The front door clicked shut behind them, and the kitchen’s yellow light hit Riley like a stage spotlight. He blinked, his hand still wrapped around Inde’s, her fingers cold and steady against his palm. The smell hit him next—burnt butter and old coffee, layered now with the greasy warmth of pizza cardboard. The group had gathered at the counter, the table, the edge of the worn linoleum. And they were all looking at Jessica.

Jessica leaned against the laminate counter, her arms loose at her sides, her chin-length bob tucked behind one ear. Her smile was there—Riley saw it—but it wasn’t the full thing. It was held in reserve, the corners of her mouth curved like she was waiting for someone else to decide how the scene should read. Her dark eyes flicked from him to Inde and back, and the smile didn’t waver, but it didn’t reach further either.

Then the weight shifted. One by one, the others turned. Natalie was first, her armchair creaking under her as she straightened. Her arms were already crossed, her foot tapping a slow, deliberate beat against the floor. Jasmine, perched on the arm of the sofa, let her bright grin dim to something more watchful. Ella, tucked into the corner of the couch, looked up from her shoes, her ice-blue eyes wide and uncertain.

And then all of them were looking at him.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was packed—with the pizza box sweating grease onto the counter, with the hum of the refrigerator compressor, with the soft tick of the wall clock above the stove. The room felt smaller than it had an hour ago. The bare bulb above the table cast long shadows across the group’s faces, carving hollows under Jasmine’s cheekbones, making Natalie’s tight jaw look sharper.

Riley’s hand tightened around Inde’s. The sticky laminate of the counter was visible from here, a patch near Jessica’s elbow where an old spill had left a tacky film. He could feel the heat of his own face, the tightness in his throat. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words were buried somewhere under the weight of five pairs of eyes.

Inde’s thumb brushed across his knuckles. A small movement, barely a pressure. But he felt it, a quiet anchor in the middle of the rising tide. Her shoulder brushed his arm, warm through the fabric of her jacket, and he let himself lean into the contact just slightly.

Jasmine cleared her throat. The sound was soft, almost apologetic, but it cut through the quiet like a crack. Riley’s gaze snapped to her. She was looking at Jessica too, her mouth pressed into a thin line, her high puff bouncing as she tilted her head.

“Pizza’s here,” Jasmine said. Her voice was lighter than the room deserved, a forced brightness that didn’t quite cover the edge underneath. “Pepperoni and extra cheese. Like you like it, Tall.”

Riley managed a nod. His tongue felt thick, useless. He could feel the corner of the pizza box against the back of his mind, a mundane detail that didn’t belong in the same room as the thing pressing against his ribs.

No one moved to open it.

Natalie’s foot kept tapping. Her eyes were fixed on him now, and there was something in them—not anger, not accusation, but a kind of careful waiting. Like she was watching to see if he’d trip on the line he’d drawn.

Ella drew her knees up on the couch, wrapping her arms around them. Her ponytail had come loose, pale strands falling across her face. She wasn’t looking at anyone now, just at the floor, her shoulders curved inward like she wanted to disappear into the cushions.

Jessica pushed off the counter. The movement was slow, deliberate, her hand trailing along the laminate as she straightened. Her smile flickered—a brief, fragile thing—then settled back into that guarded curve. She took a step toward the pizza box, then stopped, her hand hovering over the cardboard.

“You two okay?” she asked. The question was soft, directed at the space between Riley and Inde, and it landed like a stone in still water.

The ripples spread through the room. Natalie’s foot stopped. Jasmine’s forced brightness dimmed further. Ella’s head came up, her eyes finding Riley’s for a moment before dropping again.

Riley opened his mouth. He could feel the shape of the word—yes—sitting on his tongue, ready to be spoken. But it wouldn’t come. His throat had closed around it, the simple syllable too heavy to lift past the weight of everything else.

Inde’s shoulder pressed against his, firmer now. Her voice came from beside him, low and steady. “We’re figuring it out.”

Jessica’s gaze shifted to Inde. The smile softened, just a fraction. “Good.” She pulled the pizza box open, the cardboard flaps folding back with a crackle. The smell of pepperoni and melted cheese filled the kitchen, cutting through the burnt butter and old coffee. “Eat. You two must be hungry.”

No one moved.

The pizza sat open, steam curling up into the yellow light. Riley’s stomach was a knot. He couldn’t imagine putting anything in it. But Inde’s hand was still in his, and the silence had shifted—still heavy, still waiting, but now with a thin layer of something like normalcy spread over the top.

Natalie uncrossed her arms. She didn’t speak, but she picked up a paper plate from the stack on the counter and held it out. Not to anyone in particular—just an offering, a small gesture that said the evening was still happening.

Jasmine took it. Her smile came back, a little less guarded this time. “Thanks, Nat.” She grabbed a slice, the cheese stretching in a long string before snapping. She took a bite, chewed, and the room exhaled.

Ella eased off the couch, her bare feet padding across the linoleum. She took a plate, then a slice, and retreated back to her corner without a word. Her shoulders were still tight, but she was eating. That counted for something.

Jessica reached for a slice too, but she didn’t eat it. She held the plate, the slice untouched, her eyes on Riley again. There was no accusation in them. Just a quiet patience, like she was giving him room to find his own words.

Riley felt the weight of that patience. It was worse than anger. Anger he could brace against. This—this was a door left open, and he didn’t know how to walk through it without breaking the frame.

Inde’s fingers interlaced more tightly with his. She tugged gently, a pull that drew him a step closer to the counter. “Come on,” she said. “Eat.”

He let her guide him. His legs felt wooden, uncoordinated. He reached for a plate, his hand brushing the edge of the stack, and the contact with the rough cardboard was grounding. He took a slice. The cheese had cooled slightly, the pepperoni leaving a thin sheen of grease on his fingertips.

No one spoke.

They ate in the yellow light, the only sounds the crackle of cardboard and the occasional scrape of a plate. The clock ticked above the stove. The refrigerator hummed. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it was no longer suffocating.

Riley chewed without tasting. He could feel Inde beside him, the warmth of her arm against his, the solid fact of her presence. He could feel the others too—each one a separate thread in the knot in his chest. He wanted to say something that would untangle it. He wanted to find the right words, the ones that would make everyone understand.

But the words didn’t come. They stayed buried, and the silence stretched, and the room waited.

He looked at Jessica. Her slice was still untouched on the plate, her dark eyes fixed on the steam rising from the pizza box. She looked smaller than she had an hour ago, her usual dramatic presence folded into something more human. He wanted to reach out to her, to say something that would make the guarded softness in her smile relax into something real.

He opened his mouth.

No sound came out.

The silence stretched, unbroken, as the group’s eyes bore into him. The yellow light, the sticky laminate, the smell of burnt butter and cooling pizza—all of it pressed against him, and he stood there, mouth open, nothing to fill the space.

The silence pressed against his eardrums. He could hear his own pulse, a dull thrumming at the base of his throat, and beneath it the faint buzz of the refrigerator compressor cycling on. The yellow light made everyone look slightly jaundiced, their faces carved into masks of waiting.

Riley's hand was sweating. He could feel the moisture gathering between his palm and Inde's, the slight tackiness of their skin sticking and releasing with the tiniest movements. He didn't let go. He couldn't. She was the only thing keeping him upright.

Inde's thumb pressed harder against his knuckle, a deliberate pressure that said I'm here. He turned his head just enough to catch her profile—the line of her jaw, the dark fall of her ponytail, her eyes fixed on the group. She wasn't looking at him. She was watching them, reading the room, and he felt a stab of gratitude so sharp it almost hurt.

Natalie's foot started tapping again. The sound was soft against the linoleum, a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that matched the ticking of the clock. She was still watching him, her arms recrossed, her jaw tight. The freckles across her nose stood out dark against her skin in the harsh light.

