I let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if I had any left in me. “A bat and a TV?”

She nodded, throwing a glance at Jamal. “Back me up here.”

Jamal blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uncle Reggie has a bat. It’s yours if you want it.” His gaze flickered to my hands. “But only if you promise not to do any more damage to yourself.”

I stared at them both, trying to decipher the look in their eyes. It wasn’t pity, but something close. Care? Concern? Maybe just a desperate attempt to keep me from unraveling any further.

Tiffany nudged my knee with hers. “So, deal?”

I looked down at my bandaged knuckles, flexing my fingers just enough to feel the dull throb underneath. The anger still simmered under my skin, but now it felt a little less sharp, a little less unbearable. “Fine,” I mumbled. “Deal.”

Her lips curved into a small, relieved smile. “Good.”

Jamal clapped his hands together. “Uncle Reggie’s bat it is.”

A long pause stretched between us, thick but not suffocating. Tiffany wiped at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. “So, uh…do you wanna go get pancakes or something?”

I blinked at her. “Pancakes?”

“Yeah,” she said, clearing her throat. “You know. Something to put in your stomach. Syrupy, fluffy, carb-loaded goodness. Might not fix everything, but it won’t make anything worse.”

Jamal nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I could definitely eat. Honestly, I’m starving.”

I hesitated. My chest still felt heavy. But pancakes felt…doable. Manageable. Like something I could say yes to without feeling like I was toppling over the edge. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Pancakes.”

Her smile softened. “Good.” She squeezed my arm lightly. “We’ll make a whole thing out of it. A sleepover. We’ll eat, watch bad movies, and figure out what you’re gonna do next.”

“Yeah, nothing like bad carbs and bad TV to fix everything,” Jamal said, giving me a small, teasing smirk. “You’ll feel better once we stuff you full of pancakes. It’s science.”

I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat. “Science, huh?”

He grinned. “Trust me. It’s foolproof.”

For a moment, I almost believed him.

But then the ache hit again, sharp and unforgiving.

I wished, so desperately, that Blake was here. He’d launch into one of his signature, long-winded explanations about how food affects neurotransmitters, how carbs spike insulin, and how serotonin and dopamine play into mood regulation. He’d have thrown in a couple of studies, citing researchers I’d never heard of but that he swore by.

But Blake wasn’t here.

And for the first time since everything happened, I let myself acknowledge that simple, gut-wrenching fact. He wasn’t here to argue, to lecture, to act like he had all the answers.