"Love usually is complicated," Dad said with the wisdom of someone who'd spent decades learning to navigate another person's heart. "The trick is deciding whether it's worth the work."
"Is it?"
"Only you can answer that. But Nate?" Dad's hand found my shoulder, grip firm enough to ground me. "Don't let grief make your decisions for you. Don't throw away something good because you're afraid of losing it too."
The words hit closer to home than I was comfortable admitting. Because that was exactly what I'd been doing, wasn'tit? Pushing Evan away with reckless behavior and stubborn independence because loving him fully meant accepting that I could lose him the same way I'd lost Mom.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"That's all I ask."
I stood to leave, picking my way back through the debris toward the door. But I paused at the threshold, turning back to look at Dad surrounded by the ruins of everything we'd built together.
"Dad? You're not alone in this. Whatever comes next, whatever we decide to rebuild or change or keep the same—we do it together. Okay?"
His smile was brighter this time, carrying genuine warmth alongside the sorrow. "Okay, son. Together."
The apartment wasquiet when I got back, moonlight streaming through windows to paint everything in silver and shadow.
The sound of movement from the kitchen drew me in, and I found Evan standing at the counter with his back to me, broad shoulders silhouetted against the warm light from under-cabinet fixtures. He wore nothing but low-slung sweatpants, skin golden in the soft glow, hair mussed from sleep in ways that made my chest tight with affection.
The coffee maker gurgled quietly, filling the space with the rich scent of dark roast and something that smelled like home.
"Couldn't sleep either?" I asked softly.
Evan turned, relief flooding his face when he saw me. "I woke up and you were gone." His voice carried the rough edges of someone who'd been worried, who'd spent the last however long imagining worst-case scenarios. "Where did you go?"
"To see Dad." I moved closer, drawn by the warmth radiating from his skin and the concern written in every line of his face. "He was at the house. Our old house. Sitting in the wreckage like he was trying to piece together what was left."
Evan's expression softened, understanding flickering in his eyes. "How is he?"
"Broken," I said honestly. "But maybe starting to heal. We talked about rebuilding. About making something new from what's left instead of just running away from the memories."
"And how do you feel about that?"
The question was careful, gentle, like he was testing waters that might be deeper than they appeared. I thought about Dad's tears, about the way hope had flickered back to life in his eyes when we talked about paint colors and security systems.
"Scared," I admitted. "But also... hopeful? Like maybe there's a path forward that doesn't involve burning everything down and starting over."
Evan moved closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "That sounds healthy. Hard, but healthy."
"Yeah, well, apparently I'm learning the difference between the two." I tried for humor, but it came out shaky around the edges. "Turns out healthy doesn't always feel good."
"No, it doesn't." His hands found my face, thumbs brushing across cheekbones with devastating gentleness. "But it's worth it. You're worth it."
The simple certainty in his voice made my throat tight with emotions I'd been holding back since leaving Dad surrounded by broken picture frames and impossible plans. Because this was what I'd been afraid of, wasn't it? Letting myself feel the full weight of everything we'd lost, everything we were trying to rebuild.
"Evan..." His name came out rough, scraped raw from a throat that was closing around words too big to hold.
"Hey." He stepped closer, eliminating the space between us until I was pressed against the warm solid wall of his chest. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," I said, and then immediately contradicted myself by starting to fall apart. "Everything's wrong. She's gone, and Dad's broken, and I don't know how to fix any of it. I don't know how to be strong enough for both of us."
The confession tore out of me like broken glass, carrying all the grief I'd been trying to weaponize into something useful instead of just feeling. Evan's arms came around me immediately, strong and steady and safe in ways that made me remember what it felt like to be protected instead of always protecting.
"You don't have to be strong for anyone," he murmured against my hair, voice gentle but firm. "You don't have to carry this alone."
"But he needs?—"
