#lrh

2024 - part four

The view of Los Angeles at night was one of those images I knew I would never forget.

In my limited time with Stefan, I had crossed countries, continents even. Cities far older, far more beautiful than this one. Places that should have meant more.

And yet.

What made my chest tighten had nothing to do with the skyline itself and everything to do with four men and one of them was sitting across from me at the small table on the rooftop of the lounge Suzannah had dragged Leona and me to. LA had always been like that — incapable of existing without memory.

“Thank you,” Ashton said quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me,” I replied, still looking past him, my eyes tracing the glow of the city all the way to the horizon.

He shifted in his chair, fingers lacing together, then separating again. Restless.

“I do, actually. This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself in a situation like that,” he said. “Standing right on the edge. Almost.”

A dry breath escaped him. “But if it hadn’t been for you… I think I would’ve actually crossed it this time.”

Something about the way he said it — flat, unembellished — made it heavier.

“Something must have happened,” I said calmly, finally turning my gaze to him. “People don’t get pushed that far without a trigger.”

He let out a humorless laugh and nodded once.

“It did,” he said. “And funny enough… it’s the same thing that stopped me tonight.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Finally, someone is blaming me. It was getting boring.”

“That’s not what I said, Y/N.” His tone sharpened — not angry, but firm. Grounded. “You triggered it because with you comes the realization that no matter how much better I try to be, there will always be one thing I can’t fix.”

The words landed between us, heavy and unmovable.

“You’re right,” I said after a moment. “You can’t.”

His shoulders stiffened.

“But don’t worry,” I continued, before he could say anything. “The grudges I carry are not a good enough reason for you to gamble with your sobriety.”

An upset look crossed his face — quick, instinctive.

“No,” I cut in, already shaking my head. “This isn’t pity. I don’t have that generous of a heart.”

I leaned back in my chair, meeting his eyes fully now.

“I just don’t think you deserve an escape valve like that,” I said evenly. “So deal with it. Sit with it. Do better — for yourself.”

Then, softer, but no less final:

“Because, as you said it yourself, there is nothing you can fix.”

“That doesn’t stop the frustration of wishing I could.”

I exhaled slowly.

“Like I said,” I continued, “you’ll have to live with it. Just like I have to live with the fact that I lost so much of your life because you pushed me away—no, because you threw me away.”

I paused, choosing honesty over mercy.

“With knowing that I wanted to be there when you started that long, brutal road to sobriety. And with the guilt of being proud of someone who hurt me as deeply as you did.”

Ashton didn’t look away. He held my gaze, and there was so much happening in his eyes—regret, longing, something dangerously close to self-loathing—that it felt like staring into a distorted reflection of myself.

“Calum told me about your conversation,” he said quietly.

“I can imagine your surprise,” I replied. “He thinks he’s not ready, but from what I could see—”

“Yeah. He’ll nail it,” Ashton cut in gently. Then his expression shifted. “But you know that’s not what I meant. I’m glad he got to tell you what he felt. That you got to do the same.”

I shook my head, a bitter breath leaving my lungs.

“Even if I talked for a week straight without stopping, I still wouldn’t be able to explain what it felt like,” I said. “And the more I think about it—and believe me, I’ve thought about it more than enough—I realize something that’s hard to swallow.”

He stayed silent. Let me continue.

“It feels like the impact of losing our friendship only ever landed on me,” I said. “Because yes, I know you suffered. I know you went through hell. And I know me leaving got swallowed whole by everything else you were dealing with back then.”

My voice tightened, but I didn’t stop.

“All I’ve heard until now—from Michael, from Calum, from Luke—is that leaving me behind was collateral damage. A side effect of all the chaos, all the pain, all the survival mode you were in.”

I looked at him fully now.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Ashton’s jaw clenched.

“You healed,” I went on. “You rebuilt yourselves. You found your way forward. And I stayed… forgotten.”

A beat.

“Because for me, everything I suffered came from one place. I didn’t lose many things. I lost you. My friends. My family. Everything that mattered to me—gone just like that.”

The words hurt as much as I’d expected. Maybe more.