Jasmine took another bite of her pizza. The crunch of the crust was obscenely loud in the quiet, and she froze mid-chew, her cheeks bulging slightly, her dark eyes darting around the room like she'd committed a social crime. She swallowed with an audible gulp, then set the slice down on her plate, her fingers leaving greasy prints on the paper.

Jessica's smile faltered. It was barely a flicker—a softening at the corners of her mouth, a brief drop before she pulled it back into place. But Riley saw it. He saw the way her hand tightened on the edge of the counter, the way her chin-length bob swayed as she tilted her head, studying him with those dark, unreadable eyes.

The clock above the stove ticked. Once. Twice. Three times. Riley counted them, the seconds stretching into an eternity. Four. Five. He could feel the shape of each tick in his chest, a small hammer striking the same spot over and over.

He tried to swallow. His throat was dry, his tongue thick and useless. The pizza slice in his hand had grown cold, the cheese congealing into a waxy film, the pepperoni leaving a slick of grease on the paper plate. He hadn't taken a single bite.

Ella shifted on the couch, the fabric rustling. She had curled into herself even more, her knees drawn up to her chest, her bare feet tucked under her thighs. Her ice-blue eyes were fixed on the pizza box, unblinking, her fork—she'd taken one from the drawer—hovering over her slice without touching it.

Riley's gaze dropped to his own plate. The grease had soaked through the paper in a dark ring, spreading outward like a map of something he couldn't name. He watched it grow, the edges blurring, and felt the silence press harder.

A floorboard creaked. Someone shifted weight—Jasmine, maybe, or Natalie. The sound was sharp and immediate, and Riley's head snapped up, his eyes scanning the room for the source. No one had moved. They were all still watching him, their faces frozen in various states of patience.

Inde's shoulder pressed against his, a firmer pressure now. He felt her breath hitch, a tiny intake of air that barely registered. Then she exhaled, slow and controlled, and the heat of her body seeped through the fabric of his shirt, grounding him in the small space between them.

He looked at the ceiling. The yellow lightbulb was bare, a single filament glowing inside a dusty glass globe. A flyspeck clung to the shade, a dark spot against the yellowed plastic. He stared at it, letting his vision blur, letting the room fade into a haze of color and shadow.

Someone cleared their throat. It was a soft, deliberate sound, not a cough—more like a signal. Riley's eyes dropped from the ceiling. Natalie was leaning forward now, her elbows on her knees, her hands clasped in front of her. Her foot had stopped tapping. Her gaze was steady, expectant, and he felt the weight of it settle into his chest like a stone.

He opened his mouth again. His lips parted, his tongue lifted, his throat tensed. The word was there—somewhere—a vague shape at the back of his mind. But it wouldn't form. It wouldn't come. His breath hitched, a dry rasp, and the silence closed back in, thicker than before, filling the space where his voice should have been.

Inde's hand tightened around his. Not a squeeze—a statement. Her fingers laced deeper between his, the pressure deliberate, and he felt her shift her weight, turning to face the room fully. The movement drew every eye in the kitchen. The yellow light caught the line of her jaw, the dark fall of her ponytail, the set of her shoulders. She looked solid. Unmoveable.

"I'll say it, then." Her voice was low, but it carried. It cut through the tick of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator, through the crackle of the pizza box and the soft rustle of Ella's sleeves against the couch cushions. "Since he can't."

Riley's throat tightened further. He wanted to stop her, to find the words himself, to prove he could be the one who spoke. But his tongue was still a dead weight, and Inde's hand was still wrapped around his, and the silence that followed her words was waiting, hungry, expectant.

Natalie's arms loosened. Not uncrossed, but the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. Her foot had stopped tapping. She was watching Inde now, her freckled face unreadable, her dark eyes steady.

Inde took a breath. Riley felt it in the rise of her shoulder against his arm, the small expansion of her ribs. "Here's the thing." She paused. The pause was deliberate—not hesitation, but gathering. "Riley loves you all. He told you that. He meant it."

Jessica's hand tightened on the counter edge. Her slice of pizza sat cold on the paper plate, untouched, the cheese congealed into a pale film. She didn't look at Inde. She looked at Riley—her dark eyes searching, her chin-length bob swaying as she tilted her head.

Riley wanted to say something. Anything. He wanted to tell her that he meant it, that he loved her, that he loved all of them, that the confession on the porch hadn't been a lie or a deflection. But the words were still buried, and Inde's voice filled the space they left.

"We're figuring it out," Inde continued. "Me and him. What we are. What we could be. But that doesn't mean he stops being yours."

Jasmine set down her pizza slice. The paper plate wobbled on the counter, and she steadied it with one hand, her high puff bouncing as she turned her head to face Inde fully. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Inde's jaw tightened. It was a small movement, barely visible, but Riley felt it in the shift of her body against his. "It means I'm not asking him to choose." Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—a roughness, a weight. "I'm not asking him to pick one of us and leave the rest behind. That's not who he is."

The words landed like stones dropped into deep water. Riley felt each one strike the surface, felt the ripples spread through the room. Natalie's arms finally uncrossed. Ella's head came up from her knees, her ice-blue eyes wide and uncertain. Jessica's hand relaxed on the counter, the white-knuckled grip easing into something softer.

Riley's chest ached. The feeling was physical, a pressure behind his ribs, and he realized he was holding his breath. He let it out, a slow, controlled exhale, and Inde's thumb brushed across his knuckles in response.

"So here's my proposal," Inde said. Her voice had shifted—still steady, but with an edge now, something close to vulnerability. "We take turns. We each get time with him. Real time. Not game nights, not group hangouts. One-on-one. If it works, it works. If it doesn't—" She paused. Her shoulder pressed harder against his. "If it doesn't, we figure that out too. But we don't let it break the group."

The silence that followed was different. It wasn't the heavy, suffocating quiet of before—it was a thinking silence, a weighing silence. Jasmine's dark eyes were scanning Inde's face, searching for something. Natalie had tilted her head, her freckled nose scrunching slightly, processing. Ella had pulled her knees tighter to her chest, but her eyes were no longer on the floor—they were on Inde, on Riley, moving between them.

Jessica was the first to speak. Her voice was soft, almost fragile, but it held. "You'd really do that? Share him?"

Inde met her gaze. The kitchen light carved shadows under her cheekbones, and for a moment, her composure cracked—just a hairline fracture, visible only in the slight tremor of her lower lip before she steadied it. "I don't want to lose him," she said. "And I don't want to lose you either. Any of you."

The clock ticked. Once. Twice. Three times.

Riley's throat burned. The pressure behind his ribs was building, swelling, pressing against the walls of his chest. He could feel it climbing up his throat, filling the hollow of his neck, gathering behind his eyes. He blinked, and the yellow light blurred, the edges of the room smearing into a watery haze.

Inde's hand tightened again. She felt it—felt the tremor in his fingers, the sudden tension in his arm. She turned her head, her dark eyes finding his, and what she saw made her breath catch.

The first tear fell. It slid down his cheek, slow and hot, and he couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop any of it. The pressure broke, a crack in a dam, and the tears came in a rush—silent, overwhelming, streaming down his face as his shoulders began to shake.

He didn't make a sound. That was the worst part. His mouth was open, his throat working, but no sound came out—just the silent, helpless spill of tears, the tremor in his jaw, the way his whole body seemed to crumple inward, folding into itself like he was trying to disappear.

Inde moved without thinking. Her hand released his, and then her arms were around him, pulling him into her chest, her chin hooking over his shoulder. She held him, her fingers spreading across his back, her breath warm against his neck.

"It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay."

But it wasn't, and they both knew it. Riley's hands came up, fisting in the fabric of her jacket, and he pressed his face into the curve of her shoulder, his body shaking with sobs he couldn't voice. The silence of his crying was worse than any sound—the room watched, frozen, as the gentle giant who never asked for anything fell apart in the arms of a girl who refused to let him go.

