Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THE PARTY WHERE EVERYTHING SHIFTS

The BEN house smelled like cheap beer and someone's bad decision with Axe body spray. Bass rattled Belly's ribs. The floors were sticky in that way that made her not want to think too hard about what she was stepping in.

She stood near the kitchen island, phone out, thumb hovering over the Uber app like a lifeline.

Taylor had dragged her here an hour ago. "You need to get out of your apartment," she'd said, already wearing Davis's oversized BEN jersey, hair in a high ponytail, lips glossed. "You've been rotting since the surgery. Come on, it'll be fun."

Fun.

Belly had lasted exactly forty-seven minutes before Taylor and Davis started their routine fight—something about him liking another girl's Instagram story, or not texting back fast enough, or breathing wrong. The usual. Taylor had stormed off in a cloud of perfume and righteous indignation, probably headed to the Tri Phi house to make a point.

And now Belly was alone. Surrounded by people in Greek letters, all of them louder and drunker and more there than she felt capable of being.

Four years. That's how long it had been since the debutante ball, since everything fell apart and came back together in a different configuration. Four years since Susannah's trial worked, since Conrad and Belly got together, since carefully maintained distance became the new normal. Four years of polite holiday conversations, of pretending the gap between them didn't ache.

She was about to confirm the Uber when someone slid into her peripheral vision.

"Hey. You good?"

Belly looked up.

Jeremiah Fisher. Holding two red Solo cups, wearing his BEN jersey over a white tee that had seen better days, hair doing that thing where it looked artfully messy but probably wasn't. At twenty-one, he'd filled out—sharper jaw, broader shoulders, still golden-tan even in October from all those hours at the natatorium. He looked comfortable. At home. Like he belonged exactly where he was.

Which made sense. As rush chair, this was basically his job—making people feel welcome, keeping the chaos contained.

"That obvious?"

"Bells, you look like you're at a dentist appointment. Like, a really bad one."

She couldn't help it—she laughed.

"You've been standing in the exact same spot for like twenty minutes. I timed it." He held out one of the cups. "Vodka cranberry. You still hate beer, right?"

She took it, genuinely surprised. 

"Taylor ditch you?"

"Her and Davis are having their weekly—"

"Meltdown about nothing that'll end with them making out in his car?"

"Probably, yeah."

"Classic." He leaned against the counter next to her, close enough that she could smell his cologne. Something clean and cedar-y. "Smart money's on like twenty minutes. Tay always breaks first."

"Taylor would kill you for saying that."

"Taylor knows I'm right. She just won't admit it." A grin. "So. You want company while you wait for your getaway car? Or I can walk you out now if you're desperate. I won't be offended. Much."

She should say yes. Should take the out, go back to her apartment, put on her knee brace and watch Netflix until she fell asleep. But something in his voice—underneath the easy charm—sounded tired. Like he was as ready to leave his own party as she was.

"Company's fine."

"Cool. Come on, kitchen's about to get loud and I'm pretty sure someone's gonna break something expensive."

She followed him through the crowd. People parted for him automatically—not because he pushed, but because he had that pull. He high-fived someone, dodged a drunk girl's attempt to pull him into a selfie, called out "Redbird, chill!" to him doing something stupid near the speakers.

They made it to the side porch. The one that overlooked the scraggly backyard where someone had strung up dollar store Christmas lights missing half their bulbs. The fall air hit her face, sharp and cold and necessary.

"Better?"

"Much." She leaned against the railing, feeling her shoulders drop for the first time all night.

Music thumped through the walls. Someone shrieked with laughter inside. But out here it was quieter. Manageable.

Belly took a sip of her drink. It was pretty delicious. He'd mixed it properly. "So. Rush chair. How's that going?"

"It's—" He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "It's insane. I'm basically running every rush event and keeping track of like forty guys who all want to join. Last week I had to talk three freshmen through why they should pick BEN over Delta Psi. Very serious business."

"Did they listen?"

"Two did. Lost one to the guys with the better house." He shook his head. "Plus I'm coordinating all the social events, managing the pledges, being the face of recruitment... it's a lot. But I'm still lifeguarding at the natatorium, so between that and this, I'm like... never sleeping. But it's good. Keeps me busy."

"Lifeguarding still?"

"Yeah. It's easy money and I can do class work between shifts. Well, when I'm not pulling drunk freshmen out of the pool."

She smiled. "Some things never change."

"Some things." He looked at her. "What about you? How's the apartment?"

"It's good. Quiet. My roommates are cool—Jillian and Anika."

"Jillian and Anika... volleyball and dance, right?"

"Yeah. Jillian's on the team with me. Well—was. Anika does contemporary."

Were. Was. The words hung there.

"How's the season going?"

Her stomach dropped. "I'm not playing this year."

His head snapped toward her. "Wait, what? Since when?"

"Since August." She kept her voice light. Practiced. "Tore my ACL during preseason. Had surgery in September."

Jeremiah went very still. Set his cup down on the railing with deliberate care.

"Surgery." Flat.

"Yeah. It was—it sucked. Still sucks." She shrugged, trying to play it off. "I'm doing PT but I'm out for the season. Maybe longer."

"Belly." His voice dropped. "I—fuck, I had no idea."

"Why would you?"

And there it was. The gap between them, wide and obvious.

Conrad knew. Of course he knew—he'd been there the night before surgery, held her hand in pre-op, texted her every day after. But the others... Taylor probably didn't want to stress Jeremiah out while he was dealing with rush. Steven was busy starting at Breaker. Laurel probably assumed Conrad had told him. Susannah, well, that was most surprising of all. 

But standing here now, watching Jeremiah's face do something complicated—surprise and hurt and something that looked like guilt—she realized nobody had actually said the words to him.

"That's—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Belly, that's not just like a bad sprain or whatever. That's serious. That's your whole—that's everything."

"Yeah, well. Turns out knees are important for volleyball. Who knew."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Make jokes when you're hurt." Quietly. "You always do that."

She met his eyes. He was watching her with an intensity that made her want to look away. But she didn't.

"What else am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. Be pissed. Be sad. Just don't—" He gestured vaguely. "Don't just act like it's fine."

"It's not fine. But it is what it is."

"Yeah but is it?"

"Jere—"

"You were incredible out there, Bells. Best setter I ever saw. And I know I only came to like two games—"

"Three."

"Three. Right. But I watched every video Conrad sent me. Which was a lot, by the way. He was obsessed." He stopped. "You were really fucking good."

The mention of Conrad landed between them like a third person on the porch.

"How is he?" Too casual.

"Good. Busy. Med school's—"

"Brutal, yeah, I know." He took a drink. "You guys doing okay?"

"Yeah. I mean—" She wrapped her arms around herself. The cold was starting to bite. "It's hard. His schedule's insane. When we do talk he's basically like... asleep standing up. I get it, but..."

"But it's lonely."

She glanced at him, surprised he'd said it so plainly.

"Yeah. It's really lonely."

Another silence. This one heavier.

"I got waitlisted for study abroad. Paris. Spring semester. I really wanted it."

"Paris? Belly, that would've been perfect for you."

"Conrad promised he'd take me. When he has a break. Maybe next summer."

Jeremiah's jaw tightened. Just barely. "That's... yeah. That's good."

Before she could say anything else, the door burst open behind them.

"FISHER!" one of the pledges, eyes wild. "Someone just puked in the kitchen sink and someone's trying to make nachos in the microwave and I think—"

A shrill beeping cut through the air.

"Of course." Jeremiah closed his eyes. "Of fucking course."

"You should—" Belly gestured toward the door.

"Yeah. Um." But he didn't move. Just stood there, looking at her like he was trying to solve a problem he couldn't quite name. "This is gonna take a minute. Maybe longer. Rush chair problems."

"It's fine. I should go anyway."

"Or—" He paused. "You hungry?"

"What?"

"There's a diner. Like ten minutes from here. Open late. Makes actually decent fries, which I know sounds like a low bar but trust me, it's not." He shrugged, suddenly looking younger. Less certain. "We could get out of here. Talk somewhere that doesn't smell like Natty Light."

She should say no. Should maintain the distance they'd carefully built. Should go home to her quiet apartment.

But the thought of going back there alone, to the silence and the knee brace and another night of Netflix she wasn't really watching...

"Yeah. Okay."

His whole face changed. Lit up in a way that made her breath catch.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm starving."

"Cool. Awesome. Um, let me just—" He stuck his head back inside. "REDBIRD! You're in charge! Don't burn the house down!"

"NO PROMISES!" he yelled back.

Jeremiah grabbed his jacket from somewhere inside, then came back out, still lit up. "Come on. Before they rope me back into damage control."

They walked down the porch steps together. The campus was quiet this late—just scattered groups of students, the occasional car crawling toward the parking lots. Street lights made everything look softer, hazier.

"Your knee okay?" Noticing the way she favored her left leg.

"It's fine. Gets stiff if I stand too long."

"We can take the Jeep if you want—"

"It's ten minutes, Jere. I can walk ten minutes."

"Okay but if you need to stop—"

"I'll tell you."

She laughed despite herself. They fell into step beside each other, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

"So you're still lifeguarding. That's good. You always liked that."

"Yeah. It's easy. Pays decent. Plus I get to yell at people, which is satisfying." Another grin. "What about you? Besides PT and classes. What are you doing with your time?"

"Honestly? Not much. I've been kind of... hermit-y."

"That doesn't sound like you."

"It's not. But it's easier than explaining to everyone why I'm not playing."

He nodded. Didn't try to fix it. Just let it sit.

They turned a corner. The diner appeared—a squat building with neon signs and windows fogged with condensation. Marie's, the sign read in flickering red letters.

Jeremiah held the door open. A rush of warm air and the smell of coffee and grease hit her face.

"After you."

Inside was straight out of another decade—vinyl booths, checkered floors, a jukebox in the corner playing something old and crackly that might've been Fleetwood Mac. A tired-looking waitress glanced up from wiping down the counter.

"Fisher." Not unfriendly. Just tired. "Usual spot?"

"If it's open, Marie."

"All yours, hon."

He led Belly to a booth in the back corner. The vinyl was cracked and patched with duct tape, but it was clean. She slid in one side, he took the other. The table between them was scarred with initials and phone numbers carved into the laminate.

Marie appeared with two plastic menus and waters she didn't bother asking about.

"Kitchen's open another hour. You know what you want or you need a minute?"

"Give us a minute."

When she left, Belly picked up the menu but didn't open it. "You come here a lot?"

"Yeah. Couple times a week. When the dining hall's too depressing or the house gets too loud or I just—yeah. I come here."

"What's good?"

"Everything, honestly. But, uh—" He pointed at her menu. "Get the fries. Marie doesn't mess around with the fries."

"Trust me on this one." Grinning now. "The burger's solid. Grilled cheese is perfect drunk food. Breakfast is like, available twenty-four seven which is dangerous."

"Sounds like you've done your research."

"What can I say. I'm dedicated."

Marie came back. Jeremiah ordered a burger and fries without looking. Belly got the same, plus a chocolate shake.

When Marie left, they were alone again. The diner was mostly empty—just one couple across the room, a guy at the counter nursing coffee and scrolling his phone.

"So. ACL surgery. That's like—what, four to six months before you can even think about playing again?"

"Yeah. If I can play again."

"You will."

"You don't know that, Jere."

"No, I do." Total certainty. "You're way too stubborn to let your knee beat you."

"Or maybe I'm just being realistic."

