“I think some people don’t know how to explain it. So they say dumb stuff like Reese did,” I muttered, almost as an afterthought, my voice rougher than I intended.

“Explain what?”

“The feeling. The one that makes you want to argue with someone just so they’ll look at you, just so you can watch their eyes spark when they’re annoyed. The one that makes you want to pick up the phone at two in the morning because you know they’re awake, too. The one that makes you want to reach for their hand, just to see if it would fit the way you know it would. Just to see if they’d pull away. The one that makes you look at them, across a room, across a crowded street, across years of knowing them, and think, ‘There you are.’ The one that ruins every other person for you. The one that makes you sit in the dark, trying to come up with reasons why you shouldn’t care…and none of them stick.”

The bathroom was silent.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Beverly wasn’t looking at me anymore, but I saw the way her throat worked, the way her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something but didn’t trust herself to speak.

A single drop of condensation trailed down her collarbone, disappearing beneath the thin strap of her white bra. I couldn’t stop myself from watching it, even as I tried to focus elsewhere.

I rubbed a hand over my face, dragging in a slow breath. Then my gaze drifted down, locking on her hand as it continued tracing lazy, impossible-to-read patterns across the surface of the water.

“You’re writing something,” I murmured.

Her lips curved slightly. “Maybe.”

“What is it?”

She hesitated for a moment. “Our names.”

Something cracked open inside me.

She didn’t look at me when she said it.

She didn’t acknowledge the weight of it.

But I felt it in my ribs—a dull ache that stretched deeper than the bruises, settling in the hollow space between my lungs and my heart. It lingered in every stupid, reckless part of me that had been screaming for months.

Beverly must have realized how that sounded, because she let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” I said immediately.

She blinked at me, her expression softening.

I wanted to grab her wrist, shake her, and make her believe me. It’s not stupid. You’re not stupid. If you’re stupid, then so am I.

For a moment, she just stared at me. I could see the questions forming behind her eyes, could practically hear the words she wanted to say. But she didn’t say them. Instead, she exhaled slowly and reached for a washcloth, soaking it in warm water before pressing it against my ribs.