“Em,” I whisper, finally turning toward him. “You don’t deserve any of this. Neither does she. Have you talked to your dad?”
The shift in him was instant.
His eyes darken—like storm clouds gathering without warning. Something sharp and dangerous flashes across his expression, and for a heartbeat, he doesn’t look like the Emerson I know. He looks like armor. Steel. Panic crafted into a mask.
“Don’t repeat anything we talk about,” he says, voice low and cutting through the night. “To anyone. Especially my father. I mean it, Berk. Promise me.”
My pulse leaps, nerves tightening in my throat. I nod fast, chest thundering. “Of course, Emerson. I’ve always kept your words private. I’d never share them. Not ever.”
A shadow of guilt flickers in his eyes—and it guts me.
Not because he’s upset. But because I can see how much he hides. How much he seals behind that calm voice and those haunted eyes. How he packs the worst pieces of his life into a box he never lets anyone open.
He carries more than anyone should, and somehow, he’s still standing.
“It’s my job to protect her,” he murmurs, “and you.”
There’s no bitterness in the admission. No resentment. Just a bone-deep certainty, like it’s stitched into the fabric of who he is. Like taking care of everyone else is the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
I want to say something—to tell him he doesn’t have to shoulder it alone—but the words tangle and die before they reach my lips. Nothing I could say feels big enough to meet the weight of what he’s carrying. No comfort. No solution. Only the ache of realizing that while the rest of us laughed and lived like everything was normal, he’s been sinking alone.
His gaze shifts again—softening and sharpening in the same breath.
“You’re the only place I feel normal, Berk.” His voice is barely above a whisper, like the admission might disappear if spoken too loud. “When I’m with you, I remember how to breathe. Like I’m not drowning all the time.”
My heart stumbles. Not in a sweet, fluttery way—but in a way that feels raw, cracked open, too real to hide from.
He reaches for my hand, slow and sure, as if he’s rehearsed this moment in his mind a thousand times but never dared to touch it. His fingers slip between mine, warm and steady, carrying all the unsaid things he’s never been able to voice.
I don’t pull away. I don’t even breathe. It feels too fragile—like one wrong breath could break whatever thread hasfinally stretched between us. So, I hold his hand, letting the quiet wrap around us, speaking for both of us.
For a long moment, we stand there in the shadows behind the community center, surrounded by the ghosts of childhood games and whispered secrets. Except now, the secrets are heavier, and childhood is long gone.
“I don’t want to lose this,” he whispers at last, voice sandpapered. “But I don’t know how to keep it either.”
I squeeze his hand once—gentle, steady. I don’t have an answer. Not yet. But I stay. And sometimes staying says everything that words can’t.
A few days later, I’m walking the familiar wooded trail behind the Calder house. Golden hour light filters through the branches, streaking the world in warm honey, and my chest loosens when I spot Ronan by the creek. He’s perched on a mossy log, tossing pebbles into the water, humming off-key. When he hears my footsteps, he lifts his head—and his entire face brightens like I’ve stepped into his sun.
“There you are,” he says, as if it’s the most natural greeting in the world.
“Here I am,” I reply. No deflection. No sarcasm. Just truth.
He holds out a tiny wildflower he must’ve picked moments ago. He always does this—bringing me bits of the world like they’re gifts only I’m meant to receive. It’s soft. Innocent. Perfectly Ronan.
“You show up right when I need you,” he says as I settle beside him on the log.
“Maybe we just have good timing,” I tease, nudging his knee lightly.
He laughs, but his eyes carry a quiet weight. A softness threaded with something sad. “I hate that we all had to grow up so fast,” he murmurs. “But I’m glad we did it together. I’m glad you stayed.”
I look at him, wind brushing my hair across my cheek. “Where else would I go?”
When he takes my hand—no hesitation, no fear—it feels different than with Emerson or Rowen. Not less. Just its own kind of real. Warm. Gentle. Hopeful.
We sit there with our fingers twined, watching the water glide past, hearts slowly syncing to the same quiet rhythm. And once again, words aren’t necessary.
Because he knows. They all do. And the truth humming beneath my ribs becomes impossible to ignore.
