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.