"Realistic's boring. You were never boring, Bells."

Her face went warm. "I'm pretty boring these days. I go to class, PT, home. That's it."

"What are you watching?"

The question threw her. "What?"

"On Netflix. Or whatever. What are you watching?"

"Oh. Um. I finished The Crown. Started rewatching Gilmore Girls."

"Of course you did." But he was smiling.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've always been into that stuff. The small-town thing. The fast-talking. The—"

"I didn't think you paid attention to what I watched."

"I paid attention to like, a lot of things." Casually, but his eyes didn't leave hers.

The food arrived fast. Marie set down plates piled with burgers and fries that looked exactly as good as he'd promised. The shake came in one of those tall glasses with whipped cream threatening to spill over.

"Holy shit."

"Told you." Jeremiah was already reaching for the ketchup, squirting an aggressive amount onto his plate.

They ate for a minute in silence. The burger was perfect—messy and juicy and exactly what she needed. The fries were crispy and salty and she understood immediately why he came here multiple times a week.

"Okay. You were right. This is really good."

"I'm always right about food."

"You're always confident about food."

"Same thing."

She rolled her eyes. He reached across the table to steal one of her fries even though he had his own.

"Hey!"

"What? You've got more."

"That's not the point."

"The point is I wanted that one specifically."

"That's not how fries work, Jere."

"It's exactly how fries work." He bumped her shoulder lightly across the table, that easy grin back.

She laughed despite herself. This felt familiar. Easy. Like slipping into an old rhythm they'd both forgotten they knew.

"So. You're graduating in May."

"Don't remind me."

"You don't sound excited."

"Should I be?" He took a massive bite of burger. Chewed. Swallowed. "I'm about to like, enter the real world with no plan and a degree I don't even care about."

"Finance, right? That's what you're doing?"

His expression darkened. "That's what my dad wants me to do. Breaker Capital. Your brother just started there—graduated early, the overachiever." Without bitterness, just fact. "Dad's already talking about how Steven's killing it, how I should follow his lead. Like we're in some competition I didn't sign up for."

"God, Steven won't shut up about it. Every time I talk to him it's Breaker this, Adam Fisher that. Like he's trying to impress your dad more than you are."

Jeremiah's mouth twitched. "Yeah, well. Dad's thrilled. Finally has someone who actually wants to be there."

"Is that why you're not going?"

"Part of it." He picked at his fries. "The other part is I just... I don't know. I don't want to spend my life doing something I hate just because it's what everyone expects, you know?"

She nodded. "That makes sense."

"Yeah, well, try telling my dad that." He took a drink. "Oh, and apparently Steven's dating someone now. Denise. Didn't even know until my birthday—your brother mentioned it at dinner. She's like, three years older than him, brilliant and kind of scary in a good way."

"Wait, Steven's dating someone? Like, seriously dating?"

Jeremiah laughed. "That's what he said. Why, what's up?"

"I just—" She shook her head. "I can never tell what's going on with him and Taylor. One day they're fighting, the next they're all over each other, then she's with Davis, but Steven's still... I don't know. It's confusing."

"Oh, trust me, I know. Your brother and Taylor have been doing this weird dance since like, forever. Pretty sure nobody knows what's actually happening. Including them."

"Exactly. And now Denise is in the mix?"

"Apparently. Met her at my birthday last week. She seems cool. Really smart."

"Your birthday—that was last week, right? September 30th?"

"Yeah." He grinned. "Big milestone. Turned twenty-one."

"How'd you celebrate?"

He shrugged, stealing another fry. "Got high with some guys from the house. Fell asleep on the couch at like nine. Very rock star of me." He laughed. "Then Mom dragged Dad out from his loft the next day for this overpriced steakhouse in Boston. Apparently his latest girlfriend broke up with him. Haven't seen him that destroyed in a minute." He almost laughed, then caught himself. "Shit, I shouldn't laugh. But it was—I mean—" He shook his head. "Got drunk with Steven, met the brilliant and scary Denise. Mom was happy we were all there, so. Yeah."

There was something in his voice. Not sad, just... complicated.

"I'm sorry I didn't—" She stopped. "I should've at least texted."

"Bells, we haven't really been talking. It's—" He shrugged. "It's fine."

But she could tell it wasn't. Not really.

"Nobody told you about a lot of things. Same way nobody told me about your surgery."

The words hung there. True and sharp.

"I miss this. Knowing things about you. Being—I don't know. Part of your life."

"You are part of my life."

"Am I?" She looked at him. "We see each other at holidays. We're polite. We pretend everything's fine. But we don't actually—we're not—"

"I miss you too." Quiet but certain. "Like, all the time. Which is stupid because you're right here. You've been here."

"But not really."

Silence. This one felt different. Heavier. Like something was shifting beneath the surface.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"The whole party thing. Hooking up with Carter and Lacie Barone—"

His mouth twitched. "You keeping tabs on me, Bells?"

Her face went hot. "No. Taylor just—she tells me things."

"Uh-huh." Grinning now. "Um, for the record, Carter and I had a thing last spring. Lacie wanted a boyfriend, which wasn't really my speed. And before you ask, no, not at the same time."

"I wasn't asking that."

"You were thinking it."

"I wasn't—" She stopped. "Okay, maybe a little."

He laughed. "What can I say? I like to have fun."

She picked at a fry. "I guess I'm just curious why you haven't found anyone serious yet. I mean—look at you. You could."

The grin faltered. Just for a second. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing bad. Just—you're you, Jere. You're... I don't know. You're a catch." Like it was obvious.

"A catch." Flat.

"Yeah."

"Belly—" He stopped. Started again. "I'm not really looking for serious right now. It's easier this way."

"Easier how?"

He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "Just is."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got."

She studied him for a moment. "Or maybe you're protecting yourself."

The words landed differently this time. Softer. Not an accusation—an observation.

His expression did something complicated. "You don't get to do that." Quietly.

"Do what?"

"Show up after like, almost four years of basically nothing and act like you know what's going on in my head."

She flinched. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"No, I—" He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Shit. I'm sorry. That was unfair."

"It wasn't."

"It was." He looked at her. Something softer now. Tired. "I just—you don't know what it's been like. Being the fun one. The easy one. The one everyone wants at their party but nobody actually—" He stopped, let out a laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Okay, that sounded way more pathetic than I meant it to. We should probably talk about something else before I start quoting emo lyrics or whatever."

She wanted to push, but the deflection was so perfectly him that she let it go. For now.

They ate in silence for a minute. Not uncomfortable. Just weighted.

Then Jeremiah said, "You still miss it, huh? Volleyball?"

She looked up, surprised by the gentleness in his voice.

"Yeah. I mean—" She sighed. "Every once in a while I think, 'What if I hadn't jumped for that ball and messed up my knee?' It's weird how one choice can end up shaping your whole future."

"Are you still thinking about sports psych as a minor? Could be an option for a major now."

She blinked. "How did you—"

"I, uh—I remember you mentioning it. At Thanksgiving maybe? Or—I don't know. I just remember you saying you were looking into it."

"I was. I am." Surprised he'd remembered. "It's worth a shot. It wasn't my original plan."

"Maybe. But you're there now." Simply. Like it was obvious. "That's what matters."

Something in her throat went tight.

Marie appeared, clearing plates. "You kids want dessert? Got apple pie. Made it this morning."

"We'll split one?" Jeremiah asked her. She nodded with a smile.

"Ice cream?"

"Obviously."

The real grin. Not the practiced version.

The pie came. They ate straight from the plate, trading bites, forks clinking.

"This is really good."

"Told you."

"You say that a lot."

"Because I'm usually right."

"About food, maybe."

"About most things." But he was smiling. "Hey, um—come to dinner next week. Wednesday. Mom's place. She's been asking about you."

"Has she?"

"Constantly. Drives me insane. 'How's Belly? Is she eating? Does she need anything?'" He mimicked Susannah's voice fondly. "I told her you were fine but she doesn't believe me."

"I'd love to see her."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I miss her."

"She misses you too." He took another bite. "I'll make japchae. The one you used to steal off my plate."

"I never—"

"You absolutely did. Every single time."

She laughed. "Okay, fine. I did."

"I know."

They finished the pie. Marie brought the check. Jeremiah grabbed it before Belly could.

"My treat."

"Jere—"

"I invited you. I'm paying. Don't argue."

"I was going to say thank you."

"Oh." Surprised. "Well. You're welcome."

He left cash on the table with a generous tip. They walked back slowly. Neither in a rush. The night air had gotten colder, sharper.

"This is me." When they reached her building. Nothing fancy. A converted house split into apartments.

"Nice place."

"It's okay. Quiet."

They stood on the sidewalk. Neither quite ready to say goodbye.

"Thanks for tonight. For the diner. For listening."

"Anytime." He meant it.

"I'll see you Wednesday?"

"Wednesday."

"Okay."

Neither moved.

Then Belly stepped forward and hugged him. Quick. Impulsive. Before she could overthink it.

He went still for half a second. Then his arms came around her, solid and sure.

"I really did miss you." Into his shoulder.

"Missed you too." Into her hair. Quiet. Real.

They stood like that. Long enough to feel his heartbeat. Long enough that pulling away felt like ripping off a band-aid.

"Goodnight, Jere."

"Goodnight, Bells."

She made it three steps before she looked back.

He was still there. Hands in pockets. Hair messy. Looking exactly like the boy she'd grown up with and nothing like him at all.

Their eyes met.

Neither looked away.

And in that moment—that single, suspended moment—something shifted. Not a decision. Not even a want. Just a recognition.

Oh.

She turned away first, heart hammering, and kept walking.

But she could feel his gaze on her back the entire way to her door.

Inside her apartment, Jillian was already asleep in her room. Anika's door was closed, soft music playing behind it. Belly changed quietly, climbed into bed, stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Her phone buzzed.

Jere: thanks for tonight

She stared at the screen, smiling.

Belly: thank you for the food

Jere: anytime. seriously

There was a pause. Then:

Jere: it was really good seeing you

Belly: you too

Another pause.

Jere: wednesday. don't forget

Belly: i won't

She set her phone on her nightstand.

For the first time since the surgery, since Conrad had gotten too busy, since Paris had slipped away—for the first time in months, she didn't feel quite so alone.

Four years. They'd lost four years to distance and politeness and pretending everything was fine.

But maybe—maybe they could find their way back.

She closed her eyes, his voice still echoing in her head: I miss you too. Like, all the time.

And somewhere across campus, in a house that smelled like stale beer and brotherhood, Jeremiah lay in his bed and thought about the way she'd looked at him in the diner. The way her laugh had sounded exactly the same as it did when they were kids. The way she'd hugged him like she meant it.

He thought about Conrad in med school, too busy to notice what he had.

He thought about his mom asking about Belly every Wednesday, her voice hopeful that they had finally fixed their friendship.

He thought about Belly's "I miss you too" and wondered if she knew what those words did to him.

His phone was in his hand before he could stop himself.

Jere: glad you said yes tonight

He deleted it. Too much.

Jere: sleep well bells

He sent it before he could overthink.

Her response came fast.

Belly: you too jere

He smiled at his phone like an idiot, then set it aside.

Wednesday. He had until Wednesday to figure out what the hell he was doing. How to have her back into his life.

But for now, for tonight, it was enough that she'd said yes.

It was enough that after years of nothing, they'd finally said something real.