“For you,” I finished softly, “losing me was one of the sacrifices you made so you could keep going. With your lives. With the band.”

Each sentence felt like setting something down carefully, afraid that if I moved too fast, it would all collapse.

I swallowed, the tightness in my throat refusing to ease.

 “But for me… losing you was everything.”

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute.

Ashton didn’t look away. He didn’t rush to soften it or defend himself. He just took it—every word landing visibly, like I’d finally said something he’d spent years bracing for without ever truly believing it would come.

His jaw tightened. Then loosened.

I could see him replaying memories behind his eyes—searching for versions of himself that might contradict what I’d just said. Finding none.

“I get it now,” he said finally. His voice was quieter than before, stripped of any performative confidence. “Actually… I think I understood it from the very beginning.”

He exhaled, a hollow sound, and shook his head.

“I just chose to lie to myself. To tell myself we were too damaged, too unstable, to not end up ruining your life.”

Something in my chest twisted—not with relief, not with validation, but with the cruel familiarity of hearing the truth arrive far too late.

“That’s a very cowardly conclusion,” I said. The words came out even, but my breath betrayed me, uneven and shallow, like my body was still catching up to the conversation.

We kept looking at each other.

No anger flared. No tenderness rushed in to fill the gap. Just recognition—heavy, unflinching, unavoidable. The kind that leaves no room for comfort.

Then he looked down, just for a second, as if gathering courage from the floor beneath his feet.

“Luke lived with me for a while after you left,” he said at last.

His voice dropped, careful, measured—like he was testing how much truth the night would tolerate before breaking.

“I was already a mess back then,” he added softly. “I’m sure you remember that part.”

And I did.

Too well.

A brief, humorless smile crossed his face.

“But it got worse. And Luke…” He paused, choosing his words. “He met me far too quickly on that same road. He was truly wrecked. What happened between him and… her. And not having you, I guess.”

He shook his head.

“He never talked about it. Not once. Even though I could see it in his eyes. Even though one night I had to pick him up off the sidewalk outside the building you used to live in — completely drunk, screaming your name, crying like a child.”

His jaw tightened.

“I never mentioned it. Not to him. Not to anyone. Not even to tell him I understood. That part of me wanted to sit on that same sidewalk and throw a tantrum until you came back.”

He swallowed hard.

“It could’ve ended really badly for us. For a while, we were competing for the title of who was the most fucked up.”

A breath of a laugh escaped him. There was no humor in it.

“But somewhere between long, blurry nights — lying on the grass in my backyard after meaningless parties — and too many drunken conversations we barely remember…”

He looked down at his hands, then back up at me.

“…we realized we were heading somewhere else. Down another road.”

His voice steadied.

“One of healing.”

I didn’t respond right away.

The city stretched behind him — lights scattered like constellations that never quite formed a picture. Los Angeles always looked like it was holding its breath at night. Like it was waiting to see who would break first.

“I’m glad you found that road,” I said finally. My voice was steady, even if something in my chest shifted when I spoke. “Truly.”

He watched me closely, like he was bracing for the word but.

“It doesn’t erase what happened,” I continued before he could fill in the silence himself. “It doesn’t rewrite the years I lost, or the versions of you I never got to meet. Healing isn’t a receipt you can hand me and ask for absolution.”

He nodded slowly. He didn’t interrupt. That mattered.

“But I also won’t pretend it means nothing,” I added. “I won’t reduce it to a footnote just because it’s inconvenient for my anger.”

His shoulders loosened — just a fraction.

“For a long time,” I continued, “I carried this idea that if I ever saw you again, I’d have to decide something. Forgive or don’t.”

I let out a quiet breath.

“And for me, the answer was always clear. Forgiveness was never an option.”

I shook my head.

“But life doesn’t work that cleanly. Not when history is involved.”

Ashton exhaled, slow and careful, like he’d been holding that breath for years.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he said. “I don’t even expect space in your life.”

“I know,” I replied. “It’s been said to me more often than you’d think. I’m honestly quite surprised that all of you are so conscious of your mistakes.”

“Not all of us.” Ashton said but didn’t elaborate, but I understood. Even though I didn’t want to. 