Natalie's hand went to her mouth. Jasmine's bright smile had faded into something raw, her dark eyes glistening in the yellow light. Ella had unfolded from the couch, her bare feet on the floor, her hands clutching the edge of the cushion like she didn't know what to do with them.

Jessica was the last to move. She stepped away from the counter, her plate of cold pizza forgotten, and crossed the small space between them. She didn't touch him—not yet. She stood at his side, her hand hovering near his shoulder, her face a mask of barely contained emotion.

Riley felt her presence. He felt all of them—the weight of their eyes, the heat of their bodies, the silence that was no longer empty but filled with something fragile and precious. He wanted to speak. He wanted to tell them he was sorry, that he didn't mean to fall apart, that he was supposed to be the one who held them together.

But he couldn't. The words were still buried, and the tears kept coming, and Inde's arms were the only thing keeping him upright.

He felt a hand land on his back. Light, tentative. Jessica's fingers pressed against his spine, a small pressure through the fabric of his shirt. Then another hand—Natalie, her touch firmer, more grounding. Then Jasmine, her palm warm between his shoulder blades. Then Ella, her fingers brushing his arm before pulling back, hesitant, unsure.

They surrounded him. A circle of hands, of bodies, of silence that was finally, finally not waiting for something. The yellow light fell on all of them, and the clock ticked above the stove, and the pizza grew cold on the counter.

Riley cried until he had nothing left. His shoulders stopped shaking. His breathing slowed, ragged and wet, his face still pressed into Inde's jacket. She held him through all of it, her hand moving in slow circles on his back, her heartbeat steady against his cheek.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks streaked with tears and salt. He looked at the group—at the hands still resting on his back, at the faces watching him with something that wasn't pity. It was care. It was patience. It was the same love he'd always felt from them, only now it was visible, tangible, pressed against his skin in the form of five pairs of hands.

He opened his mouth. His throat was raw, his voice a rasp. "I..."

The word was barely a whisper. But it was there. It was out.

Jessica's smile—the real one, the full thing, the one she'd been holding back all night—broke through. She reached up, her fingers brushing the tear tracks from his cheek, and the gesture was so gentle it made his chest ache all over again.

"Take your time," she said. "We're not going anywhere."

Riley looked at Inde. Her dark eyes were bright, glistening with unshed tears she refused to let fall. She didn't smile. She just held his gaze, steady and sure, and nodded once.

He turned back to the group. The hands were still on him, grounding him, keeping him tethered to the small, yellow-lit kitchen that smelled like burnt butter and old coffee and cooling pizza. He took a breath. Then another. The words were still buried, but they were closer now—he could feel their shape, their edges, the beginning of something that might become a sentence.

"I love you," he said. His voice cracked, the syllables rough and broken. "All of you. I don't—I don't know how to be—" He stopped, his breath hitching. "I don't know how to be the one who gets to have this."

Natalie pressed her hand harder against his back. "You don't have to know how," she said. "You just have to let us show you."

The tears threatened again, but they were different now—lighter, less desperate. Riley blinked them back, and Inde's hand found his again, her fingers interlacing with his, warm and solid and real.

Jasmine picked up her pizza slice. It had gone cold, the cheese stiff and rubbery, but she took a bite anyway, chewing with deliberate casualness. "So, this turn-taking thing," she said, her voice lighter than the room deserved. "I'm assuming I get first dibs."

The laugh that escaped Natalie was startled and sharp, a bark of surprise that cut through the lingering heaviness. Ella's shoulders relaxed, a small smile tugging at her lips. Jessica rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too—the full smile, the real one, the one that reached her dark eyes and made them shine.

"Absolutely not," Jessica said. "I've been waiting two years. I'm first."

"You had your chance on the porch," Jasmine shot back. "You kissed him. That counts."

"That was—that wasn't—" Riley's voice cracked again, but this time it was different. This time there was a thread of something unexpected woven through the rasp. "That wasn't a date."

The room went still. Then Natalie snorted. "Did he just—"

"He did," Inde said. Her voice was dry, but there was warmth underneath it, a current of affection that Riley felt in his bones. "He definitely did."

Jasmine's grin split her face, wide and bright and genuine. "The quiet ones always have the best comebacks." She pointed her pizza slice at him like an accusation. "I'm taking you to that ramen place on Fourth Street. Saturday. Seven o'clock. You're not allowed to say no."

Riley opened his mouth. The words weren't buried anymore. They were right there, at the tip of his tongue, ready to be spoken. He looked at Inde. She was watching him, her dark eyes soft, her hand steady in his. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.

He looked at Jasmine. At Natalie, still pressing her hand against his back. At Jessica, her fingers still brushing his cheek. At Ella, who had unfolded completely from the couch, standing at the edge of the circle, her ice-blue eyes meeting his for the first time all night.

"Okay," he said. His voice was still rough, still raw. But it held. "Saturday."

The clock ticked above the stove. The refrigerator hummed. The pizza sat cold and forgotten on the counter.

And Riley, surrounded by five women who refused to let him disappear, felt the crack in his chest begin to close.

Jasmine was the first to pull away. Her hand slid from his back, but she didn't step back—she stepped closer, her face tilting up, her dark eyes holding his with a certainty that made his chest tighten. She didn't ask. She just leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek, soft and warm, the kiss lingering a beat longer than casual. Her breath brushed his ear as she drew back.

"Saturday," she said. "Seven. Don't be late."

Her grin was bright, unguarded, and she was already moving toward the door, grabbing her jacket from the hook by the entrance. She paused with her hand on the knob, looking back at the room—at Inde still holding Riley's hand, at Jessica with her fingers still brushing his face, at Natalie and Ella standing like sentinels at the edges. "I expect a full report from everyone else's dates," she said. "Details included."

Natalie snorted. "Get out of here, Jas."

Jasmine's laugh trailed behind her as the door clicked shut.

The room settled. The silence was different now—less expectant, more provisional. Like everyone was waiting to see who would move next.

Ella unfolded from the edge of the circle. She took a step toward Riley, then stopped, her bare feet pressing into the linoleum like she was testing whether the floor would hold her. Her ice-blue eyes flickered up to his, then dropped to his chest, then lifted again. Her hand came up, hesitated, and then she pressed her palm flat against his sternum. The contact was light, almost tentative, but he felt the warmth of her skin through his shirt.

"I'm glad," she said. Her voice was a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. "That you're okay."

She pulled her hand back before he could respond, her fingers curling into her palm like she was holding onto the feeling. She turned and walked to the door, her ponytail swinging, her shoulders still curved inward but less sharply than before. The door opened, closed, and she was gone.

Riley stared at the spot where she'd been standing. His chest felt tight, but it wasn't the suffocating pressure from before. It was something else—a fullness, a warmth spreading through the hollow spaces.

Natalie was next. She crossed the room in three long strides and wrapped her arms around him without warning, her face pressing into his shoulder, her breath hot against his neck. She was smaller than him—she had to reach up to get her arms around his shoulders—but the force of her embrace made him stagger back half a step, his free hand coming up to steady himself against the counter.

Her voice was muffled against his shirt. "You beautiful idiot."

He felt her laugh—a small, wet sound that trembled against his chest. She pulled back, her dark eyes bright, her freckled nose scrunching as she blinked rapidly. She didn't say anything else. She didn't have to. She squeezed his hand once, then let go, turning to grab her bag from the armchair.

At the door, she paused. Her hand was on the frame, her back to the room. "Text me when you get to bed," she said. "I won't sleep until I know you're okay."

Then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

The kitchen felt emptier now. The yellow light seemed harsher, the shadows longer. Riley could feel the weight of the remaining three—Jessica, Inde, himself—pressing against the walls of the small room.