Belly stood outside the Fisher house, nerves doing something complicated in her stomach. She'd been here before over the past four years—awkward holiday dinners with Conrad, quick hellos when picking him up. But this felt different. This was just her and the Fishers. No Conrad as a buffer.

She knocked.

The door swung open almost immediately. Susannah stood there, and Belly's breath caught.

She looked good. Really good. Her hair had grown back—longer now, past her shoulders, that familiar honey-blonde catching the light. She'd gained weight, color in her cheeks, eyes bright. But there were shadows there too, a tiredness that came from years of treatment, of fighting. She was wearing a loose linen shirt, paint-stained jeans, barefoot.

"Belly!" Susannah pulled her into a hug that smelled like lavender and turpentine. "Oh, sweetheart, get in here. It's freezing."

"Hi, Susannah." Belly's throat went tight. She'd forgotten how much she'd missed this—the easy warmth, the feeling of being seen.

"Come on, Jere's already in the kitchen. Been in there for an hour, wouldn't let me help." Susannah rolled her eyes fondly, leading her through the familiar hallway. "You'd think I was the guest."

The kitchen was chaos in the best way. Ariana Grande played from a small speaker. Jeremiah stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair tied back with what looked like a scrunchie, wooden spoon in hand. The air smelled incredible—garlic, sesame oil, something savory and sweet.

He looked up when they entered, face breaking into that easy grin. "Hey. You made it."

"Told you I would."

Susannah's eyebrow quirked but she said nothing, just settled onto a stool at the island.

Belly set her jacket on the back of a chair and moved closer to the stove. "Smells good."

"Japchae, kimchi fried rice, and Mom requested the cucumber salad." He gestured with the spoon. "Also got some decent banchan from H Mart. The full spread."

"When did you learn to do all this?" Belly watched him move—confident, practiced, the way he tasted and adjusted seasoning without measuring.

"Had to." He shrugged, stirring the glass noodles. "Someone needed to make sure Mom actually ate during treatment. Hospital food's fucking terrible, and she kept losing weight. So I learned."

Susannah's expression softened. "He's better than me now. Won't admit it, but he is. And I still can't cook at all."

"Mom—"

"It's true! I burned rice last week. Rice, Jeremiah."

"You were painting. You forgot it was on the stove."

"Exactly. I get distracted. You don't." She turned to Belly. "He's got this whole... system. Timers, mise en place, the works. Very impressive."

Jeremiah's ears went pink. "Can we not?"

"I'm allowed to brag about my son." But her tone was gentle, proud.

Belly felt something warm settle in her chest. This—this easy back-and-forth, the teasing, the love underneath—this was what she'd been missing.

"Here." Jeremiah thrust a cutting board and knife at her. "Make yourself useful. Scallions need chopping."

"Yes, chef."

She fell into the rhythm easily—chopping while he cooked, Susannah watching them both with quiet contentment. The music shifted to Joni Mitchell. They worked in comfortable silence, broken only by Jeremiah's occasional directions ("thinner, Bells" "okay, those are perfect") and Susannah's commentary on her latest painting.

"So how's Conrad?" Susannah asked as Jeremiah plated the japchae. Casual, but Belly caught the slight tension in his shoulders.

"Busy. Really busy." Belly kept her eyes on the scallions. "He's doing his clinical rotations now. Barely sleeps."

"He called last week," Susannah said. "Sounded exhausted. I told him to take care of himself, but you know Conrad. Doesn't listen."

"Never has," Jeremiah muttered, carrying plates to the table.

"Be nice," Susannah chided, but without heat. She looked at Belly. "Med school's intense."

"Yeah." Belly didn't know what else to say. The distance between her and Conrad felt too big to explain, too complicated to untangle in front of his mother.

Jeremiah glanced at her, something understanding in his eyes, but he just gestured to the table. "Food's ready. Let's eat before it gets cold."

They settled around the dining table—a tablecloth with paint stains, candles already lit. The food looked incredible.

"This is amazing, Jere," Belly said after the first bite. The japchae was perfectly seasoned, glass noodles slippery and sweet.

"Told you I got good." He was trying to sound smug but looked pleased.

Susannah reached over and squeezed his hand. "He really did. I'm very lucky."

"Mom."

"What? I'm grateful my son can cook. Means I get fed properly."

"You'd eat paint if I let you."

"That was one time and I thought it was yogurt."

Belly laughed—really laughed—for the first time in months. "You ate paint?"

"It was in a yogurt container!" Susannah defended. "How was I supposed to know?"

"Maybe by looking at it?" Jeremiah deadpanned. "It was titanium white, Mom. Not exactly Greek yogurt consistency."

"I was distracted!"

"You're always distracted."

Belly set her fork down, watching him. "You know, you're really good at this. Like, really good."

"At what? Stopping Mom from eating art supplies?"

"No, I mean—" She gestured at the spread. "Cooking. This whole thing. You made it look easy."

He shrugged, suddenly focused on his plate. "It's just food, Bells."

"It's not just food. This is like, restaurant quality. Better than half the places Conrad dragged me to in Boston."

His ears went pink. "I mean, I've been doing it for a while now. It's not that hard once you figure out the basics."

"Have you ever thought about doing something with it?"

He looked up, genuinely confused. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Culinary school? Working at a restaurant? Catering?" She took another bite. "Jere, you could actually do this. Like, for real."

He laughed—not the easy one, the uncomfortable one. "Bells, come on. That's not—I can't just—"

"Why not?"

"Because—" He stopped. Started again. "My dad would lose his fucking mind. 'I paid for finance classes so you could flip burgers?' No way."

"But what do you want?"

The question hung there. Susannah had gone very still, watching her son.

"I don't know," he said finally. Quietly. "I've never really thought about it like that, you know? I just learned to cook because Mom needed—" He stopped, jaw working. "It was just survival. Not like, a career."

Susannah reached over and covered his hand with hers. "Sweetheart, it doesn't have to be one or the other. What you did for me—" Her voice caught. "That wasn't just survival. That was love. And maybe it could be more."

Jeremiah's throat worked. "Mom—"

"I'm just saying," she said gently, squeezing his hand. "You light up when you're in that kitchen. I see it. And clearly Belly sees it too." She smiled. "Your father doesn't get to decide what makes you happy."

"Yeah, well. Try telling him that."

"Maybe I will," Susannah said lightly. But her eyes were serious.

The doorbell rang, breaking the moment.

"Oh! That'll be Laurel." Susannah stood, but not before catching Jeremiah's eye—something passing between them that Belly couldn't quite read. Pride, maybe. Or permission.

"I got it. Sit." Jeremiah disappeared down the hall.

Belly heard the door open, Laurel's voice: "Is that my daughter I see through the window? Actually socializing?"

Laurel appeared in the doorway, holding a covered dish, Jeremiah trailing behind her. 

"Mom." Belly stood.

"Belly." Laurel set the dish down and pulled her into a quick hug. Then she turned to Jeremiah with a smile. "And Jere. I'm so glad I made it to this week's dinner. Sorry I've missed the last few—work's been insane."

Laurel often went to Boston or New York; she was always guest-lecturing at various universities while working on her latest books.  

"No worries, Laur. You're here now." Jeremiah grinned. "Plus you brought reinforcements, so you're forgiven."

Laurel laughed, gesturing to the covered dish. "Lemon tart. Heard through the grapevine someone's been craving it."

Jeremiah's eyes lit up. "Mom, you told her—"

"I may have mentioned it," Susannah said innocently from her seat.

"Consider it a thank you for all these dinners," Laurel said, settling into the fourth chair and accepting the plate Jeremiah handed her. She turned to Susannah. "How are you feeling?"

"Good days and bad days. Today's a good one." Susannah gestured to the spread. "As you can see, Jere outdid himself again."

"I can see that. Smells wonderful." Laurel took a bite, eyes widening. "Oh, this is really good, Jere."

The conversation flowed easily after that—Laurel and Susannah falling into their familiar rhythm, Belly and Jeremiah interjecting with commentary. They talked about Steven's new job ("He calls me every day to complain about spreadsheets"), Taylor's latest drama, and the upcoming holidays.

At some point, Belly noticed she and Jeremiah were talking over each other, finishing sentences, falling into jokes only they understood. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this light, this... herself.

Susannah and Laurel noticed too. Belly caught them exchanging a look—not sly, not knowing. Just... pleased. The way moms look when their kids are happy.

When dinner was cleared and the lemon tart appeared—perfect and golden, dusted with powdered sugar—Jeremiah and Belly did dishes side by side, him washing, her drying.

"This was really nice," Belly said, hanging up the dish towel.

"Yeah?" He leaned against the counter, hands in his pockets. "Wasn't too weird?"

"No. It was... it was really good. Thank you. For inviting me."

"You don't have to thank me, Bells. You're always—" He stopped. "You're welcome here. You know that, right?"

She nodded, throat tight again.

"Same time next week?" he asked. Casual, but his eyes were hopeful.

"Yeah. I'd like that."

Laurel checked her watch from the table. "I should head out. Early morning tomorrow." She hugged Susannah, then Belly. "Don't be a stranger, okay? You're always welcome home."

"I know, Mom."

"Walk me out?" Laurel asked Susannah.

They disappeared, leaving Belly and Jeremiah alone in the kitchen. The music had shifted to something quieter—Carole King, maybe.

Susannah and Laurel came back in, both bundled in coats. "I'm walking Laurel to her car," Susannah announced. "You two stay, finish the wine if you want. There's more tart in the fridge."

They left in a flurry of goodbyes and reminders to text when home safe.

The house went quiet. Just Belly and Jeremiah and the soft music.

"I should probably go too," Belly said, not moving.

"Or you could stay. Help me finish this." He held up the wine bottle—still half full.

She shouldn't. She had class tomorrow, PT in the afternoon. But...

"Okay. One more glass."

They settled on the couch—Susannah's couch, worn and comfortable, throw blankets everywhere. Jeremiah poured them both wine, then sank into the opposite end, feet tucked under him.

"Your mom looks really good," Belly said.

"Yeah. She does." He swirled his wine. "The trial worked. Like, actually worked. She still does maintenance treatment—couple times a year, just to be safe. But she's good. Clear scans for three years now."

"That's amazing, Jere."

"It is. It's—" He stopped, throat working. "I know how lucky we are. Every day."

She reached over and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

They sat like that for a while, just talking. About nothing, about everything. Classes and friends and the weird liminal space of senior year. Belly told him about Jillian and Anika, the way they'd become her people when volleyball fell apart. He told her about the BEN guys, the chaos and brotherhood and how sometimes it felt like too much and not enough all at once.

"I'm glad you came," he said eventually. "Tonight. And to the diner. I'm just—I'm glad we're doing this again. Whatever this is."

"Me too." And she meant it.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it—Conrad's name on the screen. A text: Sorry for the radio silence. Drowning in work. Miss you.

The guilt hit immediate and sharp. She was here, on his mom's couch, drinking wine with his brother, feeling more like herself than she had in months.

Jeremiah noticed. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just—" She set her phone face-down on the couch. "Conrad."

"Ah." He took a long drink of his wine, then glanced at her. "Hey, um—you've had some wine. Do you want to just crash here? Conrad's old room. Sheets are clean and everything."

She started to protest. "I've only had like a glass and a half—"

"I know, I know. But it's late and—" He shrugged, suddenly a little uncertain. "I don't know. You don't have to. Just feels safer, you know?"