Silence settled between us again — different this time. Less sharp. Still fragile, but no longer hostile.

“I won’t be the reason you fall,” I said softly. “Not tonight. Not ever. But I also won’t be your proof of redemption.”

A faint, sad smile crossed his face.

“That’s fair.”

I stood, smoothing my dress, grounding myself in the simplicity of the motion.

“Take care of yourself, Ashton,” I said. “That’s the only thing here that actually matters.”

I didn’t wait for him to respond.

As I walked back toward the table, the music swelled slightly, the low thrum of the lounge reclaiming me. Leona caught my eye first, her expression sharp and assessing, already reading the set of my shoulders. 

“You okay?” Leona asked, not lowering her voice as much as she pretended to.

“I am,” I said. And for once, it wasn’t a lie wrapped in politeness.

                                                                      ***

By the time we got home, the night had settled into that quiet, expensive kind of stillness the house seemed to hold so well.

No one said anything when we walked in.

Suzannah disappeared first—heels in hand, already halfway down the corridor before I even closed the door. Leona lingered a second longer, her eyes brushing over my face, searching, measuring. She almost asked.

Almost.

Then she didn’t.

“Goodnight,” she said instead, softer than usual.

“Goodnight.”

That was all.

They both knew me well enough to recognize when questions would only make things worse. And I knew them well enough to understand that silence, in this case, wasn’t indifference.

It was restraint.

The kind you offer someone when you’re waiting for them to come back to themselves.

I stood there for a moment after they were gone, the echo of the evening still clinging to me—the music, the lights, Ashton’s voice, the weight of everything that had been said and everything that hadn’t.

Then I moved.

Slowly. Quietly.

Not toward my room.

I never went there first.

Cecilia’s door was slightly ajar, a soft line of warm light cutting into the dim hallway. I pushed it open just enough to slip inside, careful with the sound, like the night itself might break if I moved too abruptly.

She was asleep.

Completely, deeply asleep.

One arm thrown above her head, her blanket half-kicked aside, her face relaxed in a way that felt almost… untouched. Like nothing outside that room had any claim over her.

I leaned against the doorframe for a second before stepping in fully.

Then I crossed the room and sat at the edge of her bed.

And I looked.

I’d done this a thousand times.

And still—every single time—it stopped me.

There were parts of me in her. Small, familiar details. The shape of her mouth. The way her brow softened when she rested.

And then there were parts of Stefan.

Those weren’t subtle.

They never were.

In the line of her nose. The curve of her cheek. Something steadier, quieter—something that didn’t belong to me but had become part of my life in a way I could never separate.

My chest tightened, but not painfully.

Just… full.

I reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. As if touch could anchor me to something that didn’t shift, didn’t leave, didn’t complicate itself.

So much had happened.

More than I allowed myself to process while it was happening.

Coming back to LA had felt like a controlled decision at the time. Calculated. Temporary. Something I could move through without letting it reach me.

That illusion hadn’t lasted long.

I exhaled slowly, my gaze still fixed on her.

Ashton’s face came back to me without warning.

The way he had looked at that glass.

Not reckless. Not impulsive.

Worse.

Deliberate.

Like he was negotiating with himself. Like he was standing on the edge and fully aware of it.

And the way I had moved—

without thinking.

Taken it from his hand.

Drank it.

Decided for him.

A faint breath left me, almost a laugh, but not quite.

I hadn’t expected that from myself.

Not anymore.

There was a time when I would’ve needed to be there for something like that. Would’ve insisted on it. Would’ve made it my place to hold people together when they were falling apart.

Back when I believed I was allowed to.

Back when I hadn’t learned what it meant to be left behind while everyone else moved forward.

And yet…

Tonight, I hadn’t hesitated.

I hadn’t asked myself if he deserved it.

If any of them did.

I had just acted.

Because some part of me—quiet, stubborn, impossible to erase—refused to stand still and watch someone I once loved destroy himself.

Even now.

Even after everything.

My fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her blanket.

I wasn’t sure what that said about me.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

Cecilia shifted in her sleep, a small, content sound escaping her before she settled again.