Jessica hadn't moved. Her hand had fallen from his face, but she was still standing close, her dark eyes fixed on the floor, her chin-length bob hiding her expression. She was breathing slowly, deliberately, her shoulders rising and falling in a rhythm that matched the tick of the clock.

Riley turned to face her fully. His hand was still wrapped around Inde's, but he loosened his grip slightly, giving her room to step back if she wanted to. She didn't. She stayed, her shoulder pressed against his, a quiet anchor.

"Jess," he said. His voice was raw, cracked, but it held.

She looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the skin around them puffy and dark. She'd been crying—not the open, messy tears he'd shed, but the quiet kind, the kind that leaked out when no one was looking. The mascara at the corners of her eyes had smudged, and she hadn't wiped it away.

Her smile was fragile, a trembling curve that barely held. "I'm okay," she said. "I'm—I'm okay."

She wasn't. He could see it in the way her hands hung at her sides, the fingers twitching like she didn't know what to do with them. He could see it in the tightness around her mouth, the way she kept swallowing like she was holding something down.

He stepped toward her. His hand slipped from Inde's, and he felt the loss of her warmth like a physical absence, but he kept moving. He stopped in front of Jessica, close enough to see the individual lashes clumped together at the corners of her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. The words were small, inadequate, but they were all he had.

Jessica's smile cracked. She shook her head, a quick, jerky movement. "Don't. Don't apologize. You didn't—you didn't do anything wrong."

"I hurt you."

"You didn't." Her voice was thicker now, the words scraping past something in her throat. "You told me the truth. That's—that's more than I've gotten from anyone else." Her hand came up, her fingers pressing against his chest, right over his heart. "You meant it. When you said you loved me. You meant it."

"I did," he said. "I do."

"I know." She blinked, and a single tear escaped, tracking slowly down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. "That's why this is going to work. Because I know you mean it."

She rose on her toes—she was taller than him, but she still had to lift herself, her hand pressing against his chest as leverage—and pressed her lips to his forehead. The kiss was soft, barely a whisper, a benediction pressed into his skin.

"Take care of him tonight," she said, her eyes finding Inde over his shoulder. "He's been carrying too much."

Inde's voice was low, steady. "I know."

Jessica pulled back. Her hand lingered on his chest for a moment longer, then fell. She grabbed her jacket from the back of the armchair, her phone from the counter, and walked to the door with the measured grace of someone who was holding herself together through sheer force of will.

The door clicked shut. The lock turned. And then there were two.

The silence settled around them like a blanket. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. The pizza box sat open on the counter, the cheese stiff and pale, the pepperoni glistening with cold grease.

Riley stood in the middle of the kitchen, his hands hanging at his sides, his chest hollow and full at the same time. He could feel the ghost of each goodbye—Jasmine's kiss on his cheek, Ella's palm against his chest, Natalie's arms around his shoulders, Jessica's lips on his forehead. They were imprinted on his skin, a map of the love he'd somehow earned.

Inde moved first. She crossed to the counter, closed the pizza box, and carried it to the refrigerator. The cardboard crinkled as she slid it onto the shelf. She closed the door, the magnets clicking against the metal frame, and turned to face him.

"Sit down," she said. It wasn't a request.

He sat. The armchair creaked under his weight, the fabric worn and soft, and he let himself sink into it, his elbows on his knees, his head hanging forward. The tears were gone, but the aftertaste was still there—salt and exhaustion and something raw.

Inde didn't sit across from him. She walked to the armchair and lowered herself onto the arm, her thigh pressing against his shoulder, her hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck. Her fingers were cool against his skin, grounding.

"I need to say something," she said. "And I need you to hear it."

He lifted his head. Her dark eyes were steady, her jaw set, her ponytail falling over one shoulder. In the yellow light, she looked carved from something ancient—stone or oak or the kind of thing that weathers storms without breaking.

"I didn't come here tonight planning to propose anything," she said. "I came here to hold your hand and eat pizza and pretend everything was normal. But then you fell apart in my arms, and I realized—" She paused, her fingers tightening on his neck. "I realized you've been falling apart for a long time, and no one saw it because you're so good at pretending you're not."

His throat tightened. "Inde—"

"Let me finish." Her voice was soft, but there was iron underneath it. "I'm not saying this to make you cry again. I'm saying it because I see you. I see the way you hunch your shoulders, the way you make yourself smaller, the way you hold your breath when you're scared. I see it all, and I'm not going to look away."

She shifted, sliding off the arm of the chair and onto his lap. The movement was natural, unhurried, her knees bracketing his hips, her hands coming up to cup his face. She was straddling him in the worn armchair, her weight pressed against his thighs, her heat seeping through the fabric of his jeans.

His hands came up instinctively, settling on her hips. His thumbs traced the curve of her waist through her jacket, and he felt the shiver that ran through her, the small intake of breath that parted her lips.

"I'm not going to look away," she repeated. "And I'm not going to let you look away from me."

She kissed him.

It was different from the other kisses—the one in the car, the one at the gazebo. Those had been tentative, exploring, testing the edges of something new. This one was deliberate. This one was a claim. Her lips pressed against his, firm and sure, and her hands slid from his face into his hair, her fingers curling into the short strands at the nape of his neck.

He made a sound—a small, broken thing that rose from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer, and she responded by tilting her head, deepening the kiss, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips.

He opened for her. There was no hesitation, no fear. Just the heat of her mouth, the weight of her body, the press of her fingers against his scalp. He kissed her back with everything he had, pouring the tears he'd shed and the words he couldn't speak and the love he'd been carrying for months into the space where their mouths met.

She broke the kiss slowly, pulling back just far enough to rest her forehead against his. Her breath was warm and uneven against his lips. "That's better," she whispered.

"Inde." His voice was hoarse, barely a sound. "I—"

"Shh." Her thumb traced his lower lip, the touch featherlight. "You don't have to say anything else tonight. You've said enough. More than enough." She pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to the hollow of his jaw, then to the spot just below his ear where his pulse was hammering. "Let me take care of you."

His breath hitched. His hands tightened on her hips, and he felt the tremor run through her—not from cold, not from fear. Something else. Something that made her press closer, her thighs squeezing his hips, her fingers tangling deeper in his hair.

"Okay," he said. The word was a surrender, but it didn't feel like losing. It felt like letting go.

She kissed him again, softer this time, a promise rather than a claim. Then she pulled back, her hands sliding from his hair to rest on his shoulders. "Your room. Now."

He rose with her in his arms, his hands supporting her as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She was heavier than she looked—solid, real, a weight he was grateful to carry. He carried her down the short hallway, past the bathroom door, past the framed print of a harbor at sunset, to his room at the end.

The door swung open under his shoulder. His room was small—a twin bed pushed against the wall, a desk cluttered with textbooks, a window that looked out onto the parking lot. The blinds were half-drawn, casting slats of orange light from the streetlamp across the floor and the bed.

He lowered her onto the mattress, his knees hitting the floor as he eased her down. The bedsprings creaked. Her dark hair spread across his pillow, and in the orange light, she looked like something from a dream.

He hovered above her, his hands braced on either side of her head, his chest rising and falling with the effort of breathing. Her hands came up, framing his face, and she smiled—soft, open, the full thing. "Hi."

He laughed. It was a broken sound, half sob, half joy, but it was real. "Hi."

She pulled him down. Not onto her—beside her, his body curving around hers, his arm sliding under her head, his chest pressing against her back. She fit against him like she was made to be there, her spine curved into the hollow of his body, her hand finding his where it rested on her stomach.

The orange light fell across them. The clock in the kitchen ticked faintly through the wall. The refrigerator hummed its eternal hum.

And Riley, holding the woman who'd refused to let him disappear, felt the crack in his chest close a little more.