She looked at the clock. Nearly midnight. Then at her wine glass. She did feel it—not drunk, just warm and loose and honestly? She didn't want to leave. Didn't want to go back to her quiet apartment and overthink Conrad's text.

"Yeah. Okay. If your mom won't mind."

His face lit up. "Are you kidding? She'd be thrilled." He stood, stretching. "Come on. I'll grab you a toothbrush and stuff."

He led her upstairs—past Susannah's studio, past his room with the door half-open (unmade bed, clothes everywhere, exactly how she remembered), to Conrad's room at the end of the hall.

It looked frozen in time. High school trophies. AP Calc textbook on the desk. A faded Cousins Beach parking permit stuck to the mirror.

"Sheets are actually clean. Mom changes them like once a month even though he's never here." Jeremiah grabbed a spare toothbrush from the bathroom, set it on the dresser. "Towels are in the closet if you want to shower. And, uh—I'll be up for a while if you need anything."

"Thanks, Jere."

He paused in the doorway, hand on the frame. "For what it's worth? I'm really glad you stayed. Like, that you're here. Not just for dinner, but... yeah."

"Me too."

He smiled—small, real—and closed the door behind him.

Belly sat on the edge of Conrad's bed, phone in her hand.

A soft knock on the door pulled her from sleep she hadn't quite fallen into yet.

"Belly?" Susannah's voice, gentle. "You still awake, sweetheart?"

"Yeah. Come in."

The door opened, revealing Susannah in her paint-stained robe, hair loose around her shoulders. She carried two mugs, steam rising in the dim light from the hallway.

"Thought you might want some tea. Chamomile. Can't sleep without it these days." She settled onto the edge of the bed, handing Belly a mug. "Old habit from treatment. The nurses used to bring it every night."

Belly sat up, accepting the warm ceramic. "Thank you."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both sipping. The house was quiet around them—just the distant hum of the city, the radiator clicking.

"You know," Susannah said, voice soft, "when Jere told me you were coming to dinner, he tried to play it cool. 'Just Belly, Mom. Don't make it weird.' But I saw his face. Haven't seen him that excited about a Wednesday in months."

Belly's cheeks warmed. "He's been really... he's been a good friend."

"He's been waiting for you to come back." Susannah's eyes were knowing. "Not to me. Not to the dinners. To him."

The words hung there, heavier than Belly expected.

"I didn't mean to—" Belly started. "We just drifted and I—"

"I know how it happened. Time, distance, life getting complicated." Susannah took a slow sip of tea. "Conrad needed you after I got sick. You were there for him. That mattered." She paused. "But Jeremiah—he just shut down. I tried to get through to him, but he just kept on that smile for me."

Guilt twisted in Belly's stomach. "Susannah, I—"

"I'm not blaming you, sweetheart. Please, my love, you have your own life. He needs to find his." She squeezed Belly's hand. "I'm just saying—he's been lonely. The parties, the rush chair thing, all of it... he keeps himself so busy he doesn't have to feel it." She smiled. "But tonight at dinner? That was my Jere. The real one. The one who laughs with his whole chest and lights up a room just by being in it."

Belly thought about the diner, the way he'd deflected every vulnerable moment with a joke. Before I start quoting emo lyrics or whatever.

"He does that thing," Belly said quietly. "Where he makes everything seem fine even when it's not."

"He learned that from me." Susannah's voice held an old ache. "Watching me pretend I was okay during chemo. Thought if he could just keep everyone else happy, maybe it would hurt less." She paused. "When you two were kids—back when the beach house felt like the whole world—he was never performing with you. He was just... Jere. Sticky popsicles and sunburned shoulders and that terrible knock-knock joke phase."

Belly laughed despite herself. "Oh God, the knock-knock jokes."

"Exactly." Susannah's eyes crinkled. "That's what I heard tonight." She reached over, squeezed Belly's hand again. "Whatever this is between you two, you're both still figuring out—don't let another four years pass. You need each other in your lives. Maybe more than either of you wants to admit."

Belly's throat went tight. "But Conrad."

"I know." Susannah's voice held no judgment. Just truth. "And Conrad loves you. I see it every time he talks about you. You deserve to have Jeremiah in your life too. He will understand." She stood, collecting both mugs. "I'm not telling you what to do, sweetheart. I'm just saying—pay attention. To what you feel. To what you need. And maybe... to what Jere isn't saying out loud."

At the door, she paused. "You're always welcome here, Belly. Wednesday dinners, random Tuesday nights, whenever you need somewhere to land. This house is yours too."

"Thank you, Susannah."

"Sleep well, sweetheart."

The door closed softly. Belly lay back down, Susannah's words echoing: Maybe more than either of you wants to admit.

Jeremiah's door was cracked open across the hall. He'd heard his mom's soft knock, the low murmur of their voices. He couldn't make out words, but he didn't need to.

When his mom emerged, she caught his eye through the gap in his door. She didn't smile—just looked at him with that expression that meant I see you, and I know.

He looked away first.

She pulled his door open wider, stepped inside. Sat on the edge of his bed in the dark.

"She's good for you," Susannah said quietly. "You know that, right?"

"Mom—"

"I'm not pushing. I'm just saying—tonight you looked like yourself again. The you I was afraid you'd forgotten how to be."

"It's not like that. She's with Con."

"I know." Susannah brushed the hair off his forehead, the way she used to when he was little. "But she's here. In this house. And you're smiling like you used to. That matters too."

"Why didn't you tell me?" The words came out sharper than he meant. "About her knee. The surgery. Four months, Mom."

Susannah's hand stilled against his hair. "You didn't know." Not a question.

He sat up, jaw tight. "At a party. She just—said it. Like it was nothing. And I stood there like an idiot because nobody thought to mention that Belly tore her fucking ACL and had surgery."

"You're at the same school." Susannah's voice was gentle but pointed. "How did you not know?"

The question hung there. Heavy. True.

He looked away. "I don't know. We just... we don't talk."

"I know." She sighed, the sound carrying years of watching them drift. "I'm sorry, baby. You're right—I should have said something. I kept thinking it wasn't my place, that it was between you two. But maybe I was wrong." She squeezed his shoulder. "You miss her. And she misses you. That's been obvious every single Wednesday you ask about everyone except her."

Something twisted in his chest. She was right.

"You two used to be best friends," Susannah said quietly. "Before everything got complicated. Before Conrad, before the distance, before you both got so good at pretending you were fine." She paused. "That girl came here tonight because she needed her friend back. And I think you need yours too."

"It's not that simple."

"It could be." Susannah stood, kissed his temple. "You don't have to fix everything tonight, Jere. Just—don't let another four years pass. Okay?"

She left him in the dark.

Jeremiah stared at the ceiling for a long time, her words echoing.

You're at the same school. How did you not know?

Like old times, he thought.

But it didn't feel old. It felt like standing at the edge of something he didn't have a name for yet.

Morning light filtered through the curtains. Belly woke disoriented—Conrad's room, Conrad's bed, but not Conrad's Boston.

Her phone showed three texts from Conrad, sent around 2 a.m.:

Conrad: Sorry for the delay. clinic ran long
Conrad: Miss you
Conrad: Call when you can?

She typed back:

Belly: Miss you too. Stayed at your mom's last night after dinner. have class at 10 but i'll call after

Downstairs, the smell of coffee pulled her from the room. She found Jeremiah at the stove, still in sleep-rumpled clothes, hair everywhere, making eggs.

"Morning. Coffee's fresh. Eggs in like two minutes."

"You didn't have to—"

"I was making them anyway. Plus Mom would kill me if I let you leave without feeding you." He slid a plate toward her. "Scrambled okay?"

"Perfect."

They ate in comfortable silence. Susannah appeared halfway through, paint already on her hands, smiling at the sight of them.

She kissed the top of Jeremiah's head, grabbed an apple. "Drive safe, sweetheart."

When she left, Belly checked the time. "I should probably head out. Class at ten."

"Yeah. Me too. Lifeguard shift." He walked her to the door, handed her her jacket. "Thanks for staying. For real."

"Thanks for asking."

He grinned. "Anytime, Bells. Wednesday?"

"Wednesday."

She turned to leave, then looked back. "Hey, Jere?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad we're doing this. Whatever this is."

His smile softened—dimples showing, eyes warm. "Yeah. Me too."

Outside, the air was cold and sharp. But she felt warm all the way to her car.

Chapter Text

The second Wednesday felt different.

Belly stood outside the Fisher house with a paper bag from the Italian bakery on Newbury, the one Susannah used to love. Inside: cannoli, still cold from the walk over, and a loaf of their rosemary focaccia that smelled so good she'd almost eaten it on the train.

She hadn't planned to bring anything. But Tuesday night, lying in bed, she'd thought about showing up empty-handed again and it felt... wrong. Like she was still a guest instead of—

What?

She didn't have a word for it yet.

The door opened before she could knock.

Jeremiah stood there in joggers and a faded Finch Swimming tee, hair damp like he'd just showered, barefoot. He looked surprised, then pleased, then tried to hide both behind that easy grin.

"You're early."

"I brought bribes." She held up the bag. "In case you were thinking of uninviting me."

"Bells, you know Mom would literally never forgive me." But he stepped aside, letting her in. "What'd you bring?"

"Cannoli from Vittorio's. And focaccia."

He stopped walking. Turned to look at her. "You went to Vittorio's?"

"Is that weird?"

"No, it's just—" His throat worked. "Mom used to get cannoli from there. Every time she had a good scan, that's where we'd go."

"I know." Quietly. "She told me once. I just... I thought maybe..."

She trailed off, suddenly unsure. Maybe it was too much. Maybe she was overstepping. They'd had one dinner, one late-night diner trip, and now she was showing up with memory-laden pastries like she belonged here.

But Jeremiah's expression had gone soft. Real. The grin was gone, replaced by something that looked almost like relief.

"Thank you," he said. "Really. She's gonna lose her mind."

The kitchen smelled like ginger and garlic. Susannah was already at the island, sketching something in charcoal, hands covered in black smudges. She looked up when they entered.

"Belly! You're here." Then her eyes landed on the bag. "Is that from—"

"Vittorio's," Belly confirmed, setting it on the counter. "Thought we could have dessert that wasn't pie."

Susannah's eyes went bright and glassy. She crossed the kitchen in three steps and pulled Belly into a hug that smelled like turpentine and lavender.

"You sweet girl," she murmured into Belly's hair. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

When Susannah pulled back, she was smiling. "Jere, you better make something good enough to deserve those cannoli."

"Already on it." He was at the stove, pulling ingredients from the fridge. "Thought I'd try something new tonight. Korean short ribs. Belly's been stuck eating dining hall food all week."

"How did you—"

"Anika texted me." He didn't look up from the marinade he was whisking, but his ears went pink. "She said you've been living off cereal and those protein bars that taste like cardboard."

Belly's stomach did something complicated. "Anika has your number?"

"She asked for it last week. Said someone needed to make sure you were eating." He glanced over his shoulder, grinning now. "Direct quote: 'Your girl is turning into a goblin. Intervene.'"

"She did not say that."

"She absolutely did. I have screenshots."

Susannah was watching them with barely concealed delight, charcoal still smudged across her cheek.

"Well," she said lightly, settling back onto her stool. "Sounds like Anika's got good instincts."

They fell into the rhythm easier this time.

Belly chopped vegetables while Jeremiah worked the stove, Susannah providing commentary on absolutely nothing useful. The music was different tonight—Japanese Breakfast, something dreamy and layered that made the kitchen feel smaller, warmer.

