So we sit there in the darkened theater, watching Anna and Elsa’s story unfold on the massive screen. Kiera holds Skyler with such tenderness it makes my chest ache. This is what she’d be like as a mother someday, I think. Gentle and fierce all at once. A mother bear, but giving space to grow.
When the movie ends and the credits start rolling, I stand carefully. “Let me take her.”
Kiera looks up at me, and for a moment I think she’s going to protest. Then she nods.
I lean down and slide my arms under Skyler, lifting her as gently as I can. She’s heavier than she looks, but she doesn’t wake, just makes a small sound and rests her head against my shoulder.
“There’s a spare bedroom upstairs,” I say quietly. “She can sleep there.”
Kiera follows me up the stairs and down the hallway to one of the guest rooms. I ease Skyler onto the bed, and Kiera pulls the covers over her, tucking them around her small body with the same tenderness she showed earlier.
“Sweet dreams, Little Pup,” Kiera whispers, brushing a strand of hair from Skyler’s forehead.
We leave the door slightly ajar and head back to the living room. The Barbie explosion is still scattered across the floor—dolls, clothes, tiny plastic accessories everywhere.
“We should probably clean this up,” I say.
“Yeah.” Kiera kneels on the floor and starts gathering dolls. “Before someone steps on a high heel and discovers just how painful tiny plastic shoes can be.”
I kneel beside her, picking up Ken and a collection of his accessories. We work in silence for a few minutes, dropping dolls and their various belongings into the large plastic tub Skyler brought.
I reach for Elsa at the same moment Kiera does.
Our fingers touch.
The contact is electric, sending awareness shooting up my arm. For half a second, we’re both frozen, our hands touching over the blonde doll.
Then Kiera jerks her hand back like she’s been burned.
Something in me snaps.
I’m tired of this. Tired of the careful distance, the way she pulls away every time we get close, the walls that slam up the moment we have a real connection. I’m tired of almost-kisses and stolen glances and the constant push-pull between us.
I toss Elsa in the container and turn to face her fully.
“Who hurt you?”
The words come out rougher than I intend, but I don’t take them back. I hold her gaze, watching the way her eyes go wide, the way her breath catches.
“What?”
“Who hurt you, Kiera?” I ask again, softer this time but no less intense. “Someone made you afraid of being touched. Someone made you think you need to run every time someone gets close. Who was it?”
She’s staring at me, her face pale, and I can see her internal struggle playing out in her expression—the impulse to deflect with sarcasm, to make a joke, to run away like she always does.
But I don’t let her. I just sit there, waiting, letting her see how serious I am. How much I need to understand.
“I...” She starts, then stops. Her throat works as she swallows. “River, I don’t?—”
“Please.” The word comes out quieter, almost desperate. “Help me understand. Because every time we have a moment, every time I think maybe you’re letting me in, you pull away. And I don’t know if it’s because you don’t want me or because you’re scared. But I need to know which one it is.”
The silence stretches between us, thick with tension and unspoken things.
Kiera is still staring at me, her brilliant blue eyes bright with what might be tears. Her hands are clenched in her lap, and I can see her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.
Say something, I think. Tell me. Let me in. Let me help.
Her lips part, and I lean forward slightly, waiting for her answer.
