“You okay with this?” he asks, his thumb brushing lightly across my knuckles, and it kills me.
I nod once, and he starts walking, tugging me gently toward the back of the yard, past the string lights and the bonfire pit. I count the steps in my head to keep grounded. Sixteen past the deck. Thirty-three around the curve of the lawn. Forty-five before we hit the tree line.
There’s a narrow path I’ve never noticed before, hidden between thick hedges and a crooked row of trees. Damien parts the leaves as he walks, glancing back once before he pulls me through.
Eventually, the trees thin out, and I notice a small lake tucked behind the property. It isn’t much—more pond than anything—but the surface glimmers in the moonlight, surrounded by wild grass and stubborn wildflowers that haven’t yet given in to fall. The air smells like wet leaves and faint smoke, the kind that clings to hoodies and skin.
“This is where I come when it gets too loud,” Damien says, sinking into the grass. He glances up at me and tugs on my hand with just enough pressure to make me follow. “Nobody really comes out here. Or they forget it exists. Either way, it’s mine.”
I sit beside him, cross-legged, hoodie sleeves shoved up over my palms. My wrist still feels warm where his fingers were. I try not to think about that.
“You don’t have to talk,” he adds after a moment, reclining on his elbows and tipping his face to the stars. “We can just be here.”
The quiet hums between us, soft and unpressured. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls out, and I think I can hear the faint flick of insects skimming across water. The night is thick with that early autumn scent—wet earth and faint smoke from someone’s backyard fire pit.
I glance sideways at him. He’s lying on his back now, hands folded behind his head, eyes on the sky. His chest rises and falls in a steady, hypnotic rhythm, and for a moment, I just watch him. Not the way I used to when we were younger—sneaky and guilty, afraid he’d catch me staring—but openly now.
I lie back too, arms crossed over my stomach, trying to ignore the way my heart won’t settle.
“My dad tried to make me a swimmer before I could even spell the word.” I don’t know why I start talking. I don’t plan to. The words just sort of leak out the way they always do when I’m too tired to keep them inside.
Damien doesn’t move, but I can feel the shift in his attention. His body goes still in that way it used to when he’s listening hard, like he doesn’t want to miss a single word.
“I think I was four the first time he threw me into the deep end without warning. Said it was the best way to teach me not to fear the water. I remember choking, screaming, and trying to crawlout of the pool. But he just stood there, arms crossed, telling me that champions don’t flail.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Damien turning his head slightly toward me but he still doesn’t speak.
“My mom’s worse, in a different way. Everything was about how I looked. Always pulling at my clothes, fixing my hair, making sure my posture was perfect while saying no one would look at me twice if I didn’t get serious about appearances. She used to pinch the skin under my arms and call it puppy fat.” A bitter laugh escapes me, sharp and sudden. “I was only ten years old.”
I watch as Damien’s jaw tightens, and I know he’s getting pissed off for me. I never really told him about what my mother used to do to me, or what my father always expected of me.
“I didn’t even know what restricting was,” I say after a beat. “I just knew if I didn’t eat lunch, she wouldn’t comment on how bloated I looked when I got home. So, I started counting everything. Calories. Steps. Hours between meals. And I thought… if I could control that one thing,just that, then maybe the rest wouldn’t feel so heavy.”
I can feel the full weight of his gaze now, and I try not to look at him because that would absolutely crush my confidence.
“Blue…” Damien’s voice breaks on my nickname, soft and rough all at once.
“I’m better now,” I say quickly.Too quickly.“Not great, but I try to eat more. That’s something, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice a low murmur. “That’s something.”
I bump my knee against his. “You’re scowling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. Your murder face is on.”
Damien huffs, then turns to look at me. “It just pisses me off what they did to you. Like you were some project to break downand build back up the way they wanted. I hate that you ever thought you had to shrink yourself just to be enough.”
We’re quiet again, but this time it’s harder to sit with. I pick at a blade of grass near my hand, twisting it between my fingers.
“Sometimes I still hear their voices in my head when I eat or look in the mirror. Even when I try to be happy. I can… I can feel them sitting on my shoulder, reminding me of everything I’m not.”
His eyes search mine for a long moment, the anger there obvious. I recognize it for what it is—a protective fury, the kind he’s always kept hidden for my sake. His jaw flexes, and he makes a soft sound—almost a growl. I know that sound. I heard it when we were kids, and someone shoved me in the hallway. He got suspended for throwing the guy into a locker.
“I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly embarrassed. “You didn’t ask to hear all that. I just—”
“I want to know the things you think you have to hide, Blue,” he says, and the words knock something loose in me. “I missed you and… fuck, I want to know everything I missed and missed out on.”
