I slide in beside her before my instinct can do something stupid, like try to claim space that isn’t mine to claim.She leans her head back, eyes closed, and her face is drawn too tight—like she’s holding herself together with pure will and caffeine fumes.
Monty shuts the door, and the car eases back onto the road.
Without talking about it, Monty’s hand finds one of hers.Mine finds the other.
Our hands linked as if we’re both trying to keep her tethered to the present.Like if we let go, she’ll disappear into whatever dark corner her fear keeps dragging her toward.
She doesn’t squeeze back, but she doesn’t pull away either.
The drive goes still after that, the way a room goes still after someone says something you can’t forget.The road curves.Trees close in.Juniper Ridge appears the way a memory does—suddenly, and with too much force.
The town is small and at the end of the main street, the sign comes into view, worn and familiar, letters faded but stubbornly upright.The cabins sit tucked back like they’re holding their breath.The rink is there, waiting for the next round of campers to visit this upcoming summer.The lake beyond it is gray under the winter sky, flat as metal.
Vesper’s breathing changes the second she sees it.
Her eyes go bright again, and she blinks fast like she’s angry at the tears for existing.Like grief is an inconvenience she can bully into submission.
I want to reach across her, touch her cheek, press my thumb right under her eye the way I used to—I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—but Monty’s hand is already in hers and mine is already holding the other and I don’t know which move would comfort her and which one would make her bolt.
So I do nothing.
Which is its own kind of torture.
We pull up in front of the main house—the Lafontaine home, the place that used to smell like pancakes and wet gear and Margaret’s coffee and Vesper’s laughter bouncing off every wall like the camp couldn’t contain her.
Monty’s out immediately, opening Vesper’s door.She swings her legs out and stands too fast, then catches herself with a tiny wobble.Both Monty and I move at once.
She glares at us like we’re the problem.“I’m fine.”
“Sure,” I say.“You’re radiant.”
She shoots me a look that could ruin a man’s self-esteem for sport.“That’s sleep deprivation.Don’t romanticize it.”
“I romanticize everything,” I tell her.“It’s a flaw.”
Monty helps Philippe down, then angles his body slightly—subtle, protective, already scanning the steps, the path, the distance to the door like he’s mapping exits.
He doesn’t even realize he does it.
She murmurs, “I’m definitely not going with you,” as if she can sense me reaching for control.Then she’s at her father’s side, fussing like she isn’t fussing.Philippe lets her, because he’s her dad and he knows this is how she loves—loud, bossy, terrified.
They head inside.
Monty’s voice drops.“We’re not leaving her here.”
“Fuck no,” I say, relief and worry tangled together.“She’s not taking care of herself and now that her father needs care ...that’s going to end up pretty bad.”
He scoffs, a quick exhale.“Is this us agreeing?”
“For her?”I don’t even hesitate.“I’d agree with you on literally anything.”
His eyes cut to me.Suspicious.Like he’s waiting for the punchline.
There isn’t one.
“The question is—” I start, because there’s always a question with Vesper.
“Are you two coming?”she calls from the doorway, leaning against the frame like she owns it, like she’s not ten seconds from folding in on herself if she stops moving.