The orange light fell across them, and Riley's arm was starting to go numb beneath her head, but he didn't move. He couldn't. Every breath she took pressed her back against his chest, a small, rhythmic pressure that anchored him to the room, to the moment, to the improbable fact that she was still here.

His throat was raw. The aftertaste of tears and salt lingered at the back of his tongue, but the tightness that had lived in his chest for months—maybe years—had loosened. He could breathe without it catching. He could feel the steady beat of his own heart without it trying to claw its way out of his ribs.

Inde's hand lay over his on her stomach. Her fingers were still, but not rigid. Relaxed. The kind of stillness that came from trust, not tension.

He stared at the orange slats on the ceiling, tracing the lines where the streetlamp light cut through the blinds. His mouth opened. The words were there, waiting, and this time they didn't feel buried. They felt light, almost easy.

"Inde."

Her thumb moved across his knuckles. "Mm?"

He swallowed. The dryness in his throat was gone, replaced by a flutter that had nothing to do with fear. "Would you—" He stopped. Started again. "Would you want to stay tonight?"

The silence that followed was different from the ones in the kitchen. It wasn't heavy or waiting. It was a held breath, soft and suspended, like the moment before snow starts to fall.

Inde turned in his arms. The movement was slow, deliberate, her body rolling against his until she was facing him, her dark eyes catching the orange light. Her ponytail had come loose, dark strands falling across her cheek, and she didn't push them away. She just looked at him, her gaze steady, her lips parted.

"Are you asking because you want me to stay," she said, "or because you think I need to?"

His hand found her waist. The fabric of her jacket was warm, the curve of her hip fitting into his palm like it belonged there. "Because I want you to." His voice was still rough, but it didn't waver. "I want you to stay. I want to wake up and see you here. I want to know you're still here when the sun comes up."

Her breath caught. He felt it—the small hitch in her ribs, the way her fingers tightened against his chest. The orange light carved the hollow of her throat, the line of her jaw, the dark fringe of her lashes.

"Okay," she said. The word was soft, almost swallowed by the hum of the refrigerator through the wall. But it was there. It was real.

His chest expanded. The crack closed another fraction, the edges knitting together with a warmth that spread through his ribs, his shoulders, the hollow behind his sternum. He pulled her closer, his arm sliding around her back, and she came willingly, her face pressing into the curve of his neck, her breath warm against his skin.

He felt her smile. It was a small movement, the corners of her mouth pressing against his pulse point, but it sent a ripple through him that he couldn't name.

"I should probably take off my jacket," she murmured against his throat. "And my jeans. If I'm staying."

His brain short-circuited. The words landed somewhere in the middle of his chest, and his hand froze on her hip, his breath stalling. "I—yeah. Yeah, that—that makes sense."

She pulled back, her eyes catching his, and the smile was still there—not teasing, not provocative. Just soft. Real. "You okay with that?"

He nodded. The movement was jerky, uncoordinated, but it was honest. "Yeah. I'm—yeah."

She sat up, the mattress creaking beneath her. The orange light painted her silhouette as she shrugged off her jacket, the fabric sliding down her arms, revealing a thin tank top underneath. The straps cut across her shoulders, and in the dim light, he could see the curve of her collarbone, the shadow between her breasts.

She didn't look at him. She folded the jacket and set it on the corner of his desk, then reached for the button of her jeans. The metal catch clicked, the zipper rasped, and she shimmied out of them, the denim sliding over her thighs, her calves, pooling at her ankles before she kicked them free.

She stood in the orange light in her tank top and panties, her long legs bare, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. The streetlamp caught the edge of her hip, the shadow of her ribs, the soft curve of her stomach.

Riley's mouth went dry. He was still lying on the bed, his arm stretched out where her head had been, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythm that had nothing to do with fear.

Inde turned to face him. Her dark eyes found his, and she tilted her head, a question passing between them that neither needed to voice.

"Scoot over," she said.

He moved. His body responded before his brain caught up, shifting toward the wall, his back pressing against the cool plaster. The twin bed was narrow—barely wide enough for one, let alone two—but she didn't hesitate. She slid in beside him, her skin brushing his, her legs tangling with his as she pulled the thin blanket over them both.

The contact was electric. Her thigh against his. Her hip against his hip. The press of her breasts against his side through the thin cotton of his shirt and her tank top. He could feel the heat of her, the solid weight of her body, the small sounds she made as she settled—a soft exhale, a rustle of fabric, the click of her tongue as she adjusted the pillow.

She turned on her side, facing him. The orange light caught the curve of her cheek, the dark line of her eyebrow, the soft part of her lips. Her hand found his chest, her fingers splaying over his heart.

"Hi," she whispered.

He laughed. It was a quiet sound, barely more than a breath, but it was real. "Hi."

Her fingers traced the line of his collarbone, featherlight, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. "You're shaking."

He hadn't noticed. He looked down at his hand, resting on her hip, and saw the fine tremor running through his fingers. "I'm not scared," he said. And he wasn't. "I just—I don't know what to do with my hands."

She smiled. The full thing, the one that reached her dark eyes and made them gleam. "You're doing fine." Her hand slid up from his chest to his jaw, her thumb tracing the edge of his cheekbone. "Just keep them on me. That's all I need."

He swallowed. His hand tightened on her hip, his thumb pressing into the soft skin just above the waistband of her panties. She shivered, a small, involuntary tremor that ran through her whole body, and her breath hitched.

"Like this?" he asked.

"Yeah." Her voice was lower now, rougher. "Like that."

He moved his hand slowly, deliberately, sliding from her hip to the small of her back, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine through the thin fabric of her tank top. She arched into the touch, a soft sound escaping her throat, and the sound went straight to his groin, a rush of heat that made him suddenly aware of how close she was, how little separated them.

Her lips found his. The kiss was soft, almost questioning, like she was giving him room to pull away. He didn't. He deepened it, his hand pressing her closer, his tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing.

She tasted like salt—the remnant of tears, of the pizza she'd barely touched, of the long night they'd shared. It was a human taste, real and unguarded, and he loved it. He loved her. The thought surfaced and he didn't push it away. He let it sit in his chest, warm and heavy and true.

She broke the kiss, her forehead resting against his. Her breath was uneven, her hand still cradling his jaw. "We should sleep," she said. "You need it."

"I know." He didn't move. His hand was still on her back, his fingers tracing small circles against her skin. "But I don't want to stop looking at you."

Her smile was soft, almost shy. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I know." He pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her, his face burying in her hair. It smelled like shampoo—something clean and floral—and the faint trace of sweat from the long evening. "I just want to remember this."

She didn't answer. She pressed her lips to his throat, a small, wordless promise, and settled against him, her body molding to his, her breath evening out as the minutes stretched.

The clock ticked somewhere in the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed. The streetlamp cast its orange glow across the ceiling, and Riley lay in the narrow bed, holding Inde against his chest, and felt the last of the tension drain from his shoulders.

He didn't know what tomorrow would bring. The dates—Jasmine's ramen, the rest of them waiting their turn—loomed somewhere in the future, a series of unknowns he couldn't map. But tonight, in this room, in this bed, there was only her. Only the warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the weight of her trust pressing against his ribs.

He closed his eyes. The orange light lingered behind his lids, a warm, persistent glow. He felt her hand curl against his chest, her fingers loosening as sleep pulled at her.

His voice was barely a whisper. "Thank you."

Her hand tightened, just slightly. "Always."

The word settled into him, a final piece clicking into place. The crack in his chest didn't close completely—there were still edges, still fragments that needed time to knit—but it was smaller now. He could feel the shape of it, the place where the broken pieces had started to fuse.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, let his cheek rest against her hair, and let himself drift.

The last thing he was aware of, before sleep pulled him under, was the sound of her breathing—slow, even, perfectly in sync with the rise and fall of his own chest.

