Aiden breathes out slowly, tension leaving his shoulders. He finally looks at me, “You are, I can see it. He trusts you,” he says. I blink hard and nod, because anything else will tip me over the edge. Knowing that Aiden can see his brother trusts me, him acknowledging that I’m a safe person to Gabe, means the world to me.
He chews his lip then asks, “Should you be living with him, though, if you feel that way? I don’t want you to get hurt.”
There’s that protective instinct. I know what he’s saying makes sense, but everything in me rebels at the thought of leaving Gabe.
“I’ll be okay. I like living with him, and I wanna be there for him.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just nods his head with a thoughtful expression.
We finish the schedule without another word.
On his way out to get Rose, he squeezes my shoulder but says nothing.
When the door shuts, I finally exhale.
By the time I get back to Evergreen, a dull headache presses behind my eyes. Not awful—just a constant throb that makes everything feel too bright. The air outside smells like wet leaves and cold stone. The shop windows are dark, I let myself in and climb the narrow stairs, hand gliding over the banister worn smooth by years.
The apartment is warm. One lamp spills honeyed light over Gabe. He’s curled in the corner of the couch, legs tucked, journal in one hand, pen caught between his lips. He looks relaxed in a way I don’t see enough. His copy ofThe Wayfarer’s Staris on the coffee table. He looks up, and something in his face shifts.
“Hi,” he says in that deep, soft voice. “You okay?”
“Headache,” I mumble. “Long day.”
He studies me, then closes the journal and puts it away. “Come lie down.”
“I’m just going to—”
He’s already shifting, placing a pillow beside his bent leg and patting the cushion like the decision’s already made. “Lie down.”
Something in his voice—that soft demand—does things to me. My body moves on instinct, like I’m under his control. I stretch out, head sinking onto the pillow in the crook of his legs, my own over the armrest. The cushions smell like him—lavender, and his shampoo.
He shifts closer, one knee up on the cushion braced by my head. His hands hover. Hesitation flickering in his eyes, I nod.
His fingers slip into my hair, and I hear a trembling exhale leave him. His hands are light at first, catching and releasing strands. Then deeper—fingertips pressing slow circles right where the throb flares. Warmth spreads with every pass. My eyelids grow heavy. Each sweep behind my ears makes me sink further into the sofa.
I didn’t realize how tightly wound I was. My shoulders relax. My chest rises and falls deeply. The headache doesn’t vanish, but the harshness of it melts away under his touch.
Nobody touches me like this. Nobody ever cared enough to. It isn’t sexual in any way, but lying here with his hands in my hair feels makes me feel… special. Like I'm important to him. I don’t know if it means anything—if it’s just Gabe being Gabe—or if there’s more buried beneath.
“You’re good at that,” I mumble, eyes closed.
“Ciarán gets migraines,” he says softly. “Sometimes I do this for him.”
“You’re a good friend,” I muse, a stab of disappointment running through me, understanding this is just the kind of thing he does for his friends.
He exhales—a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “I try. Truth is, I need them more than they need me.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” I tell him. “You’re all so… connected. You’d do anything for each other. I wish I had that. I mean, I know I do with Aiden, but I thought I’d have more people that were mine, I guess.”
As soon as I say it, I want it back. It’s too telling. His hands pause, and the silence makes me want to squirm.
“But you must’ve had that,” he says, almost disbelieving. “In the city. Aiden said you were always out with friends. You didn’t come home for holidays at my parents’, because you were with them.”
A humorless laugh catches in my throat. “Yeah. That’s what I let him believe.” Heat crawls up my neck. Suddenly, I just feel so exhausted, tired of keeping everything to myself. Of how much I hid from everyone. “I didn’t want him worrying about me. Truth is, I didn’t have many friends. And the few I did have, well, they liked me when things were fun and easy, but when it mattered… they were gone.”
Shame knots my stomach, but I can’t stop myself. “Most nights, most holidays, it was just me.” My voice cracks. “I should’ve told him, but I let him believe something else. And now I’m telling you when he doesn’t know. I’m a shit friend.”
I feel cut open, exposed. My pulse throbs in my ears.