"So," Susannah said, not looking up from her sketch. "Thanksgiving's next week."

Jeremiah's hand stilled for half a second on the wooden spoon.

"Yeah," Belly said carefully. "My mom's doing the big thing. Turkey, the whole deal."

"Conrad's coming home." Susannah's voice was casual, but her eyes flicked to Jeremiah.  

"Yeah, he just booked last night," Belly said, even though something in her chest tightened.  

Jeremiah said nothing. Just stirred the marinade with slightly more force than necessary.

"You're coming, right, Jere?" Susannah continued. "Laurel invited us. Said it wouldn't be Thanksgiving without the Fishers."

"Wouldn't miss it," Jeremiah said. Too bright. Too easy.

Belly caught his eye across the kitchen. Something passed between them—acknowledgment, maybe. Or dread. She wasn't sure which.

Dinner was perfect.

The short ribs fell apart under her fork, sweet and savory and so tender she made an embarrassing sound on the first bite. Jeremiah tried to look modest and failed completely.

"Okay, this is ridiculous," Belly said, pointing her fork at him. "When did you get this good?"

"I've always been this good. You just weren't paying attention."

"Last time you cooked for me you burned Shin Ramyun."

"That was one time, and the stove was broken."

"The stove was not broken, Jere."

Susannah was watching them over her wine glass, that same pleased expression from earlier. Like she was watching something she'd been waiting for.

"So, Belly," she said. "How's school? PT going well?"

"Yeah. My physical therapist says I'm ahead of schedule, actually." She pushed rice around her plate. "Which is good. I mean, I won't be playing this season, but... maybe next year."

"That's wonderful news, sweetheart."

"It is. It's just—" She stopped. "I don't know. I keep thinking about what comes after. Like, what if I can't play at the same level? What if—"

"Then you figure it out," Jeremiah said. Simply. "You're not just volleyball. You're like—so many other things."

She looked at him, something warm spreading through her chest.

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Definitely." He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then looked away, clearing his throat. "Anyway. You're gonna be fine."

Susannah was watching them again, that soft expression back on her face.

After the cannoli had been devoured and Susannah had gone upstairs to paint, Belly and Jeremiah did dishes side by side.

"Thanks for tonight," she said, handing him a plate to dry. "For cooking. For... all of it."

"You brought cannoli. Pretty sure that makes us even."

"Still."

He was quiet for a moment, focused on the dish in his hands.

"Thanksgiving's gonna be weird, huh?"

She glanced at him. "Probably."

"When's the last time you saw him? Conrad."

"September. Right before my surgery." She scrubbed at a pot harder than necessary. "He came down for it. Held my hand in pre-op, stayed the whole day." She paused. "We promised we'd FaceTime every day after. Maybe make up for all the time apart."

"And?"

"We lasted about a week before it went to once a week. Now it's like... whenever he has time. Which is basically never."

Jeremiah's jaw tightened.

"I still can't believe I didn't know that." His voice went flat. "He didn't—" He stopped. Set the dish down with deliberate care. "He didn't tell me he was coming."

The words hung there. Heavy.

Belly looked at him. Saw the hurt he was trying to hide behind that careful neutral expression.

"Jere—"

"It's fine." But his hands had gone still. "Makes sense. He was busy. Quick trip."

"I'm sorry. I thought—I assumed he would've—"

"Yeah. Me too." He picked up another dish. Dried it too hard. "Anyway. That sucks, Bells."

He turned to face her, leaning against the counter, dish towel still in his hands. "You know you don't have to just... accept stuff, right? You're allowed to be mad. Or sad. Or whatever."

"I'm fine, Jere."

"You keep saying that. That's the problem."

The words hung there between them, too honest, too close to something neither of them was ready to name.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Conrad's name on the screen.

Conrad: Can't wait to see you next week. Miss you.

She stared at it. Her thumb hovered over the screen—that familiar pull to respond, to be the girlfriend who always answered. The glow reflected in the water still sitting in the sink, casting ripples of light across her wrist.

Then she locked the screen without responding.

Jeremiah dried the plate in his hands. Too hard. The dish towel squeaked against the ceramic. He didn't know why. Maybe he did.

"You should probably answer that," he said. Not looking at her.

"I will. Later."

He nodded, but something in his expression shifted when he finally glanced up. Relief, maybe. Or guilt. He couldn't tell which one felt worse.

"Same time next week?" he asked.

"Yeah. Same time."

But next week there would be Conrad. And everything would be different.

She just didn't know how different yet.

After Belly left, Jeremiah stood in the kitchen alone, the dish towel still in his hands.

He'd been avoiding this conversation since that first night talking to Belly, but a part of him needed his brother to know that he should have been told.

Okay, he should have paid closer attention, but still.  

His phone sat on the counter—Conrad's name in his contacts, right there, one tap away.

He picked it up. Typed: heard you were in town in september

Deleted it.

Tried again: belly told me about the surgery

Deleted that too.

Finally, something simpler: you good?

He hit send before he could overthink it.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then disappeared. Then nothing.

Jeremiah set the phone down. Stared at the screen. Waited.

Still nothing.

"Jere?" Susannah's voice came soft from the doorway. "You okay, honey?"

He turned, forcing a smile. "Yeah, Mom. Just cleaning up."

But Susannah always knows. She crossed the kitchen, wrapped her arms around him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder the way she used to when he was small.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about."

"Mm-hmm." She squeezed once, then let go. "Well. When there is something, you know where to find me."

She kissed his temple and disappeared upstairs, leaving him alone with the dishes and his silent phone.

Belly was in the athletic training room, knee propped on a foam roller, when her phone lit up.

Not a text. An email.

Subject: Study Abroad Spring Semester - Status Update

Her heart stopped.

Anika was beside her, stretching into a split that looked painful. "You good? You just went like, ghost white."

"I—" Belly's thumb was already swiping. "It's from the study abroad office."

"Wait, Paris?" Anika sat up. "Open it!"

The email was short. Clinical. The kind of language that tried to sound warm but was really just bureaucratic efficiency:

Dear Ms. Conklin,

We are pleased to inform you that a spot has become available in our upcoming Spring Paris program. Due to a recent withdrawal, we are able to offer you admission. Please confirm your acceptance within 48 hours...

The rest blurred.

Belly read it again. Then again.

"Oh my god." Her voice came out small. "I got in."

Anika shrieked. Loud enough that the athletic trainer looked over, annoyed.

"You got IN? Belly, that's huge!" Anika was already on her feet, pulling Belly up. "When do you leave?"

"I—" Belly scrolled. "January 15th. Spring semester."

"That's like, eight weeks. Holy shit, you're going to Paris."

Belly should've been screaming. Should've been calling her mom, texting Taylor, doing something other than standing there with her knee half-wrapped, staring at the words like they might disappear.

Please confirm your acceptance within 48 hours.

Forty-eight hours to decide if she was leaving. Leaving Finch. Leaving PT. Leaving—

Her phone buzzed again. Conrad.

Conrad: Call me when you can? Want to hear your voice.

She locked the screen.

"I need to—" She grabbed her bag. "I need to think."

"Think? Belly, this is Paris. What's there to think about?"

Everything. There was everything to think about.

She didn't go back to her apartment. Didn't text Taylor or Conrad or call her mom or do any of the logical things a person should do when their life just shifted sideways.

Instead, she found herself walking. Campus to the edge of town, past the coffee shop where she and Conrad used to meet before he left for med school, past the bookstore, past everything familiar until she ended up—

At the natatorium.

The building was all glass and cold November light. She could see the pool through the windows, that chemical blue, a few swimmers doing laps.

And there, at the far end, whistle around his neck, was Jeremiah.

She stood outside for a minute. Just watching. He was talking to a freshman who looked terrified, probably got caught running on the deck. Jeremiah's posture was casual, hands in the pockets of his red lifeguard shorts, but she could tell from the tilt of his head he was being firm. The kid nodded, apologized, walked away carefully.

Then Jeremiah turned. Saw her through the glass.

His whole face changed.

He said something to the other guard on duty, grabbed his hoodie from the chair, and jogged toward the door.

"Bells?" He pushed through, letting in a rush of warm, chlorine-thick air. "What are you—are you okay?"

"I got off the waitlist."

He went still. "For Paris?"

"Yeah." She couldn't read her own voice. "Email came through like an hour ago. I have forty-eight hours to decide."

"Belly." His eyes were bright, intense. "That's—that's incredible. That's what you wanted."

"Yeah."

"So why do you look like someone just told you bad news?"

She let out a laugh that wasn't really a laugh. "I don't know. I just—" She wrapped her arms around herself. "It's January 15th. That's so soon. And I'm finally getting back into shape, and my mom's gonna freak out about the logistics, and Conrad—" She stopped.

Jeremiah's jaw tightened. Just barely. "What about Conrad?"

"He wanted to take me. That was the whole plan. And now I'm going without him and I don't know if that's—if he'll—"

"Bells." He stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell chlorine and that cedar cologne he always wore. "Do you want to go?"

"I—yeah. I think so. I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Come on."

"What?"

"Come with me. I'm off in like ten minutes. Let me grab my stuff."

"Jere, you don't have to—"

"I know." But he was already heading back inside. "Just wait here."

He drove her to the overlook.

The one with the view of nothing and everything. This time it was daylight—gray November sky, bare trees, the faint shimmer of water in the distance.

They sat on the hood of the Jeep, shoulders touching, breath making small clouds in the cold.

"Okay," Jeremiah said. "Talk."

"About what?"

"About why you're freaking out over something you've wanted since like, forever."

She picked at a loose thread on her jacket. "What if I can't handle it? What if my knee—"

"Your PT said you're ahead of schedule."

"Yeah, but—"

"But what?"

"What if Conrad needs me and I'm not here?"

Jeremiah went very quiet. When he spoke again, his voice was careful. Measured. "Bells, when's the last time Conrad actually needed you?"

The question landed like a slap.

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" He turned to face her. "I'm not trying to be a dick. I'm just—when's the last time he made time for you? Like, really made time?"

"He's busy. Med school is—"

"I know what med school is. But you've been here. Waiting. And he's been there. And I just—" He stopped. Rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't want you to give up Paris because you're scared he'll be mad you didn't wait for him to take you."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it?"

She didn't answer. Because maybe it was.

"Look." He shifted, angling toward her. "You told me at the diner that he promised to take you. And I'm sure he meant it. But Bells, he's not taking you. He can't. And that's okay—his life is insane right now. But you can't put yours on hold waiting for his to calm down."

Her throat went tight. "What if I go and everything changes?"

"Then it changes." Simply. Like it was that easy. "But you'll be in Paris. And you'll have done something just for you. Not for volleyball. Not for your mom. Not for Conrad. Just you."

The wind picked up, rattling the trees. She pulled her jacket tighter.

"I'm scared," she admitted. Quietly.

"I know."

"What if I'm not ready?"

"You are."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do." He bumped her shoulder. "You're the girl who played an entire volleyball game on a bum ankle because you didn't want to let your team down. You're the girl who learned French just because you thought it sounded pretty. You're—" He stopped. "You're Belly. You've been ready for this your whole life."

Something in her chest cracked open.

"What about Wednesday dinners?" Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.

He was quiet for a second. Really quiet. Then: "I know how he feels."

She looked up at him, confused.

