you didn’t quite believe it, but maybe you wanted to. The flicker of hope I saw there before I destroyed it. Before I proved that loving you didn’t mean I could protect you. That I could still be the one to hurt you worse than anyone.

And then there was Belly. My mouth opening, words spilling, every wrong choice burning itself into my chest. I wanted to fix everything, but all I’d managed to do was light another fire.

My chest felt hollow. If Mom were here, she’d know what to say. She’d know how to stop me from ruining everything. But the house was empty, and all I had was the sound of my shoes pacing grooves into the floor.

The next morning, I grabbed for a duffel bag in the hall closet, hands moving on autopilot. Jere’s clothes. Red Gatorade. I could at least bring him something clean, something normal, something to help with his no doubt ruthless hangover. It was the smallest gesture, but it was something.

The front door creaked. Steven stepped inside, his face tightening the moment he saw me.

“I’m grabbing stuff for Jere,” he said flatly. His eyes flicked to the duffel in my hand. “Don’t bother. I’ll take care of it.”

I froze, my hand still hooked on the strap. “I was just going to drop this off -”

“Stay out of it, Conrad.” His voice cut sharp through the quiet.

The words landed heavy, but he didn’t stop there. He stepped closer, his glare steady. “There’s no problem for you to fix. You are the problem.”

It hit harder than I expected. I opened my mouth, but nothing came.

Steven’s jaw clenched. “Do you get it? He doesn’t want to see you. You made your choice, and it blew up in everyone’s face. Don’t drag Jere through it again. And don’t drag my sisters through it either.”

My sisters. The words pierced deeper than any insult. Belly. Y/N. His tone was sharp, protective, and I hated how much it stung - because he was right to protect them. From me.

“I never meant to hurt her...” I said quietly, my throat tight. The words felt pathetic even as they left me.

Steven shook his head, disappointment written in every line of his face. “ Just- stay away. From Jere. From Belly. From Y/N."

His voice dropped at your name, like he knew it was the one that would land deepest. And it did.

I stood there in the half-light of the hallway long after he left, duffel bag still clutched in my hand, the weight of it pulling at my arm. My chest felt like the floor was falling away beneath me, like no matter how hard I tried, I would keep losing the people I loved most.

--

The house was dark when I came downstairs, except for the faint glow spilling out from the kitchen. I thought I’d be alone again, but then I saw him.

Jeremiah.

He was standing by the counter, hands planted firm against it, Mom’s painting laid out. I’d pulled it from the garage as a wedding gift, dusted it off. A piece of her, a reminder of what we’d almost had.

His eyes flicked to mine, cold and unyielding.

“Shit,” I started, my throat dry. “I-”

“Don’t.” His voice was sharp enough to cut. “You’ve done enough.”

I swallowed hard. “I just wanted to say-"

“Say what?” He spun on me, anger finally spilling over. “That you’re sorry? That it wasn’t what it looked like? That somehow, for once in your life, this isn’t your fault?”

The words landed like blows.

“I never wanted to hurt you,... I managed.

He laughed, bitter and humorless. “That’s the thing, Conrad. You don’t even have to try. You ruin things without even meaning to. You always have.”

My chest burned.

He stepped closer, eyes flashing. “She called me. Belly. She told me she and Y/N are in Paris.”

The ground tilted beneath me. My stomach dropped.

“She called me. Not you.” His voice shook, but it was steady enough to slice through me. “That has to mean something, right? That you weren’t the one she needed. They’re staying there. She’s not coming back.”

The words carved through me, but I kept my face still.

Jeremiah’s mouth twisted into something colder than I’d ever seen on him. “She didn’t choose me. But she sure as hell didn’t pick you either. And neither did Y/N.” His voice rose, sharp with finality. “So why don’t you get the fuck out, go back to California, and never come back?”

The kitchen went silent except for the blood pounding in my ears. I wanted to argue, to beg, to explain. But nothing came.

I just stood there, feeling the weight of his words sink like stones into my chest, knowing he meant every one.

---

Later, I sat across from Adam by the fire pit outside a bar, the flames throwing shadows across his face. The night smelled like smoke and salt, and the crackle of wood filled the silence between us. My whole body felt numb, but my chest burned like something had caved in.

“It wasn’t Jere who ruined anything,” I said finally, my voice low, raw. “It was me.”

Adam’s eyes flicked up from the flames, cautious.

“I told her I loved her. Y/N...” The name nearly broke me. “After I told Belly not to marry him. That he wasn’t good for her.”

Adam's face tightened. “Why would you do that?”

“Because it was the truth.” My breath shook. “But the way I said it, the way it all came out - I destroyed everything. I ruined the wedding. I ruined him. I broke her. And the worst part?” My voice cracked. “The worst part is I wanted to. Some part of me wanted it to all fall apart...”

The confession sat like acid in my chest. My hands trembled against my knees.

“I hate that he’s hurting,” I whispered. “But I can’t fix it. He’ll never forgive me. And maybe he shouldn’t...”

Adam was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, almost gently, “Give him space. That’s what I had to do with you, after your mom died. I trusted you’d lean on the people who loved you. And you did. He will too.”

I nodded, but the words barely reached me. The truth was unshakable, simple, brutal:

I’d only ever wanted you. Not Belly. Not anyone else. Just you.

I didn’t stop the wedding for me. I stopped it because Jeremiah wasn’t right for Belly. And because I knew you would never survive watching your little sister walk into a life that wasn’t hers. Not after everything you’d already carried.

So I burned it all down. For you. For your peace. For your future.

But as I sat there with Adam, the weight of it pressed so heavy I could barely breathe. Because maybe I’d saved your peace. Maybe. But I’d lost you in the process.

And I didn’t think I’d ever get you back.

We finally stood, said a quiet goodbye, and then I drifted toward the street. The night air was cool, heavy with ocean mist. My steps felt hollow against the pavement until my ride slowed to the curb, headlights sweeping over me.

I slid into the back seat, the leather sticking to my palms, duffle bag at my feet.

As the car pulled away, the firelight, the ocean, the whole of Cousins blurred in the rearview mirror. My chest ached with the cruelest truth of all-

I was always the one to run.

But this time, it wasn’t just running. This time, I was leaving everything behind.

The girl I loved, the brother I’d broken, the home that had swallowed me whole.

And I knew, with a kind of finality that hollowed me out from the inside, that once I left,