“I think I always knew Zane didn’t love me,” I whisper. “Not really. Not the way I needed.”
Liam doesn’t speak, but he keeps brushing, steady and quiet. Listening.
“I think I was just… desperate to matter to someone. Anyone.” I let out a shaky breath. “My parents didn’t care unless I was perfect. Zane made me feel wanted. And when he looked at me like I was everything, I clung to it like an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Liam says, firm and low.
I shrug, eyes still closed. “I let him isolate me. I stopped talking to friends. I skipped school, skipped meals… and no one noticed. Except Luther.”
My voice cracks.
“He was the only one who ever tried to pull me out. And I didn’t listen.”
Liam puts the brush down and walks to the dresser. He pulls out one of his hoodies and a pair of clean shorts.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d be comfortable in,” he says gently. “But this’ll be warm.”
I nod, trying to blink back tears. “Thanks.”
He kneels again, helping me slip the hoodie over my head. It
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smells like him–clean, warm, safe. Then he helps with the shorts too, careful not to touch more skin than necessary.
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Once I’m dressed, I whisper, “You’re being too nice,” I murmur, eyes flicking up to his.
Liam grins, a lopsided, boyish thing that makes my heart skip. “I‘ m always this nice. You’re just noticing now.”
“Why are you like this?” I ask, and it comes out like a plea.
He leans in, brushes a damp strand behind my ear. His thumb grazes my cheek like he’s memorising me.
“Because sometimes,” he says, voice almost a breath, “when someone’s falling apart, all they need is someone who won’t let go.”
And just like that, I shatter.
He takes my hand and leads me to the bed, tucks us both beneath the blankets. The room hums softly – rain tapping the windows, the heater purring in the corner. I press into his side, small and trembling.
He shifts so I’m curled against him, my head on his chest. His heart beats a soft rhythm beneath my ear.
“You okay?” he murmurs, fingers tracing slow circles into my back.
I nod. “Mhm.”
“You’re still shaking.”
“I know.”
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I want to. I really do. But my mind’s loud. My heart’s loud. So l speak instead, just a whisper against his chest. “Do you think…. if I had done something different, he’d still be alive?”
Liam’s fingers still for a second. Then he tilts my chin up gently so I have to look at him.
“I think life is cruel sometimes. I think you loved your brother more than anything. And I think blaming yourself is how you’re trying to hold onto him.”
A tear slips down my cheek. He catches it with his thumb.
“You’re allowed to grieve, Emilia,” he whispers. “But you’re not allowed to hate yourself. Not while I’m around.”
My throat tightens. “Why are you being so good to me?”
He presses a kiss to my forehead. Lingers.
“Because at some point, I started seeing you as…”
I wait, breath caught, but he doesn’t say more.
So I curl in closer. Let myself breathe for real. For the first time in forever.
I bury my face in his chest. He smells so good. The kind of clean scent that body wash can’t give. It’s just him. “Can I stay like this for a while?”
“You can stay like this for as long as you want.”
And just like that, I fall asleep wrapped in warmth, wrapped in
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him.,
EMILIA
Luther always leaves the kitchen lights on.
Every. Single. Time.
It’s why Diana says he has the stealth of a dying elephant and why Mum cuts his allowance every time she finds out he’s raided the fridge at midnight.
“Everything in life is a choice,” Mum always says, flipping through her morning paper, while Dad rubs her shoulders and nods like she’s preaching gospel. “And unfortunately, that includes your poor career decisions. If you choose to be a criminal, at least be a competent one.”
―
So yeah – tonight is no different.
I tiptoe down the stairs, socked feet silent on the wood, already mentally preparing my ‘caught you red–handed‘ speech.
The kitchen lights are on. The fridge door’s wide open.
And someone’s standing there.
I scowl. Rookie mistake, Luther. Mum would’ve had your head if the staff weren’t all gone for the holidays.
When I walk into the kitchen, I find Luther sitting on the counter.
He’s sketching something on his iPad with his Apple Pencil, completely in his own world. There’s an open milk carton in one hand, and next to him is a pack of strawberries – Diana’s strawberries, the ones she picked fresh from Dad’s garden this
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morning.
