Her eyes lift to mine—bright, glassy, breaking. And I’m gone. Completely. Irretrievably. Gone. I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once because standing still feels like suffocating.
“She’s six,” I say. “Six. She shouldn’t be putting that weight on anyone.”
“It’s not weight,” Lucy whispers. “It’s love.”
“That’s the problem,” I mutter. “She loves too fast.”
“She learned that from you.”
I stiffen. “No.”
“Yes,” she insists, stepping closer. “Ash… you’re her entire world right now. And you’ve spent months trying to be strong enough for both of you. Strong enough for her. Strong enough for your sister. Strong enough for everything.”
Her voice softens, a tremor running through it. “But Holly’s not loving too fast. She’s loving exactly right.”
Something deep inside me cracks. Breaks. I look at Lucy—really look at her—and I realize something terrifying:
Holly isn’t the only one falling.
I take a step toward her. “Lucy.”
She takes one back. “Ash. I’m not—this isn’t?—”
My voice drops. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m trying not to.” She presses a hand to her chest. “But this is complicated.”
“It doesn't feel complicated.”
“It should.”
“Should,” I repeat. “But doesn’t.”
She shakes her head. “You’re Holly’s guardian. You need stability, not?—”
“You,” I cut in.
Her lips part.
“You’re what’s unstable?” I challenge. “You’re what’s dangerous? You’re what’s messy?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Exactly.”
“No,” I growl. “You’re wrong.”
Her breath stutters.
“You walked into my life,” I say, stepping closer, “and everything got worse. Louder. Messier. I couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe.”
Her eyes flicker. “Ash?—”
“But then…” I swallow. Hard. “Everything got better too.”
She stops breathing.
“The cabin got less quiet,” I murmur. “The days got easier. Holly laughed more. I laughed more.”
“You don’t laugh,” she tries, voice shaky.
