“Rhodes,” he says. “When he turned eighteen, he wanted something permanent. So we all did it with him.”
“You’re close to your brothers.”
“Have to be. Family is what lasts.”
I look away, my hand still resting against his chest. My own family presses in, complicated and heavy.
“You’re lucky,” I say. “That bond didn’t happen for me. I just got the expectations and responsibilities I didn’t ask for.”
His gaze sharpens. “Why?”
“My mom died when I was young,” I say, steady despite the ache. “Most of my memories of her areblurred. She was the one who made everything connected. When she was gone, that warmth went with her.”
“What about your father? Your brothers?”
“I love them,” I say. “But my father commands more than he comforts. My brothers and I exist near each other, not with each other.”
His hand covers mine, warm and grounding. “My mom died when I was a teenager,” he says. “She was the center of everything. After she was gone, it was survival. Our youngest brother, Rhodes, got the least of the softness. That’s why I watch him the closest.”
“They’re fortunate to have you,” I say.
“That’s how we made it through,” he replies. “We all pitched in.”
The weight of it lingers. He is not offering solace, but he is, without realizing it. We are more alike even than I realized.
“I admire that,” I say quietly. “The way you protect what’s yours.”
His grip tightens slightly. He does not answer.
I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath it. I want this moment to stretch, even as I know it cannot.
“What is it?” he asks.
“I have to leave soon,” I say. “My father is out early, but I can’t push it. If I’m not back before he notices, the fallout won’t stop with me.”
His expression hardens. He shifts back just enough to create space, and the absence of his body is immediate.
“You’re right,” he says.
“I don’t want to go,” I admit. “But maybe I can talk to him. Maybe I can make him see reason.”
“Coco.” His voice cuts cleanly through the thought. “That’s not going to happen.”
He gestures between us. “This cannot be anything.”
The words land hard. I shake my head. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.” His gaze remains steady, distant. “What we want doesn’t change what this costs. This,” he gestures with his hand between us. “This isn’t possible, Coco.”
The silence presses in, heavy and suffocating. I don’t argue.
Understanding does not lessen the ache.
It only sharpens it.
EIGHTEEN
Ridge
