We're this weird snapshot of tension, while every breath I’m trying to take is catching in my throat. Close enough to feel her heat, to count the way her chest rises and falls.

I drop to retrieve her phone, and fuck me. Being on my knees for her changes everything. The angle. The vulnerability. All I can think is how easy it would be to press her against the wall and taste the mix of sweat and desperation on her skin. She's beautiful like this, raw and unguarded. Strength coiled tight beneath her surface.

After getting her fresh towels, we part ways, but my mind keeps circling back to one thought:

What would Nora say if she knew everything?

Would she still look at me the same way? Still trust me?

Still let me be someone she feels safe enough to turn to?

I don't know. I'm not sure I want to find out.

The sunroom smells of dust and forgotten things, morning light filtering through cracked blinds to illuminate years of careful avoidance. I roll up my sleeves, surveying the cluttered space. Boxes crowd every corner, each one filled with memories we tried to bury. I want to give Nora somewhere quiet to write, and this room—this shadowed corner we've long abandoned—feels destined for transformation.

My muscles protest as I start clearing boxes, exhaustion gnawing at my bones, but I welcome the distraction. This is for her. That thought alone keeps me moving.

Something catches my eye as I shift a heavy box—photo frames, hastily packed away like someone couldn't bear to look at them anymore. I pull one out, wiping away years of dust with my thumb. There we are—me, Jake, Mom, and... him. Dad. We're smiling: the perfect Sullivan family portrait.

What a fucking joke.

Every smile was a performance, every pose carefully arranged to maintain the illusion. The cracks were already there, spreading beneath the surface like spider webs, but we painted over them again and again. Broken glass held together with cheap glue and cheaper lies.

My hands shake as I stare at my father's face, his proud grin making my stomach turn. The frame slips, shattering against hardwood in a spray of glass and splintered wood. I stare at the pieces, breathing hard. The metaphor isn't lost on me—cracks everywhere, in the glass, in my family, in me. No matter how hard we try to piece things back together, the breaks are always visible.

After hours of work, the room looks different.

Still rough, but with potential. I decide to take a break and head toward the kitchen.

The note on the fridge is in Mom's neat script:

Went out with the girls for the morning.

I down a glass of orange juice, letting the cold calm the heat in my chest. A few weeks ago, this would've been mostly vodka. Progress, I guess.