My attention softened immediately, pulled back to something simpler. Something that didn’t demand answers I wasn’t ready to give.

This—this was real.

This was the life I had built.

The one that made sense.

The one that didn’t depend on anyone else’s choices or failures or regrets.

And still—

There were things waiting for me outside of it.

Unfinished.

Unavoidable.

Luke.

The name didn’t hit like a shock. It never did.

It settled instead.

Heavy. Quiet. Persistent.

I hadn’t spoken to him. Not properly. Not in a way that counted.

Not when it would’ve changed anything.

And now…

Now it felt like something I couldn’t keep postponing.

Not because I wanted to.

But because avoiding it was starting to take more from me than facing it would.

I leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Cecilia’s forehead.

“Stay like this,” I murmured, barely above a whisper.

For her.

Or for me.

I wasn’t sure.

Then I stood, turned off the light, and left the room quietly behind me.

But the thought stayed.

Waiting.

                                                                         ***

I knew he shouldn’t be there.

That thought had been sitting in the back of my mind since the moment I opened the door and found him standing there—uncertain, hesitant, like he almost expected me to close it in his face.

I hadn’t.

That was the first mistake.

The second was letting him stay long enough for Cecilia to notice him.

Everything after that… spiraled into something I hadn’t agreed to.

Now he was sitting on the floor of my living room.

Hands stretched out in front of him, palms down, fingers slightly spread—too still, too careful—while Cecilia hovered over him with a bottle of bright green nail polish, her tongue peeking out slightly in concentration.

“Don’t move,” she murmured.

“I’m not,” he answered immediately.

“You are.”

“I’m breathing.”

“That’s moving.”

I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene like it didn’t belong to me.

Like I had walked into someone else’s life by accident.

Because it felt—

Right.

That was the problem.

There was something about the way he adjusted himself to her rhythm, the way he lowered his voice without being asked, the way he let her take control of the moment like it was the most natural thing in the world…

It settled too easily.

And he knew it.

When his eyes flickered up and found me, I saw it immediately—the conflict sitting right there, unhidden.

He was aware.

Of the space he was in.

Of the line he had crossed just by being here like this.

Of the fact that I had never given him permission for this kind of access.

And yet… he hadn’t pulled away.

Neither had I.

“I didn’t know she’d be here,” he said quietly.

Not defensive.

Not apologetic.

Just… careful.

“She lives here,” I replied, flat. 

Cecilia didn’t look up. “Stop talking.”

Calum pressed his lips together instantly, nodding like he had just been corrected by someone with authority over him.

I had to look away.

Just for a second.

Because something about that—about how easily he adjusted, how naturally she accepted him—pressed against something in my chest I wasn’t ready to examine.

This wasn’t what I had agreed to.

Helping him was one thing.

Controlled. Defined. Temporary.

This—this felt like something else.

Like he had stepped into a space that was supposed to be closed to him and was trying, very carefully, not to break anything inside it.

And the worst part was—

He wasn’t doing it wrong.

“You said you needed help,” I reminded him.

My voice cut through the room more sharply than I intended.

Cecilia frowned slightly but didn’t look up, blowing gently on his nails like that would somehow make them dry faster.

Calum shifted his gaze back to me, something tightening in his expression before settling again.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

He looked down at his hands for a moment, like they gave him an excuse not to look at me while he figured out what to say.

“I just…” He exhaled. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s not new,” I said.

A faint smile ghosted across his mouth, gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“No,” he admitted. “But this is different.”

Cecilia lifted his hand closer to her face, inspecting one nail with deep suspicion.

“You smudged it,” she accused.

“I didn’t even touch anything.”

“You did.”

“I promise I didn’t.”

She stared at him for a full second, like she was deciding whether or not to believe him.

Then she fixed it without another word.

He didn’t move.

Not even a little.

“I don’t know how to parent,” he went on, quieter now. “Not really. And I definitely don’t know how to co-parent with someone I barely know.”

That landed.

Not loud.

But real.

“I know I said I would help,” I said, watching him, “but every time you come to me, I can’t help asking myself… Why me?”

He looked up at that.

Properly this time.

Because there was no way around the question.

