“Yes, but who encouraged Matt to act that way?”
“No one. He was his own person. And now he’s paying for his decisions.”
Emma stares at her plate, silent, pushing food around with her fork like she’s rearranging her thoughts. “Luca?” she says finally, eyes still down.
Something shifts. The air hums differently, heavy. My chest tightens. My first instinct is to reach for her hand—but I freeze. Whatever she’s about to say can’t be good.
“Yeah?”
She lifts her gaze slowly. Her big, bright eyes are filled with fear, shimmering. “Are you happy?”
Her question slams into me like a brick wall. My mind blanks. My mouth opens, but for once, nothing comes out. The simplest question I’ve ever been asked, and I have zero answers.
When she realizes I’ve got nothing, her eyes well up, lashes wet.
I turn my hand palm-up on the table, an offering. She hesitates, then places hers in mine. Her fingers tremble. “Don’t cry,” I whisper. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because watching her cry—for me—is unbearable.
Emma shakes her head, lips pressed tight, but the tears fall anyway, splashing onto the linen tablecloth.
“Em…” I breathe, completely wrecked, thumb brushing over her knuckles.
Suddenly, she straightens, wipes her cheeks, and forces a smile so bright it looks like it hurts. “You ready to head back?” Her tone is light, practiced, as if nothing happened.
It’s prom night.
Of course, Emma’s my date.
We showed up together at the school’s big end-of-year event. There’s a stage set up with a live band covering '90s songs, and almost everyone’s out there dancing like the world’s ending tomorrow.
The organizers asked Emma to paint a photo backdrop, so she created this dreamy mural of a brick archway wrapped in vines and red flowers. The theme isA Night in Tuscany, and yeah—it totally looks like one of her paintings came to life.
Emma’s wearing this pale pink dress that moves like it’s got actual magic stitched into the fabric. And I’m in a black suit. Simple, sharp. It was either this or black jeans and a black tee, but Emma asked for “something elegant,” so here I am.
Some guys had to rent theirs. We didn’t. One of the few perks of being a Walker—suits aren’t new to us. Though honestly? I hope once I start college with Emma, I never have to wear one again.
“I don’t get how you can be with someone that energetic,” Oliver mutters, sipping from a red plastic cup—probably soda, maybe not.
Emma’s dancing with a group of girls toBorn in the U.S.A.and I can’t stop watching her. That smile. That energy.
“You need balance in life,” I say, still staring at her. “Sometimes the only way to find it is to fall for someone who has all the things you don’t.”
I’m a lucky bastard, and I know it.
Oliver doesn’t respond. Just sits with that storm brewing in his head like always. The kid says little, but his eyes say too much.
I nudge his shoulder, leaning in with a grin I can’t hold back. “I’m gonna marry her.”
Oliver’s gaze snaps to me. His expression freezes—blank, unreadable, like he’s buffering. “You’re gonna get married? At eighteen?”
“Yup.” I pop thep. “Don’t really see the point in waiting. She said yes.”
He blinks slowly, mouth twitching like he can’t decide whether to laugh or choke. “Wow. Congrats?” He sounds like someone just told him the vending machine’s out of his favorite chips.
“Thanks. Don’t tell Dad, though. I’m not saying a word until it’s already done.”
I steal a sip from his cup, ignoring the way he rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
“You guys have a date?”
