I wave him off. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”
It’s what I always say. What I’ve always done.
Take care of it myself.
No one’s ever really stepped in, not for real. Past boyfriends claimed they cared, but when it came down to it, they let me carry everything. Fight the fights. Bandage the wounds. Be the strong one. And I invited that. I wore independence like armor and dared anyone to challenge it.
But Nolan doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t back off.
And it’s doing things to me.
“Rorie,” he says. Just my name. Firm. Commanding.
Something in me wavers.
He understands me. Not just the part I show the world, but the part I keep buried. The tired part. The part that secretly wishes someone would step in without being asked.
“You’ve held up the world long enough,” he says. “Let someone hold you now.”
The words are quiet. Gentle. And they settle in places I didn’t know were hollow.
I don’t argue.
He goes inside, grabs the med kit from the bathroom, and then kneels beside me on the lounge chair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands move with slow precision, carefully peeling back the bandage. His warm fingertips graze my skin, and there’s an unfamiliar, soft flutter in my chest.
“This might sting.”
But it doesn’t. Not really. His touch is careful, loving. He cleans the wound with a sort of personal focus. And it hits me that I’m not some temporary person in his life.
God, I want him too.
His brows are drawn, his attention completely on me. It’s not just about the injury, it’s about how much he cares that I’m hurt.
When he presses the new bandage into place, our eyes meet. And for a breathless second, we stay there, frozen in the glow of the string lights, hearts exposed and racing.
He slips in beside me on the lounge chair, pulls another blanket from off the back, and drapes it over both of us.
My body curls toward him on instinct, as if it always knew where it belonged. His arm snakes around me without hesitation, it’s like sunlight after a storm, solid ground after a freefall.
We sit, wrapped in silence. Not empty, but full—of breath, of meaning, of everything we’ve said and everything we don’t need to.
CHAPTER 50
OUR STARS WILL NEVER FADE
NOLAN
Rorie’s hand lifts,gentle, sure, and she points.
“Look,” she murmurs. “Orion.”
I follow the arc of her arm, the way her fingertip moves through the night air like she’s sketching stars into existence.
“His belt. Right there, those three in a row. I used to look for it every night when I couldn’t sleep,” she says. “Something about it made me feel… stable. Like the universe knew what it was doing. Even if I didn’t.”
She lowers her hand, but her eyes stay skybound. I watch her instead. She’s more breathtaking than any constellation.
“Is there another one?” I ask, just to keep her talking.
