Ray's POV
It's past 2 a.m.
The house is dark, the kind of silent where even the fridge hum feels too loud. My laptop's still open, something half-read flickering on the screen, but my eyes haven't moved in minutes. I'm lying on my side, one arm folded under my head, the other stretched across the cold sheets.
And then I hear it.
The soft creak of my door. No knock—never a knock. She never knocks.
I don't turn. I don't have to. The mattress dips behind me, familiar weight sinking beside mine, small fingers curling around the fabric of my T-shirt like they've done since she was ten. The scent of her lavender shampoo fills the air. I don't even breathe too loud. She doesn't speak yet.
I wait.
And then her voice comes—quiet. Shaky. Threadbare.
> "It's killing me, Ray."
I close my eyes. God.
> "It's killing me to not talk to him. I'm dying to ask him if he drank enough water today or if he slept okay or if he has his hoodie with him—it's cold outside, Ray, it's so cold in the mornings…"
Her voice breaks.
I turn. I face her. She's lying on her side now, facing me, hair a black waterfall on my pillow. Her eyes are wide and brimming, that glossy kind of pain that tries too hard to stay inside.
> "I'm not mad at him," she whispers, breath trembling. "I can never be. He's my baby, Ray. I love him more than anything. I know he's a teenager. I know they snap. I know it wasn't really him."
Her fingers tighten around the blanket between us.
> "But I'm scared," she says, voice cracking at the edges now. "I'm so scared that if I talk, he'll snap again. And I—I don't know if I can take it a second time. It felt like my chest cracked open when he said I was annoying. It felt like—like I was too much. And I've fought so hard to never be too much for him."
That's it.
I pull her to me.
She doesn't resist. She falls into my arms like she always has, burying her face in my chest, clutching my shirt like it's the only thing holding her together.
She cries. Quiet, muffled sobs that hit straight through bone. Her whole body trembles against mine and I hold her tighter, as tight as I can without breaking her.
And I say nothing.
Because what the hell can I say?
That it kills me too?
That I've loved her since I was thirteen and she offered me half a melted cookie in that orphanage common room?
That I'd burn the world for her—but I can't protect her from this?
I just hold her.
Breathe with her.
Let her fall apart here—because this is the one place she still lets herself.
And when her sobs finally start to fade, when she's just breathing quietly against me, I rest my chin lightly on top of her head and whisper:
> "You're not too much, Ava. You never were."
She doesn't reply.
But I feel her fingers curl tighter around my shirt.
And I know she heard me.
---
Sebastian's POV
I couldn't sleep.
Again.
The silence in the house has been too loud lately. Not the good kind. The kind where every closed door feels like punishment, every creak of the floor makes your chest clench, every light left on feels like someone forgot to love you.
Mom still… exists around me. She still makes my bed. Still folds my hoodies. Still sneaks a protein bar into my bag when she thinks I won't notice. But she doesn't talk to me. She hasn't looked me in the eye in a month.
I don't even know how to fix it.
It was just one sentence.
A stupid sentence.
One second of hormones and pride and frustration.
But it hurt her.
I saw it.
And now she's not gone—but she's not really here either.
I'm walking down the hallway, barefoot. Thirsty. That's what I tell myself. Not that I wanted to see if she was awake. Not that I missed hearing her ask if I'd had dinner yet.
And then I stop.
Ray's door is cracked open.
Her voice floats out, muffled, tired, and—
Crying?
I freeze.
Her voice is shaking. She's saying my name. She's saying—
> "I'm not mad at him. I can never be. He's my baby."
My throat clenches.
I shouldn't be here. I know that. This is private. She doesn't cry in front of people—not even me. Not since I was little and I had that fever and she thought I might die.
She's crying to Ray.
I hear her say it's killing her to not talk to me. That she's scared I'll snap again. That it felt like her chest cracked open when I said she was annoying.
I feel sick.
Like something is pressing into my ribs and twisting, cruel and slow. I lean against the wall, eyes burning.
She wasn't ignoring me to be dramatic.
She was hurting.
She was protecting herself.
I thought… I thought she was just being passive aggressive. I didn't know.
God, I didn't know she cried to sleep.
I hear Ray now. His voice is soft, low. I can't make out the words. But I know he's holding her. I know by the way her sobs go quieter.
He always knows how to hold her.
I sink down against the wall, sitting there in the dark hallway like a ghost. My throat hurts. My eyes sting. And all I can think is:
I don't deserve her.
Not when I make her cry like that.
I press the heel of my palm to my eyes, hard.
Tomorrow. I'll fix it tomorrow.
I have to.