"I'm not going anywhere," I tell her. It's not a promise. It's a fact. Gravity doesn't ask permission, and neither do I.

I tap the bed. "Lay down."

She hesitates—classic Nora. Always overthinking, always calculating the risk. But she comes, curling up on her side, facing me. Her eyes are these heavy, exhausted things, like she's carrying worlds I can't see.

I watch her breathe. In, out. In, out. Counting like it's the only thing keeping her together. Time becomes this weird, liquid thing. Just her breath. Just us.

She inches closer. Her hand—fuck—her hand brushes mine, and something inside me breaks and reforms all at once.

I shift, pull her into me. She melts against my chest like she was carved to fit exactly here. It's dangerous. We're a minefield, her and me. One wrong move and we'll detonate everything we've barely held together.

But right now? I don't give a shit about consequences.

Right now, I let myself be exactly what she needs—even if it's killing me from the inside out.

I stay until her breathing evens out, until the tears dry on her cheeks and her grip on my shirt loosens. Only then do I carefully extract myself from her grasp, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. She stirs slightly, mumbling something unintelligible before burrowing deeper into her pillow. I watch her for a moment longer, memorizing the peaceful look that's finally replaced the pain on her face.

With a deep breath, I slip out of her room, easing the door closed with barely a sound. The weight of everything—Jesus, it's crushing. Like carrying a fucking universe of shit I can't begin to unpack. You’d think I’d be used to that feeling by now.

Mom is in the lounge, those all-seeing eyes locked on me the second I hit the bottom of the stairs.

"Nate?" Her voice is all soft concern. "Is Nora okay? Jake said she wasn't feeling well."

"She's okay," I throw out, shrugging like it's nothing. The lie tastes like ash in my mouth. "Just exhausted."

She gives me that look. The one that sees straight through everything. "You know, you've always been the only one she lets in."

I lean against the doorframe, wood cool against my shoulder. Feels like the only steady thing in this moment. My entire body is a live wire of fucked-up emotions.

"Yeah, but things have changed." The words come out rough.

Her smile does something dangerous—soft, knowing. "If two people can't stay away from each other, maybe they're not meant to be apart."

Maternal wisdom.

Always hitting exactly where it hurts most.

"Maybe you both need to stop running."

The words sink into me like stones, creating ripples I'm not ready to face. The hardwood blurs as I try to breathe, to hold myself together.

"I've watched you love that girl all your life," she continues. "Maybe you should give her a chance to love you too.”