His awareness floated somewhere between waking and sleep, buoyed by the warmth of her, the steady rhythm of her breath against his throat. He wasn't dreaming yet—not quite. He was just being, suspended in the orange light, his hand resting on the curve of her waist, his nose buried in the clean scent of her hair.

She shifted. A small movement, her leg sliding between his, her hand curling tighter against his chest. She murmured something—a word he didn't catch, soft and shapeless—and settled again, her breath evening out.

His lips curved against her hair. He didn't know what she'd said. It didn't matter. What mattered was that she was here, that she'd said yes, that she'd stripped down to her tank top and panties and climbed into his narrow bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The streetlamp outside flickered. A car passed somewhere in the parking lot, headlights sweeping across the ceiling before fading. The building settled around them—a creak of pipes, the distant hum of a neighbor's television, the soft tick of the kitchen clock that seemed to have followed them down the hall.

Riley's hand moved of its own accord, his palm sliding from her waist to the small of her back. The fabric of her tank top was soft, worn thin from washing, and he could feel the warm skin beneath it, the ridge of her spine, the slight dip above her tailbone. She made a small sound—not quite a sigh, not quite a word—and pressed closer, her thigh sliding higher between his.

His breath caught. The contact was innocent, a reflex of sleep, but it sent a current through him that had nothing to do with rest. He was suddenly aware of the thinness of his sweatpants, the way her leg fit against the growing warmth between his hips. He held still, his jaw tightening, his hand freezing on her back.

She didn't wake. Her breathing remained slow and even, her body soft and trusting against his. He let out a slow breath, forcing the tension from his shoulders, reminding himself that this wasn't about that. This was about her staying. About waking up and finding her here. About the small, precious fact of her presence.

He shifted his hand back to her waist, settling it there like an anchor. His heart was beating faster now, but it wasn't the frantic, desperate rhythm of before. It was just—aware. Present. Tuned to the reality of her body against his.

Inde stirred again. This time her hand moved, sliding from his chest to his jaw, her fingers tracing the line of his cheekbone in the dark. Her eyes were still closed, her breathing still slow, but her touch was deliberate. Conscious.

"You're thinking too loud," she murmured. Her voice was thick with sleep, barely a whisper.

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Sorry."

Her thumb brushed across his cheek, a slow, soothing stroke. "Don't be." She shifted closer, her face pressing into the hollow of his neck, her lips brushing his skin as she spoke. "Just sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

The words landed somewhere deep in his chest, a warmth that spread through his ribs like honey. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her temple, and let his eyes drift closed.

"Promise?" he whispered.

Her hand tightened on his jaw. "Promise."

He didn't let himself think about what that promise meant. About the weight of it, the fragility, the possibility that tomorrow might bring something that tested it. He let it sit in the space between them, simple and whole, and let sleep pull him under.

The last thing he felt, before the darkness took him, was her thumb tracing a small circle on his cheekbone—a gentle, grounding pressure that followed him into his dreams.

Morning came like a slow tide, not a sudden break. Riley surfaced from sleep in stages—first aware of the weight against his chest, then the warmth seeping through his shirt where her body pressed against his, then the pale gray light filtering through the blinds, softer than the orange streetlamp that had been there when he'd closed his eyes. The clock in the kitchen had stopped ticking—or maybe he'd just stopped hearing it. The refrigerator hum had settled into the background, a constant he no longer registered.

Inde was still curled against him. Her face was tucked into the hollow of his shoulder, her dark hair spilling across his arm, her breath warm and even against his collarbone. One of her legs was hooked between his, her knee pressing into his thigh. Her hand had slipped from his jaw sometime in the night and was now resting on his chest, fingers loose and relaxed, rising and falling with each breath he took.

He didn't move. He didn't want to. The gray light painted her in soft tones, catching the curve of her cheek, the dark fringe of her lashes, the small part of her lips as she breathed. Her ponytail had come completely undone, and her hair lay in dark strands across the pillow, across his shoulder, across the thin fabric of her tank top where it had slipped off one shoulder.

The strap had fallen down her arm. He could see the pale skin of her shoulder, the sharp line of her collarbone, the small mole just below it. He could see the rise and fall of her chest, the way her tank top had bunched around her ribs, leaving a strip of bare skin above her hip where the fabric had ridden up.

His throat tightened, but it wasn't the suffocating pressure from last night. It was something quieter, a fullness that sat behind his sternum and made his eyes prickle. She was here. She was still here. She'd said she would be.

The light shifted as a cloud passed outside, dimming the room for a moment before it brightened again. Somewhere in the building, a door opened and closed. Water ran through the pipes in the wall. The normal sounds of morning, mundane and alive.

Inde stirred. It was a small movement—her fingers curling against his chest, her knee pressing a fraction deeper between his thighs. She made a sound, a soft, wordless hum, and her brow furrowed slightly before smoothing out again.

He held his breath. He didn't want to wake her, didn't want to break the spell of this moment. But his hand had moved without his permission, his palm sliding from her waist up her spine, his fingers threading into the dark hair at the nape of her neck. The strands were soft, cool against his skin, and he let them slide through his fingers, a slow, careful touch.

Her eyes opened.

It was gradual, not a sudden snap. Her lashes fluttered, her dark irises finding his through the blur of sleep. She blinked once, twice, and then her lips curved, a slow, soft smile that spread across her face like the morning light.

"Hi," she said. Her voice was rough, raspy with sleep, and it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

"Hi." His voice was barely a whisper. He didn't trust it to hold.

She stretched, a long, slow movement that pressed her body against his, her spine arching, her fingers splaying across his chest. She made a small sound—a mix of a sigh and a groan—and then settled back against him, her face finding its way back to the hollow of his shoulder.

"What time is it?"

He glanced at the window. The gray light had a pale quality, the sun not fully risen. "Early. Maybe six-thirty."

"Mm." Her fingers traced a lazy pattern on his chest, a random design only she could see. "We should go back to sleep."

"We should." He didn't move.

She laughed, a quiet huff of breath against his skin. "You're not very good at following directions."

"I'm following this one." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering in her hair. "I'm just doing it slowly."

Her hand stilled on his chest. She lifted her head, her dark eyes finding his, and the smile was gone, replaced by something more serious, more searching. "What happens now?"

The question landed between them, simple and weighty. Riley's hand tightened in her hair, his thumb brushing the curve of her ear. "I don't know," he said. "But I'd like to figure it out with you."

She studied him, her gaze moving across his face like she was reading a page she wanted to memorize. Then she leaned in and kissed him, soft and slow, her lips barely brushing his, a question more than a statement.

He answered by deepening it, his hand sliding from her hair to the small of her back, pulling her closer. The kiss was gentle, unhurried, a morning kiss that tasted like sleep and warmth and the quiet promise of a new day.

When she pulled back, her eyes were bright, her lips slightly parted. "Okay," she said. "We'll figure it out together."

The words settled into his chest like a key turning in a lock. He didn't know exactly what door they opened, but he knew it was the right one. He could feel it in the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his breath came easier, the way the gray morning light seemed warmer than it had a moment ago.

Inde shifted, rolling onto her back, her hand still resting on his chest. She stared at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster, the water stain in the corner that he'd been meaning to tell the landlord about for months. "I should probably get up. Find my jeans. Figure out how to walk home in last night's clothes without looking like I just crawled out of someone's bed."

"You could borrow a shirt." The words came out before he'd thought them through, and he felt his face warm as she turned her head to look at him. "I mean—if you want. I have a clean one. It'll probably be too big, but—"

"You want me to stay longer." It wasn't a question. Her voice was soft, but there was a knowing in it that made his chest ache.

"Yes." He didn't look away. "I want you to stay."

