Then something gave way. Malachi's shoulders dropped, as though the weight of his grief had come crashing down upon him all at once. “The guilt kills me every year.”
Archie’s breath caught.Guilt. The word lodged in his chest like shrapnel. His mind betrayed him instantly—pouring over the tidal forecast in the Hideaway, telling himself he’d only be gone an hour, the empty space on the boat where he should’ve been sitting. Guilt wasn’t Malachi’s to carry. It never had been.
“You have nothing to feel guilty about.”
“I fell asleep on the boat.” Malachi’s eyes filled with tears. He looked younger—too young to be carrying this much weight. “If I’d have been paying attention, I could’ve saved Rhys.” He dragged his sleeve across his face. “It’s my fault Rhys is dead.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Archie’s voice cracked. He swallowed hard, but it didn’t steady him. “It was never your job to save him.” Because it was his—and he hadn’t been there.
Malachi shifted his weight, brows knitting as though the words couldn’t quite find a place to settle. He stared past Archie, digging in, refusing to let go even if it eased the hurt.
“It broke my heart hearing you scream at night. Hearing you apologise in your sleep over and over.” Archie’s voice barely carried between them. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his eyes from flooding. “I wanted to tell you everything, but I didn’t think you were ready. Once you know about the Otherworld, you never look at our world the same way again. I didn’t want that for you.” His hands settled on Malachi’s shoulders. “None of this is your fault. You don’t owe Rhys an apology.”
Malachi went very still
“I was saying sorry to you.”
“To me?” Archie’s chest tightened. The idea clawed at him, painful and unbearable. “You never have to apologise to me for what happened to Rhys.”
“I sawit!” Malachi shook Archie’s hands off, the movementviolent, desperate. “I relive it every year. And every year it gets worse!”
“Saw what?” Archie’s mind scrambled, searching memory after memory, finding nothing but water, screaming and Rhys’ name tearing itself raw from his throat. Nothing else. Nothing he could see.
“Your face!” Malachi sobbed, no longer fighting the tears. “When you realised it was me you pulled out—not him!” His chest hitched hard. He clutched himself as though trying to hold something in place. “I see Rhys being dragged under by those things. It kills me that he died. It kills me that I couldn’t stop it. And it kills me every year when I see your disappointed face!”
Archie’s vision narrowed. The kitchen walls closed in on him. His collar tightened like a noose around his neck. Disappointed. His legs buckled, He caught the back of the chair, fingers digging into the wood. “That’s what you think you saw?” He swallowed hard. “You thought I was disappointed?”
Malachi nodded, wiping his face with his pyjama sleeve.
“I wasn’t disappointed!” The words ripped out of him, raw and uncontrolled. “I was relieved.”
He shoved the chair aside, sending it crashing into the table before it clattered onto the floor. The noise echoed through the kitchen.
“I pulled you out of the water, and all I felt was relief.” His chest burned. The air wouldn’t sit right in his lungs. “For a split second, I forgot your brother was still under the water with those fucking things. All I could think about was how glad I was that you were alive.” His voice broke. He dragged a hand across his face, but it was useless. Wet tracked down his cheek anyway. “And thatkills me. Every fucking day. Rhys was terrified and drowning and I?—”
The sentence collapsed in on itself. He shook his head once, hard, like he could dislodge the memory. “You think you saw disappointment? You saw a father realise he’d left one child behind.”
He reached out to Malachi, needing contact more than oxygen, needing to prove somehow that he hadn’t lost him too.
Malachi stepped back. The counter stopped him with a dull knock.
The space between them opened up again—seven years wide—and the weight of it finally crushed what was left of Archie’s restraint. His shoulders sagged. His hands dropped uselessly to his sides.
“Tonight, I felt the same relief.” He sank down onto the edge of the table. “And then the guilt of not being able to save Rhys came flooding back just as fast.” He scrubbed at his eyes with the palm of his hand. “I feel like everyone I love dies. I live in constant fear that I will lose you too, and I can’t bear it.”
The words barely left him before Malachi was there. Arms slammed around him, sudden and fierce. Malachi clung to him like he might disappear if he let go.
For a heartbeat, Archie just stood there, stunned. Then his arms came up, wrapped tight around his son’s shoulders, pulling him in until there was no space left at all. His hand pressed into Malachi’s back, anchoring him, counting the rise and fall of his breathing like proof of life.
They stayed that way. No words. No apologies. Just the sound of breathing slowly syncing—seven years finally shared instead of borne alone. If it were up to Archie, he would never loosen his grip. Not now. Not ever.
“Dad?”
Malachi’s voice was muffled against Archie's shirt.
Archie tightened his hold instead of loosening it, chin pressed into Malachi’s hair as though it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“The crossbow?”
