That word—son—coming from his mouth feels like warmth spreading through my ice-cold heart. So different from when Scott uses it like a weapon.

"Yeah, I'll be okay. I'm not really sure why I called. I'm sorr⁠⁠—"

"Never apologize for calling me. I mean that. Okay?"

"Okay."

A few seconds of silence passes, heavy with everything unsaid.

"You know, you've always been more than what you think you are, Nate. You've always been special. I know parents say that all the time, but I mean it, kid. You have something inside of you just waiting to be discovered."

The tears come before I can stop them, hot and relentless. I swipe at my face, hating myself for breaking down, but I can't hold it together anymore. David gives me space, waiting until the worst of it passes before speaking again.

"You've got so much life ahead of you, Nate. Just remember that."

I close my eyes, letting that sink in, trying to believe it could be true. For a moment, I let myself imagine a different life. One where someone like David wasn't the exception. Where love didn't come with conditions, and I didn't have to wonder if I'd ever be enough.

"Thanks, Dave."

"Anytime, kid. You take care of yourself, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be seeing you, Nate."

The call ends, but his words echo in my mind, a lifeline in the sterile darkness of the hospital room.

I spend two more days in hospital until they finally release me. School's not an option right now because my face looks so fucken swollen still. I can't use my hand and this concussion is still lingering. So instead I'm sprawled on the couch, an ice pack numbing my wrist and a pillow propped behind my aching head. Mom hovers, asking every five minutes if I need anything, each question dripping with the kind of guilt that makes my teeth ache.

I finally wave her off, telling her she can go if she has things to do. She doesn't argue, but the guilt lingers in her eyes as she leaves.

Scott flew out to Minnesota this morning. No warning, no timeline—just gone. It should feel like a reprieve, but instead, it feels like a countdown. A ticking clock measuring the moments until the next explosion. At least the house is quiet. It gives me time to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do next with my life, assuming I can piece together enough of myself to build some kind of future.

A knock at the door shatters the silence. The sound jolts through me, and I wince as pain flares in my wrist. My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton thanks to the concussion, making every step toward the door a battle against vertigo.

When I pull it open, I freeze.

David.