"Conrad. About you being far away." His jaw worked. "Even if he's already far away, if you're far away too... it'll feel like he's losing you. I get that." He turned to face her, eyes serious. "And if I were him? A part of me probably wouldn't want you to go either. That's—that's okay. That's perfectly human."

He paused. Let the words settle.

"But no one should stop you from what you want, Belly. Not him. Not me. Not anyone."

Her throat went tight. "Jere—"

"Go to Paris." Firm now. Final. "I'm not letting you give this up because you're scared. You deserve it. More than anyone I know."

She looked at him. Really looked. At the way his eyes held hers, steady and sure. At the set of his jaw, the way his hands were shoved in his hoodie pocket like he was physically restraining himself from saying more.

"We'll figure out Wednesday dinners if you really want," he added, softer now. "FaceTime. Carrier pigeon. Whatever."

"Okay," she whispered.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll go."

His smile was instant. Huge. But there was something underneath it—relief and loss tangled together.

He laughed, pulled her into a hug, and spun her around. "I'm proud of you."

"I haven't done anything yet."

"You said yes. That's everything."

She pulled back just enough to see his face. "Thank you. For this. For—"

"Don't." He shook his head. "You would've gotten there on your own."

"Maybe. But it helped. Hearing you say it."

They sat there a while longer. Not talking. Just the wind and the gray sky and the knowledge that in eight weeks, everything would be different.

Her phone buzzed. Conrad again.

She looked at it. Then at Jeremiah.

"You should probably tell him," Jeremiah said. Carefully neutral.

"Yeah. I should."

But she didn't reach for the phone. Not yet.

"He'll be happy for you," Jeremiah added. He knew Conrad would say the right things; he'd support her. 

"Yeah. He will."

The words hung there. Both of them knowing they were probably true. Both of them wondering why that didn't feel like enough.

That night, Belly sat on her bed, phone in her lap, the acceptance email still open on her laptop.

She called Conrad.

It rang four times. She was about to hang up when—

"Hey, babe. Sorry, just got out of rounds. What's up?"

"I got off the waitlist." She said it fast. Before she could lose her nerve. "For Paris. Spring semester."

Silence. Then: "Wait, seriously? Belly, that's incredible!"

His voice lifted—genuine excitement breaking through the exhaustion. "When do you leave?"

"January 15th."

"That's so soon. Wow." A pause. She could hear him moving, maybe sitting down. "I'm so proud of you. This is what you wanted, right? You're excited?"

"Yeah. I am. I'm also kind of terrified."

"You're gonna be amazing." Warmth there, real warmth. "God, I wish I could've taken you myself. That was the plan." A beat. "But you shouldn't wait for me. You know that, right? My schedule's—it's not getting better anytime soon."

"I know."

"This is better. You'll get the full experience. No med student dragging you to the one café with decent wifi so I can finish notes." He laughed, but it sounded tired. "You're gonna love it, Belly."

Probably better.

The words still sat in her chest like stones. Not because he was wrong. Because he was right.

"I'm gonna miss you," she said. Quietly.

"I miss you now." Honest. Sad. "But this is good. This is really good for you."

Another pause. She could hear voices in the background, someone calling his name.

"Listen, I gotta run. Early shift tomorrow and I still need to review labs. But seriously, Belly—I'm really happy for you. We'll FaceTime before I come home, okay? I want to hear all about it."

"Okay."

"I love you."

"Love you too."

The call ended.

She sat there, staring at the screen. He'd said all the right things. He meant them. She knew he did.

But somewhere in the spaces between his words, in the background voices and the exhaustion and the "gotta run"—she felt it. The distance would only get worse. 

Her phone buzzed. Jeremiah.

Jere: did you tell him?

Belly: yeah

Jere: and?

Belly: he's happy for me

A pause. Then:

Jere: good. he should be

Jere: you still freaking out?

Belly: a little

Jere: want me to come over? i'll bring food

She smiled despite herself.

Belly: i'm okay. but thanks

Jere: okay. but if you change your mind

Belly: i know

Jere: proud of you bells

Jere: see you wednesday. and thanksgiving

Right. Thanksgiving. When all three of them would be in the same room for the first time in months.

She locked her phone. Opened her laptop. Clicked the acceptance button before she could overthink it.

Congratulations! Your spot in the Spring Paris program has been confirmed.

Done.

In eight weeks, she'd be gone.

Chapter Text

THE NIGHT BEFORE

The Fisher kitchen smelled like cinnamon and something burning.

"Mom—Jesus, what the hell?" Jeremiah waved smoke away from his face, coughing. "Are we cooking or committing arson?"

"I'm fine! It's fine!" Susannah's voice came from somewhere in the haze. "I was just making those little cheese puff things for tomorrow."

"The ones I literally already said I'd make?"

"Well, I wanted to practice."

Jeremiah found her by the oven, hair pulled back with a paintbrush, oven mitts on both hands, staring at a tray of what might have once been phyllo dough but now looked like charcoal sculptures.

"Mom." He took the tray, set it on the counter. "This is literally a fire hazard."

"It's avant-garde." She kissed his cheek, leaving a smudge of flour. "Besides, you're the one who's good at this stuff. I'm just here for moral support."

"Your moral support almost burned the house down."

"Details." She waved a mitt at him. "Now, are you going to tell me why you've been stress-cooking since Tuesday, or do I have to guess?"

"I'm not stress-cooking. I'm just—you know, prepping for tomorrow. The dinner at the beach house that I volunteered to cook half of?"

"Mm-hmm. Stuffing, two pies, green beans, and those cheese things I just ruined? That's a lot of 'prep,' honey."

He scraped the cremated cheese puffs into the trash, avoiding her eyes. "I just want everything to go smoothly, okay? Is that so crazy?"

"It will." She leaned against the counter, watching him with that look—the one that saw too much. "Conrad's excited to be home. He called this morning asking what he should bring."

"Cool. That's fine."

"Isabel's coming to game night tonight."

"I know. I invited her."

"And Taylor. And Steven."

"Also invited by me."

"Jere."

He finally looked up. "What?"

Susannah studied him for a long moment, then smiled. "Nothing. Just... it'll be nice. All of us together tomorrow. At the beach house. Like always."

The doorbell rang before he could respond.

"That's them!" Susannah was already heading for the door, calling back, "And Jere? Maybe open a window. It smells like a pizza oven exploded in here."

"Thanks, Mom. Super helpful."

But he opened the window anyway.

Belly stood on the porch holding a bakery box, Taylor beside her scrolling through her phone. Steven's car pulled up just as Susannah opened the door.

"Perfect timing!" Susannah said, beaming. "All my favorites at once."

Steven jogged up the steps. "Susannah, you look amazing. Love the scarf."

"Oh, this old thing?" Susannah touched the silk at her neck, pleased. "Come in, come in. Jeremiah's in the kitchen having a mild breakdown."

"I can hear you!" Jeremiah called.

"Perfect!" Susannah ushered them all inside. "He needs intervention."

Taylor pocketed her phone. "What kind of breakdown? Scale of one to Conrad-during-finals?"

"Somewhere between perfectionist and unhinged," Susannah said. "I'll let you assess."

Steven was already halfway to the kitchen. "This I gotta see."

Belly followed, still holding the pie box. Taylor grabbed her arm.

"Five bucks says he remade something at least twice."

"I'm not taking that bet," Belly said. "I know him."

"Smart girl."

They headed toward the kitchen together, Susannah trailing behind with wine glasses.

The kitchen was cleaner than it should've been—every surface wiped down, mise en place containers lined up like soldiers, three different cutting boards drying by the sink. A handwritten list sat on the counter: Stuffing. Green beans. 2 pies. Cheese things Mom will try to make and I'll have to redo.

Jeremiah stood at the island, one hand braced against the counter, the other adjusting containers that didn't need adjusting.

Steven walked straight to the stove, lifting every lid. "Dude. What the hell is all this?"

"Tomorrow's food. Don't touch shit."

"It's Wednesday night." Steven grabbed a spoon before Jeremiah could stop him. Tasted it. "Holy shit. This is—what is this?"

"Test batch of the stuffing. And get the fuck out of there, I mean it."

"No, seriously." Steven took another bite. "This is insane. When did you get good at cooking?"

"YouTube. And spite." Jeremiah grabbed the spoon away. "Now stop sampling before there's nothing left."

"That's the most honest answer you've ever given me." Steven set the spoon down, studying him. "But for real—you all right? You're acting weird."

"I'm fine. Just want everything to work tomorrow."

"It's Thanksgiving, man. Conrad comes home, we eat too much, your mom and Laurel cry during the toast. Same as every year." Steven clapped his shoulder. "You don't need to stress."

Belly knocked on the doorframe, Taylor right behind her. "Hey."

Jeremiah looked up. His shoulders eased slightly. "Hey, Bells."

Steven glanced between them but said nothing. Just grabbed the bakery box from Belly's hands.

"Is that pie?" He opened it. "Wait, you actually remembered to bring something? Character growth."

"Shut up, Steven."

"I'm serious. Last time you showed up empty-handed and ate half my mom's appetizers."

"That was one time!"

"Three times." Steven examined the pie. "Apple. Fisher also made apple. You just bought his competition."

"It's not a competition," Jeremiah said.

"Everything's a competition." Steven pointed at the lattice crust. "Hers has this fancy weave thing. Yours doesn't."

"Because lattice is pretentious."

"Or because you can't do it."

"I can absolutely do lattice."

"Then why didn't you?"

Jeremiah opened his mouth, realized he'd been baited, and closed it. "You're the worst."

Steven grinned. "And you're neurotic. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on." He stopped himself. "It's Thanksgiving. That's all."

"It will be fine. It's literally just Thanksgiving." Steven was already heading toward the living room. "Now stop spiraling and come hang out before Taylor declares herself game queen without opposition."

"Too late!" Taylor called from somewhere. "Already happened!"

Steven disappeared. Taylor grabbed a carrot stick from the counter.

"He's right. You do seem extra tonight."

"I'm not extra."

"Your mom said you reorganized the spice cabinet."

"It needed it."

"Mm-hmm." Taylor grinned. "Anyway, I'm going to destroy everyone at Cards Against Humanity. You two coming, or are you gonna keep doing whatever this is?" She gestured vaguely at the kitchen before following Steven.

Silence settled.

Belly grabbed a carrot stick. "Come on. Before Taylor declares martial law."

He followed, grabbing the tray of cheese and crackers on his way out.

The living room had been transformed. Susannah's coffee table was covered in board games—Monopoly, Settlers of Catan, Cards Against Humanity, and something that looked suspiciously like a drinking game.

Steven was already sprawled in the armchair, one leg hooked over the arm. Taylor sat cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, shuffling cards with the focus of a Vegas dealer.

"All right, house rules," Taylor announced. "Losers do dishes tomorrow. Winners get first dibs on leftovers. And if anyone flips the board, they're banned for life."

"That was one time," Jeremiah protested, dropping onto the couch.

"You threw a hotel at Steven's head."

"He bought Boardwalk!"

"That's literally the point of Monopoly!"

"See?" Taylor pointed at Steven. "Even he agrees it was unhinged."

"Don't drag me into this," Steven said. "I'm Switzerland."

"Since when?" Taylor's voice had an edge. "You're never neutral about anything."

Steven's jaw tightened. "Taylor—"

"What? It's true." She went back to shuffling, sharper now.

The air shifted—just slightly. Jeremiah caught it, glanced at Belly. She'd noticed too.

