He’s a moody, bossy asshole who thinks he’s in charge of our friendship.
And the worst part?
He’s not wrong.
I always give in.
Because I just want to be around him.
That’s enough for me.
So I go where he wants. Motorcycle shows. Concerts. Loud, crowded places I don’t even like.
When I’d rather be at home. Reading. Sitting with my parents.
But I do it anyway.
For him.
I’d do anything for him.
And he knows that.
And I let him.
Because there’s a version of Cassian that only I get to see.
Not the brooding. Not the attitude. Not the walls.
The version that shows up at midnight when something’s wrong.
The version that sat on the kitchen floor with me without asking why.
The version that reached for my hand under the stars when we were eight like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That version is mine.
I’ve never been able to walk away from something that’s mine.
• • •
I keep coming back to this one memory.
Thirteen.
My parents went out for the evening and I was alone and I don’t even remember why, but something inside me just — dropped. That kind of bad that doesn’t have a reason. I was on the kitchen floor when it happened. Couldn’t explain it if I tried. I couldn’t move.
I didn’t text him.
I didn’t text anyone.
But an hour later — tap tap on the window.
He came in. Took one look at me. Didn’t ask a single question.
Just grabbed the blanket off the couch and sat down on the kitchen floor next to me.
Held me.
