Mia was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly I almost missed it:
“Riley never says that.”
The words landed like a fist. I opened my mouth—to defend myself, to explain, to fill the space—but Liam’s hand found mine in the dark, squeezed once.
“Riley’s been protecting you. That’s what she does. Sometimes protection looks like not saying the hard things out loud.”
“But you said them.”
“Yeah.”
His gaze met mine over Mia’s head. It didn’t linger, didn’t ask for anything. Just stayed. Soft in a way that made my throat tighten before I could stop it.
“Sometimes it takes someone outside the hurt to name it.”
In the dark, Mia reached out.
She found his hand first. Then mine.
Her fingers were small, damp, determined. Holding on like she’d decided something.
The three of us stayed that way, connected in the dark—no paperwork, no signatures, nothing official. Just weight and warmth and the quiet understanding that whatever this was, it mattered more than anything we’d agreed to around a firehouse kitchen four months ago.
“I don’t want to go back.”
Her voice was small, scraped raw, but steadier than it had been in days.
“To Todd. To before. I want to stay here.”
She didn’t say with both of you.
She didn’t have to.
Her grip tightened, linking us. She leaned into him for the truth of it, into me for the holding. She let us see her like this—split open, trusting.
“You’re staying.”
The words were calm. Final.
“We’re not going anywhere.”
We.
The sound of it settled in my chest, heavier than my name, steadier than sister.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t correct him.
I held on.
Something in my chest gave way and settled again, all in the same breath.
Mia’s eyes drifted closed. Her breathing slowed, smoothed out, deepened. The tension eased from her hands, her body finally giving in to the weight of it all.
Grief loosened its grip. Just enough.
We stayed like that.
Connected.
