But I knew I was tired of hiding. I was tired of flinching every time Beverly got too close in front of them. I was tired of pretending she was just my sister when nothing about what I felt for her had ever been brotherly. I was tired of the guilt. The shame. The fear of being caught.

I wanted to be honest.

I wanted to be better—not the scared boy who had spent years keeping her at arm’s length, too afraid of what people would think, too afraid of how much I wanted her. And I wanted to respect Beverly enough to stop making her feel like a secret.

I glanced toward the passenger seat.

Beverly was quiet. Too quiet

She had been like that all day.

She had been patient with me all day. She hadn’t pushed, hadn’t teased, hadn’t tried to make this into another one of our games. She knew this was different.

She was waiting for me to say it—to stand in front of the people who raised us and speak this thing into existence, to make it real.

And I would. I was going to look my father in the eye and say, There’s something you should know. I love Beverly, and I’m not sorry for it.

And then I was going to wait.

For the anger. For the disgust. For the fallout.

I was going to stand there and take it, like a man.

Swallowing, I turned off the engine. I reached over, fingers brushing against Beverly’s wrist, squeezing lightly.

Her blue eyes flicked up to mine.

I forced a small, reassuring smile. “Ready?”

Beverly nodded, but she didn’t let go of my hand.

“Are you scared?”  she asked, her voice softer than usual.

“Yeah,” I admitted.

She exhaled, then gave my hand another squeeze. “Me too.”

“Then we’ll be scared together, B.”

I’d rather be scared next to her than brave without her.

She let out a small breath, almost a laugh, then nodded again.

And then, together, we walked inside.

The house smelled like dinner. Roast chicken, maybe—something warm and comforting. My hands were already shaking. I clenched them into fists, trying to steady myself.

We turned the corner into the kitchen and found them both sitting at the table. Mom, hands folded neatly in front of her, staring down at the tablecloth. Dad, rubbing his temples, exhaustion carved deep into his face.

A lump formed in my throat.

I cleared my throat. “Hey.”

Mom turned at the sound of my voice, offering a soft, tired smile. “Hey, sweetheart.”

I flexed my fingers at my sides, exhaling through my nose.

Now, Blake. Now was the time.

Before I could lose my nerve.

Before I could convince myself to run.

I opened my mouth, the words ready, the syllables perfectly arranged in my head, my pulse hammering in my throat⁠—