Wilder exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I stay seated. Calm. Grounded.
“I know this isn’t what you expected,” I say. “But I’m here to listen. Nothing more.”
He scoffs, pacing once before stopping across from me. “I don’t need a babysitter. Or a shrink. Or—” He gestures vaguely at me. “This.”
“I’m not here as your friend’s sister,” I say gently. “And I’m not here to tell you how to feel.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“I’m here because something just happened that knocked the wind out of you,” I continue. “And pretending you’re fine won’t make it hurt less.”
Silence stretches between us.
His jaw tightens. Then he laughs, short and bitter. “You barely know me.”
“You’re right,” I say. “But grief doesn’t care about that.”
He stares at the floor, shoulders sagging just a fraction.
“Sit,” I say quietly.
He hesitates. Then, reluctantly, he drops into the chair across from me, elbows braced on his knees.
I don’t rush him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rough.
“He wasn’t supposed to die yet.”
And just like that, the fight drains out of him, leaving something raw and real in its place.
I don’t move.
I don’t rush to fill the silence.
I let his words sit between us, heavy and fragile.
“He never is,” I say softly. “Even when you know it’s coming.”
Wilder’s fingers flex where they’re laced together, knuckles white. His shoulders are still tense, but something has cracked just enough to let the truth seep through.
“He was complicated,” he mutters. “Hard as hell. Never impressed. Everything was about toughness. About pushing through.” His jaw tightens. “I spent my whole life trying to prove I wasn’t weak.”
I nod once. “And did it ever feel like enough?”
He lets out a sharp breath, a humorless sound. “No.”
That answer costs him something. I can see it in the way his throat works, in the way his eyes gloss but don’t quite break.
I lean forward just slightly. Not invading his space. Just present.
“When was the last time you talked to him?” I ask.
“Two weeks ago.” His voice drops. “We argued. About nothing. About everything.” He laughs under his breath. “I told him I didn’t have time. That I had a game.”
Regret flickers across his face, fast and brutal.
