“You were grieving,” he said gently. “So was I.”

I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, my fingers trembling as I reached up to touch his face. “I hurt you,” I strangled out, the weight of my guilt crushing me. “I never meant to hurt you…”

His eyes glistened, a sheen of unshed tears threatening to spill over. We stayed like that for a while. Holding on to each other. Surrounded by ink and paper and all the time we’d lost.

Eventually, Tiffany’s voice called carefully, “Are we allowed back in, or are we still mid-meltdown?”

Blake didn’t let go of me. “You can come in,” he called back, brushing his fingers through my hair.

Jamal appeared first, peeking around the corner with exaggerated caution. “No one’s bleeding, right? Because I really don’t want to deal with any hospital runs today.”

Blake let out a shaky laugh and set me gently on the couch, keeping an arm around me. I wiped my face on the sleeve of his shirt, avoiding everyone’s eyes for a second.

“Shut up,” Tiffany said, smacking Jamal’s arm before her gaze landed on me. Her expression softened instantly. “Oh, Bev…”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the letters?” I demanded.

Her face was a mix of regret and sadness.

She crossed the room and plopped down on my other side. “I… I don’t know. I was just trying to protect you,” she finally said. “But I think I got it wrong. I’m sorry.”

I sniffled, wiping my nose on Blake’s sleeve again.

Tiffany looked like she wanted to cry too. Her hand found mine, squeezing it lightly. “I shouldn’t have kept them from you. You can hit me later if you want. I’ll even stand still.”

My lips twitched. “You say that like you think I won’t.”

Blake chuckled softly beside me, his arm tightening around my shoulders, pulling me a little closer.

Tiffany’s lips curved into a small, guilty smile. “Fair enough.” She leaned over to Blake, her voice dropping to a mock whisper. “She’s going to stay up all night reading every single one of them, you know.”

Blake huffed out a quiet laugh. “She absolutely is.”

Before I could argue—not that they were wrong—Jamal cleared his throat and unfolded a letter. Then, in an exaggerated, overly dramatic voice, he read, “P.S.,”—another throat clear—“I miss how you used to mock my fashion choices, yet somehow always ended up wearing my clothes. I still wear that hoodie you couldn’t stand just to feel your judgment from a distance.”

A surprised laugh slipped past my lips before I could stop it.

He glanced up with a smirk, enjoying himself way too much.

Tiffany hummed thoughtfully, leaning back on her hands. “Speaking of questionable fashion choices,” she said, turning to Blake, “you’ve never quite mastered the art of matching colors.”