Tiffany reappeared with a box of cereal, a pack of cookies, and three different types of chips. Jamal snagged the biggest pillow and flopped dramatically onto the floor.

We stayed up too late. Tiffany painted everyone’s nails—yes, even Blake’s—and I changed into an old hoodie that Blake used to sleep in, pretending not to notice how his eyes lingered when I pulled it over my head. We were sprawled out in the living room, surrounded by snacks, blankets, and couch cushions, full of sugar, exhaustion, and the soft hum of forgiveness.

At some point in the night, Blake took my hand and held it as if he was promising something without words. I squeezed back and stared at him like I didn’t know how to stop.

I’d read the rest of the letters tomorrow.

Tonight, I just needed this. And for the first time in a long time, I fell asleep without a single ache in my chest.

* * *

I woke to the feeling of weightlessness.

Groggily, I blinked up and realized I was moving—floating, kind of. No, not floating. Being carried.

Blake’s arms were wrapped under me, one hooked around my back, the other beneath my knees. His face hovered above mine, attentive and soft, his mouth curved into a lazy smile. “Hey, B.”

I squinted up at him, still fuzzy with sleep. My head lolled slightly against his chest as he carried me through the hallway. “What are you doing?” I mumbled.

“Kidnapping you,” he whispered. “But gently.”

I made a weak sound of protest. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“You say that like it’s new information.”

I blinked a few times. “What are you doing…?”

“Carrying you to your royal chambers,” he said as if it was obvious. “You passed out with a Fruit Loop stuck to your cheek.”

“Rude,” I muttered, trying to sit up, but he tightened his hold.

“Don’t struggle. You’ll ruin the moment.”

“There’s no moment. You smell like nail polish remover.”

“Ouch,” he said, feigning hurt as he pushed the door open with his shoulder. “You dozed off during Tiff’s seventeen-step skincare sermon. I waited until she started arguing with Jamal about whether toothpaste counts as food before I made my escape.”

I frowned. “They’re still arguing?”

“Oh, they were,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. “But then Tiffany grabbed her bag and left in a fury. Something about ‘ungrateful men’ and ‘gendered expectations’. Jamal stormed after her like his life depended on it.”

I tried to chuckle but it came out as a groggy huff instead. “God, I missed them.”

“Same,” he admitted softly. “Missed you more, though.”

I didn’t reply.

I was too busy not falling apart again.