His fingertips dig into my arm, body shuddering with a deep breath, before he says, “He died because of me. Because I wasn’t there. Because he needed me, and I left him alone.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but I clench my jaw, knowing he doesn’t need my opinion on his pain. He just needs to let it out, slowly and safely.
Kade told me to lay my broken pieces at his feet, promised me he could carry them. And maybe he’s right, but I can be that for him, too. Iwantto be that for him.
I don’t know what it means, but right now, I can’t bring myself to care.
So I simply whisper, “Tell me your story, Kade Archer. I can carry your pieces, too.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy with the weight of everything he’s never said out loud. Of guilt buried so deep it’s woven into the way hebreathes.
But slowly, his grip softens. His shoulders ease, just slightly, as if the act of being seen,truly seen, has loosened a thread inside him.
Outside, the sun sets, and warm, golden rays wrap around us like a blanket, broken only by the quiet ache between heartbeats.
And when he finally starts talking, finally lays down what he’s kept inside, I don’t rush him. Don’t fill the space with soft reassurances or hollow promises. I just listen and hold him, my grip never waning.
Because sometimes, healing doesn’t begin with fixing.
Sometimes, it begins with someone staying long enough to witness the break.
Kade tells me all about the house he built with his dad. About enlisting in the army and how his family, especially William, hated his choice to go. He tells me about meeting Griffin and Wilder, the guys who came all the way to Heart Springs to help him get ready for Aurora, no questions asked.
The words slow, becoming more fractured the longer he talks, the closer he gets to the part where I know William dies.
And when he finally tells me about the biggest hurt of all—the ache he carries deep inside his soul, I pepper his back in kisses that I immediately pretend don’t rewrite my DNA.
I told myself I could do this. That I could just be here for him. A friend, like he was for me. But the second his voice breaks and he softens in my arms like the weight of his pain finally found a place to land,I know.
Every wall I built to protect myself doesn’t just crack—they crumble.
Because there’s no coming back from this. No safe distance left to stand.
Not when he’s giving me pieces of himself like they’re sacred, and all I want to do is hold them like they’remine.
When he finally stops talking and darkness bleeds into the room, only lit up by the two nightlights I got for Aurora, I loosen my hold, but he clutches onto me like I’m the only thing keeping him standing.
“Don’t,” he rasps, voice thick. “Don’t wanna see the look in your eyes yet.”
“What look?” I breathe, blinking back more tears.
“Look that says you see me differently now.”
I could lie, could promise nothing’s changed, but that would be a different kind of cruelty. Because something has changed. Not the way he thinks, though. Not in fear or pity. But in the quiet, terrifying way that feels a lot likefalling.
I rest my forehead against his shoulder, heart thudding so loud I’m sure he can feel it.
“You’re not the only one who’s been carrying something,” I whisper. “Not the only one who’s been afraid of what the truth might sound like out loud.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t press or prod. Just listens.
And maybe it’s the way his body molds to mine so perfectly, or the way he lifts my hand to press a soft kiss to my palm, and then the other—but something inside me breaks open with it.
“I killed my mom.”
Kade goes completely still. Doesn’t turn around, but his grip on my arms tightens like he’s trying to anchor me to him, or maybe the other way around.
“What?” he whispers, as if saying it too loud might break the bubble we’ve built around us. This moment, this pause, feels like a fragile truce. A sacred, shaky kind of peace I’m desperate for. “What are you talkin’ about, darlin’?”
