I tell myself I’m only in the kitchen because of Pops.
Because it’s late. Because she’s out. Because she’s not in the habit of asking for help, and I’m not in the habit of sleeping when the house feels like it’s holding its breath.
That’s the version of the story I can live with.
The other version—the real one—is uglier.
The real one is that I watched her get pulled across a backyard by some guy’s hand on her elbow, and it lit something ancient and violent in my chest. Like I was seventeen again, standing in a crowd with a drink in my hand and no idea what to do with the fact that I wanted her.
So I drove home.
And now I’m here, leaning against the counter, staring at the dark window over the sink like it’s going to hand me a better personality.
The house is quiet in a way it never used to be. Not peaceful. Just…thin. Like sound is afraid to take up space.
Down the hall, Pops’s door is cracked. A nightlight glows low, and I can see his chest rise and fall. Slow. Steady. The only thing in this house that doesn’t feel like it’s about to splinter.
He’s asleep.
Good.
Because I can’t explain myself to him. Not tonight. Not ever, maybe.
My knee throbs, brace still on because taking it off feels like admitting I’m broken. My phone buzzes once—Beck.
Beck: she home? or are you already hiding?
I don’t answer.
Another buzz.
Beck: bro
I flip the phone face down like I can erase the whole night with a gesture.
I should go to bed.
I should stop waiting for her like I’m entitled to her time, her attention, her air.
I should stop acting like I get to care.
But I stay.
Because the truth is, I’m not waiting for her for Pops.
I’m waiting for her because I saw that look on her face in the backyard—tight, controlled, not really laughing—and it made something in me go cold.
Because if Pops needs her to be okay, then someone needs to make sure she gets home with her skin still on.
And because I’m a selfish asshole who can’t stop thinking about her mouth.
The front door clicks.
Soft. Careful.
The smallest sound of shoes being set down like she’s trying not to wake the house—or the grief.
Then footsteps down the hall. Light. Tight. Like she’s carrying a storm in her ribs and refusing to let it spill.
