“Shocking, I know,” I reply, forcing the words past the lump of concrete in my throat. I make my mouth curve into what’s supposed to be a smile but probably looks more like a grimace.
He exhales through his nose. “You just got back from the hospital.”
“And you just moved in with a backpack and a plastic bag,” I shoot back. “We’re both having a fucking banger of a day.”
His mouth twitches slightly. God, I love that he still does that. That even now, after everything, he still lets me throw my sharp edges at him and doesn’t back down. Doesn’t treat me with kid gloves.
“Ready?” I ask, pulling out a chair and sinking into it before my legs give out.
“Yeah,” he says, moving toward the table. His voice is rough, resigned. “Let’s get this shit over with, I guess.”
I watch him sit down next to me, his long legs stretching out under the table. His knee bumps mine, a solid point of contact in the swirling chaos of my head. He looks comfortable, taking up space in the kitchen in a way that feels both strange and right at the same time.
I crack open the book and start explaining something. I don’t even know what the fuck I’m saying at first. Words just come out on autopilot. A stream of thoughts about poetic structure, my voice a monotone drone.
The black letters on the white page blur together, losing their shape. It’s all too overwhelming. The image of my dad lying in that bed, so completely still. Talking to him for hours, not knowing if he could hear a single word I said.
My voice falters, and the sentence dies halfway through.
He notices right away.
“Bells.” His voice is low.
I glance down at the page, staring hard at the words, trying to hold back tears. I refuse to cry. Not here. Not now. Not over some stupid fucking poem about dying. I refuse to cry over Dylan Thomas and his rage against the dying of the light.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth.
“Bullshit.”
The moment I look up at him, my eyes give me away. Everything becomes blurry and bright, his face melting into a gentle shape.
“I just… I keep wondering how much longer I’ll keep going to the hospital and hearing the same thing. Like it’s nothing. Like my dad isn’t just… stuck.”
The last word cracks right down the middle.
I press my lips together hard, furious at myself. At the tears that are threatening to spill over.
Jace goes completely still. His whole body stiffens, and his eyes stay fixed on my face. This is the moment when most people panic. They start rambling, filling the silence with pointless words. They say something stupid like “it’ll be okay” or “stay positive” or some other useless bullshit.
But Jace doesn’t do any of that. He slowly stands up, the legs of his chair scraping softly against the floor.
For a second, I think he’s going to brush it off, walk away, or tell me to stop thinking about it and focus on something else.
Instead, he crouches down in front of me, his knees popping softly. He’s right there at my level, and suddenly the kitchen is too small and quiet.
He takes my hands, prying my fingers off the cover of the book I’m clutching, and holds them between his own.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
I force myself to look at him. His eyes, deep sea blue and serious, stay fixed on my face.
“It doesn’t mean he’s gone,” he says, his gaze unwavering. “It just means he’s fighting.”
“You don’t know that,” I say, the words coming out as a strained whisper.
“You don’t know he isn’t,” he replies instantly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. That simple touch is almost my undoing.
“You’re allowed to be scared, Bells,” he continues, his voice lowering even more. “You don’t have to pretend for me.”