“I still don’t know,” he admitted.

I didn’t react.

“That’s not an answer.”

His jaw shifted, like he was steadying himself against something he didn’t fully want to say.

“It just… feels right,” he said. “Or maybe it feels familiar.” A small pause. “Like it would’ve been like this if life hadn’t decided to put a world of distance between us in every possible way.”

I stayed still.

He kept going.

“Because every time I think about how it could’ve been…” he exhaled softly, almost like he regretted continuing but couldn’t stop now, “I think about us in that apartment. My room. Three in the morning. Talking about everything and nothing until we fell asleep without even realizing it.”

“The guys help,” he added quickly, like he had said too much. “More than I expected.”

I nodded once.

“But it’s not… this,” he finished.

Silence stretched for a second.

“And I haven’t told my family yet,” he said.

That caught me off guard.

“And Chelsea…” His voice lowered. “She’s been trying to get pregnant.”

That one landed differently.

Quieter.

Closer.

Something in my chest shifted—not enough to show, but enough to register.

Understanding.

“I don’t think she has a problem getting pregnant,” he added quickly. “I just… don’t think it’s the right time to throw this at her.”

Cecilia lifted his hand again. “This one is pretty.”

“It is,” he agreed softly, looking at it like it mattered.

She smiled, satisfied, and moved to the next finger.

I watched them for a moment longer.

Then I exhaled.

I studied him for a moment.

“How is she? The mother of the baby.” I said.

Not soft.

Not warm.

Just… decided.

He looked at me again, something in his posture loosening just slightly—not relief, not quite, but close.

“She’s different,” he began. “From anyone I’ve been with.”

“That’s not a high bar.”

He ignored that.

“She works in corporate. She’s not even from the US—just moved here a few months ago because of a job offer.” 

I raised an eyebrow slightly.

“She’s not like Brooke,” he added. “Or… any of that.”

That made me look at him properly.

Because I remembered Brooke.

And before her—

Alyssa.

“I saw Brooke that night at Michael’s,” I said. “At that dinner.”

He stilled slightly.

“And I remember thinking,” I continued, “how familiar she looked.”

His expression shifted.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

“I mean,” I said lightly, but there was nothing light about it, “you’ve seen what Luke went through. What Alyssa did to him. The kind of damage she left behind.”

I held his gaze.

“And there you were with someone who looked almost exactly like her.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to his hands—bright green now, Cecilia’s careful work drying unevenly under the light.

“I didn’t feel for her what Luke felt for Alyssa,” he said.

“No,” I agreed.

A small pause.

“But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have,” I added quietly. “Not if you keep surrounding yourself with the same kind of people.”

That one stayed between us.

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t defend.

Just sat there, letting it settle.

“Íris, that’s her name,” he continued, more firmly now, “she’s nothing like that. She’s serious. Structured. She’s not in that world. Not rich. Not chasing anything. She’s just… normal.”

“And you still don’t know her.”

He shook his head once.

“No.”

Cecilia tugged his hand again. “Don’t move.”

“I’m not moving,” he said, softer now.

I watched him for a second.

Then:

“Then you will,” I said.

He looked up.

“You’ll learn everything there is to learn about the person who’s going to raise your child,” I continued. “Not because you’re curious. Because you don’t have a choice.”

Cecilia blew on his nails again, humming softly, completely detached from the weight of the conversation happening above her head.

“If you want to co-parent with her,” I went on, “there needs to be an agreement. Not assumptions. Not improvisation.”

He nodded slowly.

“You don’t have to like her,” I added. “You don’t have to be friends.”

That seemed to release something in him.

“But the relationship you build with her,” I said, holding his gaze steady, “will define the relationship you have with your child.”

That one stayed.

He didn’t respond immediately.

He just sat there, hands still, nails bright green, a child’s careful work drying slowly on his fingers while something much heavier settled into place inside him.

“You are completely right,” he said eventually.

Cecilia leaned back, examining her work with satisfaction.

“Done.”

Calum looked at his hands, turning them slightly like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now.

“They’re perfect,” he said.

She smiled like she had done something important.

I watched them.