Jeremiah pulled Belly down beside him on the couch, breaking the moment. "This is why we don't play Monopoly anymore."

"What are we playing then?"

Taylor held up the black box. "Cards Against Humanity. Mom-friendly edition."

"There's a mom-friendly edition?"

"No, but Susannah is cool, so we're gonna pretend there is."

Susannah appeared with glasses and a bottle of wine. "I've heard worse at book club. Deal me in."

"You're my hero," Taylor said, already pouring.

Steven reached for his glass. Taylor moved the bottle just out of reach. "Say please."

"Are you serious right now?"

"Manners, Princeton."

He snatched the bottle. "You're impossible."

"And you're predictable." But she was smiling now—sharp-edged, complicated.

Jeremiah caught Belly's eye. She bit back a grin.

The game devolved quickly—Taylor accusing everyone of cheating, Steven documenting "evidence," Susannah winning rounds she shouldn't have.

Twenty minutes in, Belly laid down her cards. "The secret to a lasting marriage: Ryan Gosling riding in on a white horse."

Taylor choked on her wine. "Belly!"

"What? It's true!"

Steven was already laughing. "That's not even an answer, that's just wish fulfillment."

Jeremiah leaned over to read her cards, close enough that she could smell his soap—something clean and cedar. "That's not even how the game works."

"It works if it's funny."

"Is it funny though?"

"Funnier than your answer."

"My answer was 'being rich.'"

"Exactly. Boring."

"Practical."

"Soulless."

He bumped her shoulder. "You're ruthless, Conklin."

"I'm winning, Fisher."

Taylor leaned back, grin widening. "This is painful to watch."

"We're playing a game."

"You're having entire conversations with your eyes. I forgot how you two can be."

Jeremiah's ears went pink. He grabbed another card without looking at Belly.

Steven was watching his sister and Jeremiah with an expression Belly couldn't quite read. Then he looked at Taylor, who was pointedly not looking back.

Three rounds later, Taylor played a card that made everyone groan.

"That's not even clever," Steven said. "That's just shock value."

"Says the guy who played 'dead parents' last round."

"That was strategic!"

"It was tasteless."

"You're just mad because you didn't think of it first."

Taylor threw a pillow at him. He caught it, grinning, and for a second the tension cracked—just two people who knew each other too well, fighting because it was easier than not fighting.

Then Taylor's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, expression flickering.

"Davis?" Steven's voice was too casual.

"None of your business, actually."

"Just asking."

"Well, don't." She stood, grabbing her wine. "Bathroom break. Don't cheat while I'm gone."

When she left, the room went quiet.

Steven stared at his cards. Jeremiah cleared his throat. "Dude—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay."

Belly reached for the chips, breaking the silence. "Your turn, Susannah."

Forty minutes later, Jeremiah was in the kitchen making more snacks. Belly helped him clean up after Taylor rage-quit Catan, stacking cards while he collected glasses.

Steven and Taylor's voices drifted from the living room—not arguing, exactly. Something quieter. More careful.

"They're a mess," Jeremiah said, loading the dishwasher.

"Yeah. They are."

"You think they'll ever figure it out?"

Belly thought about it. "I don't know. Maybe they're not supposed to."

He looked at her then, something complicated in his expression. "Yeah. Maybe."

The November air was sharp. Belly pulled her jacket tighter, breath misting. Steven and Taylor were already in his car, still arguing.

"Thanks for tonight. I needed this."

"Yeah? PT kicking your ass?"

"That, and... I don't know. Just everything." She leaned against her car. "It's nice, being here. With you guys."

"It is."

She studied him for a moment. The porch light caught the side of his face, shadowing the rest.

"Goodnight, Jere."

"Night, Bells."

He watched her taillights disappear, Steven's car following close behind. Then he stood there a while longer, breath clouding in the cold, before heading inside.

He went upstairs, fell into bed, and stared at the ceiling until his phone buzzed.

Belly: thanks again for tonight. see you tomorrow 💙

He typed back: anytime bells. sleep well

Set his phone down. Closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, Conrad would be home.

THANKSGIVING MORNING

Jeremiah woke up to his phone buzzing at 6 a.m.

Conrad: landing at 2. need a ride from airport?

He stared at the text. The smart thing—the self-preservation thing—would be to say he was busy. Already committed to helping at the beach house. Let Conrad take an Uber or ask Steven. 

But that wasn't how this worked. That wasn't how they worked.

Jere: yeah man. text me when you land

Conrad: thanks bro

Jeremiah set his phone down and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Two hours round trip to Logan. Then back to Cousins. Talking about med school, probably. And Belly. Definitely Belly.

"Shit," he muttered to the empty room.

But he'd do it anyway.

Because that's what you did for family. Even when it hurt.

Downstairs, Susannah was already up, humming something off-key while she wrestled with Tupperware containers.

"Morning, sunshine." She didn't look up. "Sleep all right?"

"Fine." He grabbed coffee, doctored it with too much cream. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep. Too excited." She finally got a lid to snap into place, triumphant. "I love Thanksgiving. All of us together, eating too much, laughing—"

"Mom."

"What?"

"The cheese puffs from last night are still in the trash. Maybe let me handle the cooking today?"

She threw a dish towel at him. "I'm helping with the cranberry sauce and you can't stop me."

"The cranberry sauce comes from a can."

"Exactly. Foolproof."

He caught the towel, grinning despite himself. This was the Susannah he loved—chaotic, warm, refusing to let anything dim her light. Even when that light flickered sometimes, when she got tired too fast or her hands shook just slightly when she thought no one was looking.

"Conrad texted. He's landing at 2. I'm gonna go grab him from Logan."

"Oh wonderful." Her whole face brightened. "I was worried he'd get stuck in airport traffic. You're such a good brother, you know that?"

He shrugged, grabbing the first Tupperware container. "I'm gonna start loading the car. We need to be at Cousins by nine if I'm gonna get everything in the oven on time."

"Jeremiah Fisher, master of Thanksgiving logistics." She kissed the top of his head. "Thanks for driving. I know you hate holiday traffic."

"I'd drive through hell for you, Mom. Morning traffic's nothing."

The Cousins beach house kitchen was fucking gorgeous—way bigger than the one back in Boston, with that massive island in the center where Jeremiah had spent half his childhood. Pale wood everywhere, white cabinets stretching up to the vaulted ceiling with those exposed beams Susannah loved. Open shelving on one side, filled with her collection of mismatched bowls and pretty dishes she'd picked up over the years.  

He'd been here a thousand times. Every summer since he could remember. Winter breaks when Susannah wanted to paint the off-season light—said it was sharper, clearer, like the cold stripped everything down to what mattered. 

But today it felt different. Charged somehow.  

Laurel was already at the sink—Susannah's sink, technically, but Laurel had been cooking Thanksgiving here for years—sleeves rolled up, attacking a turkey with the kind of precision usually reserved for her novels.

"Morning, Laur." Susannah hauled in another container, still holding the beach house keys in her other hand. "We brought reinforcements."

"Thank God." Laurel looked up, hair escaping from its clip, reading glasses sliding down her nose. "I love this bird, but it's the size of a small child and I'm questioning all my choices."

"That's the Thanksgiving spirit." Jeremiah set his containers on the counter, already scanning the space. "Where do you want me?"

"Anywhere that's not in my way." But she was smiling. "Seriously though, Jere, thank you for doing this. I know it's a lot."

"Nah. I like cooking. It's like chemistry but, you know, you can eat the results and shit."

"And fewer explosions," a voice added from the doorway.

Jeremiah turned. Steven stood there, holding a bottle of wine, looking older somehow—expensive watch, button-down that probably cost more than Jeremiah's entire wardrobe, hair styled in that effortless way that definitely wasn't effortless.

"Steven! You're early." Laurel crossed the kitchen to hug him.

"Traffic wasn't bad coming down. Denise slept most of the way." He grinned at Jeremiah. "Plus, Jere is cooking. Had to make sure he didn't burn the place down."

"Dude, it was your fault."

"How was it my fault?"

"You distracted me during the crème brûlée torch situation."

"By asking a question!"

"A dumb question."

"There are no dumb questions, only dumb—"

"Boys." Laurel didn't look up from the turkey. "If you start fighting in my kitchen, you're both banned. Susannah, back me up."

"I'm staying out of it. I raised one of them, I know when to retreat."

Steven laughed, setting the wine on the counter. "Denise is grabbing stuff from the car. She'll be in in a sec." He turned to Jeremiah. "She's still nervous about meeting your mom. I told her Susannah's the least intimidating person on the planet, but—"

"She'll be fine. Mom loves everyone."

"Yeah, but you know. First big family thing."  

Before Jeremiah could respond, the back door opened.

Denise stepped in—dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, burgundy sweater, that same sharp confidence Jeremiah remembered from his birthday dinner. Her eyes swept the kitchen, taking everything in.

"Hey." She spotted him immediately. "There's the birthday boy. Twenty-one treating you well?"

"Can't complain." He grinned. "It's great to see you again."

"You too. And in your natural habitat." She gestured at the stove, the mise en place. "Steven said you'd be running the show today."

"Trying to, anyway."

"See? Told you." Steven draped an arm around her shoulders.

"This looks pretty legit. What are we working with?"

"Green beans with almonds, homemade stuffing, couple pies."

"Homemade." She raised an eyebrow. "Ambitious."

"Or stupid. Depends how it turns out."

She laughed—quick and real. "I respect the confidence. Last time I tried to cook for Steven, I set off three smoke alarms."

"The eggs," Steven and Jeremiah said in unison.

"Oh my God, you told him?" Denise turned to Steven, mock-offended. "That was supposed to stay between us."

She pointed at him. "But for the record, I've gotten better. I can now make toast without incident."

"Progress."

"This is Susannah." Laurel gestured. 

"Hi." Denise immediately shifted gears—warmer, more careful. "Thank you so much for having me. I know it's last minute—"

"Don't be silly." Susannah pulled her into a quick hug. "Any friend of Steven's is family. And anyone who can make my son laugh like that is already winning."

Denise's shoulders dropped slightly—relief. "Well, he makes it easy. Your son's pretty funny."

"He is." Susannah's eyes were soft with pride. "Though he works very hard to make it look effortless."

"Mom—"

"What? It's true." She turned back to Denise, still smiling. "Wine? You look like you could use some."

"God, yes. Thank you."

As Susannah poured wine, the back door opened again. Taylor's voice carried in first—loud, bright, unmistakable.

"We come bearing gifts! Well, Belly does. I just drove."

Belly appeared behind her, holding a bakery bag, cheeks pink from the cold. She was wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.

"Morning." She smiled at the room. Her eyes found Jeremiah's immediately. Then she crossed to Laurel, hugging her mom quick before bumping Steven's shoulder—habitual sibling greeting.

"Hey, Bells." Something in his chest eased. "Made good time."

"Told you I would." She set the bag on the counter. "Taylor drove like a maniac, but we're here."

"I drove the speed limit," Taylor protested, already grabbing a wine glass. "It's not my fault you're a nervous passenger."

"You took that turn on two wheels."

"Dramatic."

Laurel looked up from the turkey, amused. "Taylor Jewel, terrorizing passengers since she got her license."

"Mrs. Conklin, I'm an excellent driver. Your daughter just doesn't appreciate my skills."

Steven snorted from across the kitchen. "Your 'skills' got you two tickets last year."

"One was a speed trap. The other was... also a speed trap."

"Both were you going twenty over."

"Allegedly."