She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she smiled—that full, slow smile that reached her dark eyes—and sat up, the blanket pooling around her waist. The gray light fell across her shoulders, the curve of her spine, the tangle of her hair. She looked like something from a painting he'd once seen in a museum, a half-remembered image of a woman at dawn.

"Okay," she said. "Show me this shirt."

He sat up beside her, the mattress creaking under the shift in weight. The morning air was cool against his skin, raised goosebumps on his arms. He reached for the edge of the bed, his feet finding the floor, and stood. His legs were unsteady, his joints stiff from sleeping in one position all night. He crossed to the dresser against the far wall—a cheap particleboard thing with a missing knob—and pulled open the second drawer.

His hands hovered over the folded fabric. A faded band tee from a concert he'd gone to sophomore year. A plain gray Henley. A dark blue button-down he'd worn to a single formal event and never touched again. He picked the Henley—it was soft, worn soft, the kind of shirt that had been washed a hundred times and had given up any pretense of structure.

He turned, holding it out to her. The fabric dangled from his fingers, a pale gray offering.

Inde took it. Her fingers brushed his as she did, a fleeting contact that sent a spark up his arm. She pulled the shirt over her head, the fabric sliding over her tank top, settling around her shoulders. It hung loose on her, the hem reaching mid-thigh, the sleeves falling past her wrists. She rolled them back, once, twice, exposing her hands.

"How do I look?" she asked. There was a playfulness in her voice, a lightness that hadn't been there before.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "You look—" He stopped, the words tangling somewhere between his brain and his tongue. "You look like you belong here."

Her smile softened. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the blanket falling away, and stood. The shirt fell to her thighs, and below it, her legs were bare, her feet pressing into the worn carpet. She crossed the room in three steps and stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell the sleep on her skin, the faint trace of her shampoo, something warm and her.

Her hand came up, her fingers brushing the collar of his own shirt—the same one he'd been wearing since yesterday, wrinkled and sleep-warm. "You look like you need coffee," she said. "And breakfast. And a shower, maybe."

He laughed, a soft, surprised sound. "That bad?"

"Not bad." Her hand slid up from his collar to his jaw, her thumb tracing the stubble along his cheekbone. "Just—real. I like you real."

The words hit him somewhere soft, somewhere unguarded. He leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering half-closed, and felt her thumb trace the line of his jaw again. "I like you real too," he murmured.

She kissed him. It was brief, a quick press of her lips to his, a punctuation mark. Then she pulled back, her hand still cradling his face. "Coffee. Then I'll let you shower while I figure out what to do with last night's jeans."

He nodded. His voice was rough when he found it. "There's a diner two blocks over. They open at seven. We could—" He stopped, suddenly uncertain. "If you want."

"Breakfast?" Her smile widened, a crack of light through the morning gray. "Are you asking me on a date, Riley Thompson?"

The question hung in the air, light and teasing, but underneath it was something real, something that made his heart beat faster. "I guess I am."

She tilted her head, her dark eyes holding his. "I thought Jasmine had dibs on Saturday."

"This isn't—" He stopped, reorganized the words. "This isn't a scheduled date. This is just—breakfast. With you. Because I want to have breakfast with you."

The smile that spread across her face was different from the others. It was smaller, but deeper, a quiet joy that made her eyes gleam. "Okay," she said. "Breakfast. Just breakfast."

She stepped back, her hand falling from his face, and turned toward the door. The gray Henley hung loose on her frame, swaying as she walked, and he watched her go, watched her pause at the threshold, watched her look back over her shoulder.

"Coming?"

He nodded, a jerky movement, and followed her into the hall. The kitchen was the same as they'd left it—the pizza box in the fridge, the paper plates stacked on the counter, the lingering smell of burnt butter and old coffee. The morning light slanted through the window above the sink, pale and watery, catching the dust motes floating in the air.

Inde moved to the counter, her bare feet soft on the linoleum. She found the coffee canister in the cabinet—he kept it next to the sugar, a habit he'd never broken—and started filling the machine. Her movements were unhurried, familiar, like she'd done this a hundred times in this kitchen.

He leaned against the doorframe, watching her. The gray Henley shifted across her shoulders as she moved, the sleeves still rolled, her dark hair falling across her face. She looked like she belonged here. The thought surfaced again, and this time he let it settle, let it root itself in his chest.

"You're staring," she said without turning around.

"I know."

She looked over her shoulder, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. "Is that allowed?"

"I don't see why not."

She laughed, a low, warm sound that filled the small kitchen. "Fair point." She turned back to the coffee maker, pressing the button. The machine gurgled, sputtered, and began to drip, the rich smell of brewing coffee cutting through the stale air.

Riley pushed off the doorframe and crossed to stand beside her. The counter was sticky under his palm, the same tacky spot from last night. He didn't care. He reached for a mug from the cabinet—the chipped one, his favorite—and set it beside the machine.

Inde's hand found his. Her fingers interlaced with his on the countertop, a quiet, easy gesture that felt as natural as breathing. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. The coffee dripped, the morning light shifted, and they stood together in the small kitchen, two people who had found their way to each other through the wreckage of the night before.

Riley's fingers tightened around hers on the counter, a reflex he didn't question. The coffee machine sputtered, the last few drips falling into the carafe with a slow, percussive rhythm. He could feel the heat of her hand, the slight calluses on her palm from work he still didn't know the details of, and the simple fact of her presence made the morning feel wider than it had any right to.

"We should probably put on shoes," he said. "If we're going to that diner."

Inde's mouth curved. "Barefoot breakfast? Bold move for a first date."

"Second date," he corrected. Then he paused, the word sitting strange in his mouth. "Or—does the park count as a date? I don't actually know the rules."

She laughed, a low, genuine sound that warmed the kitchen. "I think the rules are whatever we decide they are." She squeezed his hand once, then let go, turning toward the living room where her jeans lay folded on the arm of the couch. "But I'm putting on pants either way."

He watched her cross the room, the gray Henley swaying around her thighs, her legs pale in the morning light. She bent to pick up her jeans, and he caught himself staring again, his gaze lingering on the curve of her spine through the fabric. He looked away, suddenly aware of the heat climbing up his neck.

The jeans went on with a rustle of denim and a soft grunt of effort. She zipped them, buttoned them, and turned to face him, her hands smoothing the fabric over her hips. "Shoes?"

"By the door." He pointed. "The black sneakers. They're the only ones that match everything."

She found them, slipped them on without untying the laces, and straightened. "Ready when you are."

He grabbed his own shoes—the same worn sneakers he'd worn yesterday, the ones with the scuff mark on the left toe from when he'd kicked a loose curb last semester—and laced them up quickly. His keys were in the bowl by the door, a single metal ring with a faded rubber fob from a campus event he couldn't remember attending.

The door clicked shut behind them, and the hallway was cool, the air carrying the faint smell of someone else's breakfast—bacon and burnt toast from the unit across the way. They walked down the stairs in silence, their shoulders brushing on the narrow landings, and emerged into a morning that was still deciding whether to be gray or blue.

The street was quiet. A single car passed, its headlights still on against the low light, and a dog barked somewhere two blocks over. The sidewalks were damp with dew, the cracks in the concrete dark with moisture, and the air had that fresh, cool quality that belonged to early mornings and nothing else.

Riley led the way, his hands in his pockets, his stride shortened to match Inde's. She walked beside him, her dark hair loose now, falling in waves past her shoulders. The gray Henley was visible at her collar, a sliver of soft fabric against the darker denim of her jacket.

They reached the corner, and he turned left, toward the diner. The sign was visible from half a block away—a red neon rectangle that said "MIKE'S" in block letters, the K flickering slightly, a fault he'd noticed a hundred times and never mentioned to anyone.

"I used to come here alone a lot," he said. "Freshman year. Before I met Jessica."