And the thought came back again, uninvited, unwelcome—

He shouldn’t be here.

But something about him being there…

didn’t feel wrong enough to fix.

And that—

That was the part that unsettled me the most.

                                                                 ***

Cecilia followed Calum all the way to the entrance.

Of course she did.

Barefoot, still holding the nail polish bottle like it was part of the ritual, like the moment wasn’t allowed to end unless she walked him out herself.

“Don’t touch anything,” she reminded him again, pointing at his hands.

“I won’t,” he said, lifting them slightly like proof. Careful. Almost amused, but not quite.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

She studied him for a second longer, as if weighing his credibility, then nodded once—satisfied.

“Next time we do purple.”

He glanced at me before answering.

Not long. Not obvious.

But enough.

“Deal,” he said.

Next time.

The words settled somewhere they shouldn’t have.

I ignored it.

“Alright,” I said, gently placing a hand on Cecilia’s shoulder. “Say goodbye.”

She leaned in without hesitation, wrapping her arms around him in a quick, instinctive hug.

He froze for a fraction of a second.

Not because he didn’t want to respond—

but because he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

Then, slowly, carefully, he hugged her back.

Light. Brief. Controlled.

“Bye,” she said, already pulling away.

“Bye, Cecilia.”

He straightened as she disappeared back into the house, her attention already drifting to something else, the moment released as easily as she had entered it.

I stayed by the door.

He didn’t move right away.

Neither did I.

That same pause from before settled between us again—the one filled with everything we weren’t addressing.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Not only for the advice.

Not only for the conversation.

For the access.

For the space.

For not shutting the door when I could have.

I held his gaze for a second.

Then nodded once.

That was all.

He understood.

He always did.

He turned and walked away, hands still lifted slightly in front of him, careful not to ruin the small, bright evidence of a moment that shouldn’t have happened.

I watched him go.

Not long.

Just enough.

Then I began to close the door—

and something pulled my attention across the street.

Luke.

He stood there as if frozen, his expression unreadable, his eyes locked on mine—and the moment they met, something sharp ran through me. Sudden. Jarring. Enough to hold me in place.

I didn’t look away.

For a second—maybe longer—we just stood there, staring at each other across the street. No movement. No gesture. Just that silent, unbroken line between us.

Until I couldn’t hold it anymore.

I broke first.

Slowly, I closed the door.

But I knew—

without needing to look again—

that he hadn’t moved.

                                                                          ***

I was already in bed when the doorbell rang.

Sleep was nowhere near me anyway, so I'd settled for reading instead, curled beneath the blankets while my eyes skimmed over what had to be the most embarrassingly explicit scene anyone had ever managed to publish.

The bell rang again.

My entire body went still.

Please let it be Michael.

He'd left his guitar here earlier that afternoon. Maybe he'd finally realized it.

Clinging to that increasingly unlikely possibility, I slipped out of bed and padded toward the front door on silent feet.

The moment I looked through the peephole, my stomach sank.

Of course.

I rested my forehead against the wood and closed my eyes.

Maybe if I stayed quiet...

Maybe he'd assume I was asleep.

"I know you're not asleep, Y/N." Luke's voice came muffled through the door, the words softened by alcohol. "Open the door, or you're gonna have your neighbors complaining about a drunk sleeping on your doorstep."

I let out a long, resigned sigh.

"You always did know how to emotionally blackmail people."

"What was that?"

I unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Luke was leaning against the frame, one shoulder carrying far more of his weight than it should have. His blond hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed from the cold night air—or maybe the whiskey—and his blue eyes were darker than I remembered.

Stormier.

"You've got some nerve showing up here, Hemmings," I said, folding my arms across my chest. "And don't even try to bullshit me. There's no way you knew I was awake."

A lazy smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

"You never go to bed early."

He pointed vaguely past me.

"And your bedroom light's on."

I frowned.

"This building has, what, fifty apartments? You don't know which window is mine."

"Course I do."

He said it with complete conviction.

"I counted."

I blinked.

"You... counted."

"Mhm."

He nodded proudly.

"Needed to know."

"...Why?"

"So I could save you if there was a fire."

