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“Don’t you ever get sick of it?” she bit out. “Always playing the hero. Always holding everyone else up like the whole damn world would fall apart without you. Newsflash—no one asked you to. And when you finally shatter, don’t go looking for someone to save you. You’ve been too busy bleeding out for everybody else to even notice you were the one dying.”

It hit like a damn lightning strike. No pity. No soft landing. Just the truth—raw and ruthless.

Right then, standing in the middle of that field, gutted by her words and leveled by who she was, I decided I'd never call her anything but Wildflower. Because she bloomed where she wasn’t supposed to. Because she was soft and sharp all at once. Because even fury looked beautiful on her.

But what hit me hardest was that she saw me—really saw me. Everyone else thought I was untouchable, the strong one. But she saw the weight I carried, how close I was to breaking. She didn’t try to fix me. She just let me know I wasn't fooling anyone.

That was when I knew—with her, I didn’t have to be strong all the time. Hell, I didn’t have to be anything. I could just be. Her soft snore beside me pulls me back to the present, grounding me in a way that only she can.

One look at her sleeping face and I decide to say fuck it all. I know this is going to piss her off, but she asked to stay with me and wish fucking granted.

I watch her breathe, feeling the weight of every year we’ve lost, every moment we’ve let slip by. But now, in this moment, I’m not going to let her slip away again. She asked to stay, and I’m done pretending I don’t want this. I tuck her into my bed, set a bottle of water and ibuprofen on the nightstand, and let myself finally breathe her in. Tomorrow will bring all the fire she has to offer, all that sass and heat. But tonight? It’s just us. And for the first time in years, that’s more than enough to make me burn for her all over again.

Too bad for me, she’ll stomp that fire right out when the hellion wakes.

Chapter Four

MAGIC ERASER ANYONE?

LOUISIANA

At first, I think I’m home.

The morning light is soft, golden—familiar. The kind that used to creep through the old lace curtains in my bedroom, back before everything cracked wide open. For one stupid, half-asleep second, I let myself believe I’ve woken up to the comfort of childhood.

Then I sit up.

And everything tilts sideways.

This damn sure isn’t my room.

But I know this place. The plain walls, the worn wood floors, the way the air always smells faintly like old soap and cinnamon. I used to sleep here, back when life didn’t give me much of a choice. When Daddy worked nights at the mill and Mama had already run off to wherever women like her disappear to.

I can still see her walking out the front door like we were nothing to her—not a single glance back, not a hint of regret. Like she’d never even bothered to remember we existed. I can still feel the hot sting of that, the way it punched me in the gut.

I grabbed Soph by the hand, her little face streaked with tears, and marched across the yard without a second thought. To the loud house with the three Wilder boys—always getting into trouble, always doing something they shouldn’t. I knocked on that door with my heart in my throat, forcing myself not to cry, clutching my sister’s hand like it was my lifeline. I wasn’t about to break down right there, not in front of anyone.

Then Magnolia Wilder opened the door.

The porch light buzzed above her, casting a soft, golden halo around her figure. She looked half-asleep, hair tousled, robe cinched tight at the waist, and bare feet peeking from worn slippers. But her eyes—warm, wide, and full of quiet understanding—were the only thing in that moment that didn’t feel like it was splintering me to pieces.

Only then did I let my self lose it.

The tears came fast, ugly, and loud, the kind that stole the breath right from my lungs. My knees gave out on the welcome mat as I stammered through telling her how our mother had just walked out. My voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, but every word sliced open something inside me.

Maggie didn’t ask questions. She just opened her arms.

She pulled us in without hesitation, wrapping us in the scent of lavender and warm laundry and sleep, like the whole world hadn’t just fallen apart. Her arms were firm, steady, pressing our trembling bodies against hers. I could feel her heartbeat thudding strong through her robe, the only steady sound in a night that had gone deafeningly still.

Inside, the house was dim. The only light came from the kitchen—a soft glow spilling down the hallway like a path—and there they were.

The Wilder boys.

Just standing there in the middle of the hall in their underwear, blinking blearily like they weren’t sure if they were dreaming. One had his hair sticking up in a wild halo, clutching a plastic toy sword like he might have to fight off whatever monster had come through the door. The other leaned against the wall, feet pigeon-toed, thumb stuck halfway to his mouth, watching us with wide, uncertain eyes.

They didn’t get it. How could they?

To them, we were just two little girls in pink pajamas, crying like the world had ended—and it had. Just not in a way they’d understand.