Inde glanced at him. "What changed?"

"She found me." He shrugged, a small, self-conscious movement. "I was sitting in a booth, reading something for class, and she just—sat down across from me. Started talking. Didn't stop for an hour." He smiled at the memory, the way Jessica's hands had moved as she'd talked, the way she'd leaned across the table like they'd known each other for years. "She does that. Finds people who are sitting alone and pulls them into her orbit."

Inde was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was soft. "Is that what she did with you?"

"Yeah." He pushed open the diner door, a bell jangling above his head. The smell hit him—coffee and bacon and the faint chemical tang of industrial cleaner. The place was almost empty, just an older man in a booth by the window nursing a cup of black coffee and a teenager in a server's apron wiping down the counter. "She pulled me in. Made me part of something."

They slid into a booth near the back, the vinyl seats creaking under their weight. A laminated menu stood propped between the salt and pepper shakers, the edges curled from years of use. Riley pushed it aside, not needing to look. He always ordered the same thing: scrambled eggs, wheat toast, a side of bacon.

Inde picked up the menu, her dark eyes scanning the options. "What's good here?"

"Everything's fine. Nothing's great. The coffee's better than mine." He paused. "The pancakes are solid, if you like pancakes."

"I like pancakes." She set down the menu, a decision made. "Pancakes it is."

The server appeared—a middle-aged woman with a name tag that read "Brenda" and a look of tired patience that suggested she'd been doing this for decades. She took their order without a pen, just a nod and a grunt, and shuffled back toward the kitchen.

The silence that settled between them was easy, not the heavy kind from last night. Riley's hands rested on the table, and he watched the light through the window catch the condensation on his water glass, the way it beaded and ran in thin rivulets down the side.

"Riley."

He looked up. Inde was watching him, her dark eyes steady, her fingers wrapped around her coffee cup. The steam curled around her face, softening the sharp line of her jaw.

"Can I ask you something?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Anything."

She took a breath, her chest rising under the gray Henley. "Last night, when I came up with that proposal—the one-on-one dates—you didn't hesitate. You said yes to all of them. To Jasmine. To the rest." Her thumb traced the rim of her coffee cup. "I want to understand why."

The question landed softly, but he felt its weight. He looked down at his own hands, at the chipped edge of his thumbnail, the small scar on his index finger from a kitchen knife incident he barely remembered. "Because I meant what I said," he said slowly. "I love them. All of them. Not the same way—I don't—" He stopped, the words tangling. "I don't know how to explain it. They're not interchangeable. Jessica isn't Natalie. Jasmine isn't Ella. They're each—" He gestured vaguely, trying to catch the shape of the thought. "They're each their own whole thing. And I love each of them as their own whole thing."

Inde's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes softened. "And that doesn't scare you? Loving that many people?"

"It terrifies me." The words came out before he could stop them, raw and honest. "I'm scared every day that I'm going to mess it up. That I'm going to say the wrong thing, or not say the right thing, or that one of them is going to realize I'm not worth the trouble." He swallowed. "But being scared of losing them doesn't mean I should stop loving them."

She was quiet for a long moment. The server arrived with their plates—pancakes for Inde, eggs and toast for him—and set them down with a clatter. Riley didn't reach for his fork. He was still watching Inde, waiting.

"You asked what I saw in you," he said. "That first night. When I kissed you."

Her eyes lifted to his.

"I saw someone who didn't look at me like I was a problem to solve." He reached for his coffee, more for something to do with his hands than because he wanted a drink. "The other girls—they love me. I know that. I feel it. But sometimes I catch them looking at me like I'm a project. Like they're trying to figure out how to fix me, how to make me stop being so—" He gestured at himself, a vague sweep of his hand. "So much. So tall. So quiet. So in the way."

Inde's hand moved across the table, her fingers brushing his wrist. "I don't look at you like that."

"I know." His voice was rough. "That's what I saw."

Her thumb traced a small circle on the inside of his wrist, a gesture so light he almost didn't feel it. "What else did you see?"

He set down the coffee cup, turning his hand over to catch hers. Her fingers were cool against his palm. "I saw you at the shelter. Last winter. The one on Fifth Street."

Her breath caught. A tiny hitch, barely audible, but he caught it.

"I was there dropping off some old clothes," he continued. "Things I'd outgrown. And I saw you in the kitchen, serving soup. You didn't see me. You were too focused on this old guy who kept asking for extra crackers." He smiled, the memory surfacing. "You gave him three packets. Told him to save two for later."

Inde's eyes were fixed on his, unblinking.

"That's when I knew," he said. "Not just that you were good. I knew that before. But that you were—" He searched for the word. "Real. The kind of real that doesn't need anyone to see it to keep being real."

Her hand tightened around his. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. "You saw that?"

"Yeah." He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, a gesture so soft he almost didn't register doing it. "I saw that."

The server appeared with a coffee pot, refilling their cups without asking. Riley pulled back, reaching for his fork, suddenly aware of the food growing cold on his plate. He took a bite of eggs, chewed, swallowed. They were fine. Not great. Fine.

Inde cut a piece of her pancake, dipped it in syrup, and ate it with the deliberate care of someone who was processing. She chewed slowly, her dark eyes distant, and Riley let her have the silence. He focused on his eggs, on the toast, on the mundane act of eating breakfast across from a girl who had changed everything without trying.

She set down her fork. "Riley."

He looked up.

"What do you see in the others?"

The question was quiet, but it wasn't guarded. It was open, curious, like she was genuinely trying to understand the shape of his heart. He set down his own fork, pushing his plate aside.

"Jessica—" He started, then stopped. "Jessica is the first person who ever made me feel like I was worth knowing. She didn't care that I was quiet. She didn't try to fill the silences. She just—sat in them with me. And she's so bright. Like, blinding. Sometimes I look at her and I can't believe she chose to spend time with me."

Inde nodded, a small, encouraging movement.

"Natalie sees things other people miss. She knew about you and me before I even knew. She's patient in a way that makes you want to be better. And she's fierce—she'll cut someone down with a look if they hurt someone she loves."

"Jasmine is the opposite of everything I am. She's loud, she takes up space, she makes everyone in the room feel included. I don't know how she does it. She's like a sun, and I'm just—a guy standing in her light, grateful for the warmth."

"And Ella." He paused, his gaze dropping to the table. "Ella is the one I understand most. She's shy, but she's got this fire inside her that comes out when she's competing. I see her on the volleyball court and she's a different person—confident, commanding, unstoppable. And off the court, she's still learning how to let that person out. I get that. I know what it's like to feel like you have to hide parts of yourself to make other people comfortable."

He looked up, meeting Inde's eyes. "Does that answer your question?"

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached across the table and took his hand, her fingers lacing through his, her palm warm against his skin. "It does," she said. "Thank you."

The bell above the door jangled, and a group of college students spilled in, their voices loud and bright, filling the empty space with laughter and the scrape of chairs. The morning had shifted—gray lifting to pale blue, the angle of the light changing as the sun climbed higher.

Riley looked at Inde, at her hand in his, at the way the morning light caught the dark strands of her hair. "I never asked you," he said. "What you saw in me. That first night."

A slow smile spread across her face, the kind that reached her dark eyes and made them gleam. "I saw a guy who didn't try to impress me. Who didn't talk over me or past me. Who looked at me like I was already someone worth knowing, not someone he needed to figure out."

She squeezed his hand. "I saw someone who made me want to stop hiding."

The words settled between them, simple and whole, and Riley felt the crack in his chest close another fraction. He didn't have words for what he felt—the warmth spreading through his ribs, the quiet certainty that this was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles again, a slower kiss this time, deliberate and unhurried. "I'm glad you didn't," he said against her skin. "Stop hiding."

She laughed, a soft, warm sound that felt like sunshine breaking through clouds. "Me too."