There were other things, too—small gestures of care that weren’t loud or obvious but still managed to make themselves felt. Like how he never let me walk on the side of the sidewalk closest to the road. If a car sped past too fast, he’d subtly move so I was on the safer side. Or how he always left the last slice of pizza for me, even when I could see the hunger in his eyes. Or the time at the grocery store when I stretched on my toes, reaching for something on the top shelf. Before I could grab it, Blake was already there, plucking it and handing it to me without looking up from the floor. Then there was the time I got sick. It wasn’t anything serious, just a migraine that left me stuck in bed for two days. I barely remember most of it, just the dull ache behind my eyes and the weight of the blankets over me. But I do remember waking up once to find Blake sitting at the edge of my bed, flipping through a book, looking suspiciously like he had been there for a while.

Groggily, I blinked up at him. “What are you doing?”

Without looking up, he answered, “We’re alone.”

That was it. No explanation, no elaboration.

Like that was supposed to answer all my questions.

I frowned, trying to make sense of the situation. “You’ve just…been sitting here?”

A pause. Then a small, almost guilty nod.

I might’ve still been half-asleep, but I understood. We’re alone. Translation: Mom and Dad are at work. I’m staying to check on you.

“Oh,” I murmured as the meaning hit me, my eyelids already drooping again. “Thanks, Blake,” I whispered, smiling softly as sleep slowly claimed me again.

Right before I drifted off, I heard him mutter, “Don’t die.”

Which, for Blake, was practically a love confession.

One afternoon, I was sprawled out on a blanket in the backyard, a Vogue magazine open in my lap, the pages glossy beneath the sunlight. I’d spent the last twenty minutes flipping through the pages, making mental notes of all the Tommy Hilfiger and Calvin Klein ads, imagining how I’d look in one of those crop tops and denim jackets.

Beside me, Tiffany was carefully painting her toenails a pastel pink—the exact shade she swore was the color of the season. I had no reason to doubt her; Tiffany had an encyclopedic knowledge of fashion trends and a personal vendetta against anyone who wore last year’s colors. Her Steve Madden platform sandals sat discarded in the grass next to her, looking like tiny skyscrapers.

Blake, meanwhile, was exactly where Blake always was—leaning against the old oak tree, knees pulled to his chest, a book balanced against them.