I stared at him for a long moment.

Then shook my head.

"You can't even walk in a straight line right now," I muttered as he pushed himself off the doorframe, immediately stumbling over absolutely nothing on his way inside. "How exactly were you planning to count windows when you're seeing double?"

He ignored the question completely, making a determined—if deeply unsteady—beeline for my couch before dropping onto it with the exaggerated relief of a man who had just completed an Olympic event.

"And save me?" I closed the door behind him, crossing my arms. "Luke, you smell like a distillery. If there were a fire, you'd probably combust the second you walked into the building."

He looked up at me with complete seriousness.

"I would've risked it."

The words were ridiculous.

Absurd.

And yet...

Something in the way he said them stole the smile from my lips before it had the chance to fully form.

I looked away first.

"I'm still mad at you," I said quietly. "So what exactly are you doing here?"

"Trying to make you... unmad."

The crooked smile that spread across his face was so unmistakably Luke that it almost hurt. His eyes were glossy, unfocused, and he looked absurdly pleased with the word he'd just invented, as though it deserved a place in the dictionary.

"I couldn't sleep knowing you were angry at me," he admitted, the smile fading almost as quickly as it had appeared. "I never can."

His gaze found mine again.

"I've been awake ever since."

For a heartbeat, everything inside me stopped.

Then reality caught up.

"It's been three days, Luke," I whispered.

Three days since I'd stormed out of his house after he called me selfish for refusing to stay at the party he'd thrown to celebrate the end of the first leg of their tour.

Three days after I'd picked the boys up from the airport.

Three days after I'd spent the entire morning putting together a welcome brunch because I wanted them to come home to something that felt... like home.

Three days after reminding him I had an important exam the next morning.

Three days.

The words settled over him like a weight.

I watched the realization spread across his face.

The crooked smile disappeared, replaced by something heavier. Wearier.

His jaw tightened.

Without saying another word, he pushed himself off the couch.

Slowly.

Despite the alcohol in his system, every step toward me was deliberate, measured—as if moving too quickly might make me disappear before he reached me.

My stomach tightened.

I didn't move.

Couldn't.

He stopped close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath, faint beneath the mint he'd probably chewed in a hopeless attempt to hide it.

One hand came to rest against the wall beside my head.

Then the other.

Not pinning me.

Not forcing me to stay.

But leaving nowhere for either of us to pretend there wasn't something immense standing between us.

"I'm going crazy, Y/N."

His voice was rough.

Lower than usual.

The words scraped their way out of him.

He leaned in just enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my temple.

"I'm disappointed, though," he murmured, a sad smile ghosting across his lips. "You promised we'd never go to sleep angry at each other."

His eyes searched mine.

"I kept my promise."

The words found exactly where they were meant to.

Because I remembered.

Lying on the floor of my bedroom in the apartment we used to share after our first real fight—the one that had ended with us stubbornly refusing to speak to each other for an entire week.

By the end of it, we'd decided we were never doing that again.

Never lie to each other.

Never leave without saying goodbye.

Never go to bed angry.

We'd been so young.

So certain promises alone could protect people from becoming strangers.

I swallowed against the knot tightening in my throat.

"I'm not apologizing," I said, holding his gaze. "Not when I wasn't the one who was wrong."

The smile faded from his face.

And for the first time that night—

he looked completely sober.

"I'm sorry," he said.

There wasn't a trace of drunken playfulness left.

"Awfully. Entirely. Truly."

The words weren't rehearsed.

They weren't eloquent.

They were simply everything he had.

"I know," I whispered.

Before I could stop myself—

before pride had the chance to interfere—

I closed the distance between us.

My arms slipped around him almost on instinct.

Because, despite everything, I couldn't bear the thought of spending another second standing this close to him without touching him.

This—

this was the only way I was capable of.

As friends.

For a heartbeat, he didn't move.

Then his arms came around me with a tenderness that almost undid me.

Careful.

As though he were afraid I'd disappear if he held on too tightly.

"Thank God," he breathed into my hair.

The words were so quiet I almost missed them.

He rested his lips against the top of my head, lingering there for the briefest moment.

