Ali bit her lip, her voice quieter now. “And then BPD on top of it…”
Naomi’s face stilled—open, but gentle. “That’s…a lot.”
“I was diagnosed in college,” Ali said softly, wrapping her fingers around the dish towel like an anchor. “I didn’t even know what it was before then. Just that I felttoo muchall the time. Like any tiny emotional crack was the end of the world. Especially abandonment. It was—” she paused, swallowing. “It was hard on Dylan. On me. I spent years learning how to manage it. Therapy. Medication. Self-awareness. But there are still days I don’t trust myself to get it right.”
Naomi didn’t hesitate. She reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “You don’t have to get it perfect to be worthy of love. And the fact that youaredoing the work—that’s everything.”
Ali’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I think I spent a long time believing no one could love mewithall that. That I was too much work.”
Naomi shook her head. “Dylan’s face when he looks at you? That’s not a man who’s overwhelmed. That’s a man who feels lucky.”
Ali smiled shakily. “Thanks. I think I’m finally starting to believe that too.”
They stood in the stillness for a moment longer, nothing loud or heavy, just a quiet knowing between women who had fought hard to feel whole.
Then Naomi tapped the counter lightly. “Okay. Now that we’ve trauma bonded, can we please go find dessert? I hid a tray of brownies from Rocky and I’m ready to share.”
Ali laughed, wiping her eyes. “God, yes. Brownies and book club initiation. You’re one of us now.”
I Think He Knows
Dylan
She was wearing his shirt.
An old Tritons tee—navy faded soft from a hundred wash cycles, the neckline slouchy, sleeves rolled up just a little over her swimsuit. It hung loose and low on her, knotted at the waist, but he knew exactly what it was. One of the first freebies from his rookie year.
And damn if it didn’t hit him square in the chest.
He paused for a second at the gate, the smell of chlorine and sunscreen wafting on the warm breeze, the girls spread out around the pool like they were on spring break. But it was her that had his full attention. Legs dipped in the water, hair piled on top of her head, face tilted toward the sun. Like home. Like everything he’d missed.
She looked up, eyes squinting against the light, and smiled.
And just like that, he couldn’t feel the weight of the pizza boxes anymore.
He’d always worn his shirts and hoodies a little big. Even back in college. Said it was for comfort, but truthfully? It was for her. Always for her. He liked knowing she could disappear into something of his when the world got loud. That she could wrap herself in something that smelled like him and maybe feel safe.
Safe. Loved. Wanted.
Hell, maybe evenkept.
She didn’t know that, and he didn’t need her to.
But the way her fingers absently tugged the hem down when he walked in?
Yeah. She was his. Whether she said it out loud again or not.
He set the boxes on the outdoor table and raised an eyebrow. “Thin crust, extra cheese, pepperoni on half—because apparently Raleigh Ann has beef with pepperoni. Medium crust with sausage because Ali’s picky as shit about pizza.”
“Iliterallysaid it gives me heartburn,” Raleigh Ann called from a lounge chair, not even looking up from her book.
“Same thing,” Dylan muttered under his breath, smirking as he turned back to Ali.
“I am picky. But I know what I like.”
She was standing now, walking over in that slow, swaying way that always made his brain short-circuit. The tee hit mid-thigh, her swim skirt barely visible, her cheeks a little pink from the sun.
She stepped close—too close—and gave him a once-over like she was judging an outfit. “You look proud of yourself.”