Neither of us spoke for a long while.

Then, his voice came out muffled against my hair.

"I divided."

I frowned.

"What?"

"I was seeing double." A tiny, sleepy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So I counted the windows... then divided."

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

Small.

Barely there.

But real.

I felt him smile against my hair.

"There she is," he murmured, almost to himself.

                                                                        ***

The breeze was cold when I woke with a start in the comfortable cocoon I'd made for myself in the window seat of my library. It was already late. Cecilia had been asleep long before I'd escaped there with a book, hoping reading would quiet a mind that refused to settle.

It hadn't.

Every time I closed my eyes, I found myself back at the front door, Luke standing motionless across the street, watching my house as though he'd forgotten how to leave it behind. Those blue eyes had followed me into sleep.

Exhaustion must have won eventually.

The lamps were off. Margaret must have switched them off before retiring for the night, careful not to wake me.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked out the window.

The moon hung impossibly full above the city.

My oldest companion.

Then my gaze drifted lower.

Toward the street.

Toward him.

Luke stood beneath one of the streetlights, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, staring at the house.

At my house.

For one irrational second, it felt as though he'd never left.

He hadn't seen me.

I didn't move.

Barely breathed.

Some irrational part of me was convinced the smallest shift behind the glass would make him look up.

So I stayed perfectly still.

Watching.

He didn't pace.

Didn't check his phone.

Didn't seem impatient.

He simply... stood there.

As though he were waiting for courage to catch up with him.

Minutes slipped by.

Five.

Maybe ten.

Long enough for the silence to become unsettling.

Finally, his shoulders sagged with quiet resignation.

A small nod.

Almost imperceptible.

A decision.

He turned.

He was leaving.

I didn't think.

I was already moving.

By the time I reached the front door, I'd forgotten my shoes.

The cold pavement bit into my bare feet as I hurried after him, my nightgown stirring in the breeze.

Then I stopped.

I watched him walk away.

And somewhere beneath the hurt, beneath the pride...

I hoped.

I hoped he would do what he hadn't done eight years ago.

I hoped he would look back.

I let him take a few more steps.

Then I looked away.

I couldn't bear to watch him disappear twice.

He stopped.

Then he turned.

Everything inside me tightened with the quiet force of recognition.

No street between us this time.

No front door.

No excuses.

Just the two of us.

He didn't smile.

Neither did I.

For several long seconds, neither of us moved.

The silence wasn't empty.

It was crowded.

With eight years.

With unfinished conversations.

With words that had waited far too long.

Then he started walking toward me.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Instinct told me to retreat.

I took one step back.

Then another.

Before his hand closed gently—but firmly—around my wrist.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to ask me not to leave.

I lowered my gaze to where his fingers rested against my skin before looking back into his eyes.

He didn't let go.

"Seems like you have a lot to say to everyone but me."

His voice was controlled.

Too controlled.

The kind of control people mistake for calm.

"You're right," I answered evenly. "Back then, you were the only one who had the chance to hear what I had to say."

A beat.

"Now all of you are even."

Something flickered across his face.

Gone before I could name it.

"That's convenient," he said quietly.

"For you."

I didn't answer.

"Well," he continued, his thumb shifting almost imperceptibly against my wrist, "you might not want to say anything else..."

He swallowed.

"...but I do."

His eyes never left mine.

"And don't give me that 'I had my chance' bullshit," he said, his voice sharpening for the first time. "Your timing isn't the only one that matters."

There it was.

Not quite anger.

Not quite desperation.

Something raw enough that the line between the two had stopped mattering.

I let the silence settle.

Felt the warmth of his hand.

The steadiness of it.

The quiet certainty that he wasn't going to let me walk away as though another eight years would fix what the first eight hadn't.

I exhaled slowly.

"Alright."

The word carried no softness.

No kindness.

Only resolve.

"I'll do you this favor."

I lifted my chin and met his gaze without flinching.

"But only because my patience is already running thin."

His jaw flexed.

For a second, I thought he might argue.

Instead, something almost imperceptible loosened in his expression.

"Great," he said quietly.

The corner of his mouth lifted into something too weary to be called a smile.