Denise was watching this exchange with clear entertainment, wine glass halfway to her lips. "I like her already."

"Don't encourage her," Steven said, but he was grinning.

Jeremiah moved to the counter, closer to where Belly stood. "What'd you bring?"

"Rosemary rolls. From that bakery on Newbury you like."

He looked at her, something warm flickering in his expression. "You remembered."

"Of course I did." She shrugged, but she was smiling. "Plus, you've got pie covered. Figured we needed bread."

"Smart thinking." He took the bag, peeked inside. "These are perfect." 

Her face went a little pink. "It's just bread, Jere."

"Yeah, but you drove out of your way. That's not nothing."

"Taylor didn't mind."

"Still." He bumped her shoulder. "Thanks, Bells."

"Anytime."

Steven's voice cut through: "Are we having a moment over here, or can I steal one of those rolls?"

"Touch them and die, Conklin," Jeremiah said, not looking away from Belly.

"So aggressive."

Belly laughed, soft and familiar. Close enough now that he could smell her shampoo—something citrusy. "Need help with anything?"

"You offering to cook?"

"I'm offering to not get in your way. There's a difference."

"Good call." He gestured toward the green beans. "You can trim those if you want. Keeps you busy, makes you look useful."

"Wow. Such a privilege."

"I know, right? I'm very generous."

She rolled her eyes but grabbed the cutting board anyway, settling in beside him at the counter. Taylor had already migrated to Susannah and Denise, the three of them clustered by the wine, voices blending into easy conversation.

The kitchen felt fuller now. Good-full. The kind of chaos that meant family, even when family was complicated.

Jeremiah grabbed his wooden spoon—the one with the burned handle—and went back to stirring the pot on the stove.

Belly glanced at it, a small smile tugging at her lips. "That's the famous spoon, huh?"

"The one and only."

"Steven told me about the crème brûlée incident."

"Of course he did." But he was grinning. "This spoon's been through hell."

"And you still won't replace it."

"Why would I? It's got character."

"It's a safety hazard."

"It's a conversation starter." He bumped her shoulder lightly. "And clearly it works."

She shook her head, still smiling, and went back to trimming green beans.

For a second, it was just the two of them—surrounded by noise and people and Thanksgiving chaos—but somehow separate from it. Easy. Right.

Then Steven's voice cut through: "Fisher! You got a game plan for timing all this, or are we winging it?"

Jeremiah turned, wooden spoon still in hand. "I've got timers. And a vague sense of when shit needs to come out of the oven."

"That's... not reassuring."

"It'll be fine."

"Will it though?"

Laurel looked up from the turkey, a small smile on her face. "Jere's been helping with Thanksgiving here for years. He knows what he's doing."

"Helping, sure," Steven said. "But running half the show?"

"We walked through it. He's got this."

Jeremiah's ears went a little pink. "See? Laur has faith in me."

"I have faith you won't burn the beach house down. Beyond that, we'll see."

Steven grinned. "Wow. Such a ringing endorsement."

"Look, worst case, we order pizza. Best case, I'm everyone's hero. Either way, we're eating."

Denise laughed. Susannah was smiling into her wine glass.

Belly looked up from the green beans, caught his eye, and bit back a grin.

Yeah. This was going to be a long day.

But maybe that was okay.

An hour into the organized chaos, the front door opened.

"Hello? Anyone home, or did the turkey stage a coup?"

John Conklin's voice carried through the house—warm, teasing, exactly the energy needed to cut through kitchen tension.

Laurel looked up from basting. "In here! And the turkey's winning."

John appeared in the doorway, holding a bakery box and a bottle of something that looked expensive. He'd dressed up—button-down, nice jeans, the kind of effort that said I'm trying without screaming it.

"John!" Susannah crossed the kitchen to hug him. "You made it."

"Wouldn't miss it." He handed her the bottle.

John set the bakery box on the counter. "Pecan pie. Because apparently we can never have too much pie in this house."

Steven grabbed the box, examining it. "Nice. Thanks, Dad."

"Figured I should contribute something other than my sparkling personality." John clapped his shoulder, then moved through the kitchen, hugging Belly, shaking Denise's hand with the kind of easy charm that Steven had clearly inherited.

"Denise! Steven's told me all about you. Well, not all. He's annoyingly vague about the important stuff."

"Dad—"

"What? I'm just saying. 'She's great, Dad. You'll like her.' That's not a profile, that's a fortune cookie."

Denise laughed, relaxing immediately. "It's great to meet you, Mr. Conklin."

"John. Please. Mr. Conklin makes me sound like I have my life together." He gestured at the chaos. "Which, clearly, I don't."

"None of us do," Susannah said. "That's why we're all here."

"Amen to that."

The kitchen settled into a new rhythm. John stationed himself at the island, helping Laurel with side dishes while trading barbs with Steven. Denise and Susannah were deep in conversation about art—Denise mentioning a gallery opening, Susannah lighting up at the chance to talk about painting again.

Taylor had migrated to the stove, bothering Jeremiah.

"So when do you have to leave?" she asked, stealing a piece of bread.

"Around one-thirty. Gotta get to Logan, then back here."

"You're really driving all the way up there to get Conrad?"

"Yeah. Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Seems like a lot. He couldn't just Uber?"

"He asked me," Jeremiah said. "It's not a big deal."

"If you say so."

"I do."

Taylor studied him for a moment, then stole another piece of bread. "You're a good brother, Jeremy."

She grinned, bumping his shoulder before wandering back to the wine.

Belly replaced her at the stove a minute later, hands full of trimmed green beans.

"These good?" she asked.

"Perfect." He took the bowl, set it aside. "Thanks, Bells."

"Anytime." She leaned against the counter, watching him work. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one you get when you're thinking too much."

He glanced at her, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm fine. Just trying to make sure everything's timed right, you know?"

"It will be." She said it with such certainty that something in his chest loosened. "You've got this, Jere."

He bumped her hip with his. "Stop being supportive. It's throwing me off."

"Never."

By noon, the kitchen had hit its stride. Jeremiah moved between the stove and oven with the kind of focus that came from YouTube tutorials and too much caffeine. Laurel had finally wrestled the turkey into submission. John was chopping vegetables with surprising competence. Steven and Denise were taste-testing everything within reach.

Susannah's phone rang.

She glanced at the screen, then stepped into the hallway. "Adam! Hi—yes, we're at the beach house. Everything's going great."

Her voice faded as she moved toward the front of the house.

Jeremiah's shoulders tensed slightly. Belly noticed—she always did—but didn't say anything. Just stayed close, trimming the last of the green beans.

A few minutes later, Susannah reappeared, phone still in hand, expression harder to read.

"Everything okay?" Laurel asked.

"Fine. Adam's stuck at the office. Said he'll try to make it for dessert, but..." She trailed off, then smiled—bright, practiced. "More pie for us, right?"

It was a two-hour drive from Boston on a good day. Thanksgiving traffic? Three, maybe four. They both knew he wasn't coming.

"Right," Jeremiah said, voice flat.

Susannah crossed to him, squeezed his shoulder. "He wanted to be here, honey. Work just—"

"I know, Mom. It's fine. Really."

"Jere—"

"It's fine." He didn't look up from the pot.

The kitchen went quiet for half a beat. Then John cleared his throat.

"Laurel, where'd you hide the good carving knife? This one's duller than my sense of direction."

The tension broke. Laurel pointed to a drawer. "Second one down. And don't cut yourself. I don't have time for a hospital run."

"No promises."

At 1:30, Jeremiah wiped his hands on a towel and checked his phone. Conrad had texted fifteen minutes ago: landed. grabbing bags.

"I gotta head out."

"Wait—" Steven set down his wine glass. "I can grab him. You've been cooking all day."

"Nah, man. I'm good."

"Seriously," Belly added, looking up from the green beans. "I don't mind. You should stay and—"

"He asked me," Jeremiah said, already grabbing his keys. "I got it. Just—seriously, don't burn my shit while I'm gone, okay?"

Steven raised his hands. "I got it, Jere."

"I'm serious, Conklin. If my stuffing's ruined, we're fighting."

He was out the door before anyone could argue.

The arrivals area was chaos—families reuniting, rideshares honking, someone's suitcase exploding open near the curb.

Jeremiah pulled up to the pickup zone, scanning the crowd.

And then he saw him.

Conrad stood by the baggage claim doors, duffel slung over one shoulder, looking exactly like he always did—tired, serious, like the weight of the world lived permanently in his jaw.

But when he spotted the Jeep, his face softened. Just a little. Just enough.

Jeremiah leaned over, popped the passenger door open. "Hey, man. Welcome home."

Conrad's whole expression shifted—something like relief. He tossed his bag in the back, climbed in. "Thanks for doing this. I know it's out of your way."

"Are you kidding? It's Thanksgiving." Jeremiah pulled back into traffic. "Besides, Mom would kill me if I let you Uber."

Conrad laughed—quiet, but real. "True."

Jeremiah merged onto the highway. Silence settled—not uncomfortable exactly, just... there. He turned up Fleetwood Mac, then immediately turned it back down.

"So. Flight sucked, I'm guessing?"

"Long. Some guy behind me coughed for three straight hours."

"Fucking nightmare."

"Pretty much."

Jeremiah drummed his fingers on the wheel. "School's good?"

"Yeah, it's—" Conrad stopped, like he was deciding how much to say. "It's good. Busy. Mom said you're cooking today?"

"Yeah, well. Someone's gotta feed everyone, and Laur asked, so." He shrugged. "Figured I'd help out."

"That's cool. She appreciates it."

"Yeah."

More quiet. Jeremiah's thumb tapped the steering wheel. He wanted to ask about the surgery.

Then Conrad said, "So, uh. Belly's ACL."

Jeremiah's grip tightened slightly on the wheel. "Yeah. I heard. That was—fuck, man. That was really bad."

"Yeah." Conrad scrubbed a hand over his face. "I should've called you when it happened. Let you know. I wasn't trying to shut you out, it just—everything happened so fast. One minute she's playing, next thing I know she's in the ER and they're talking surgery and—" He stopped. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. She told me about it." Jeremiah kept his eyes on the road. "I'm glad you were there for her."

"She'd ask about you all the time, you know. Wanted to know how you're doing. I'm glad you guys are talking again. I mean it."

"Yeah, well. Thank god for Wednesday dinners then. Been busy. Rush chair shit, lifeguarding, you know, all that."

"Rush chair? That's a big deal."

"Someone's gotta herd the freshmen." Jeremiah shrugged.  

"You're probably good at it."

"Better than you'd be. You'd scare them all off."

"I absolutely would."

They drove in silence for a beat. Then Jeremiah let out a short laugh.

"What?" Conrad asked.

"Dad called last week." Jeremiah's voice went flat. "Wanna guess what he said?"

"Do I want to know?"

"Asked if I was still, quote, 'wasting time with that frat nonsense.'" Jeremiah did a pitch-perfect impression of their father—that fake regretful tone that didn't quite land. "Said I should focus on real opportunities. Whatever the fuck that means. Like he has any clue what I'm actually doing."

Conrad winced. "Sounds about right."

"Yeah, well. Then he hit Mom with the Thanksgiving excuse. Work emergency. Very sorry. Can't make it. The usual bullshit." He changed lanes harder than necessary. "Mom tried to act like it was fine. Did that whole 'he wanted to be here' thing."

"She always does."

"I know." Jeremiah's grip tightened on the wheel. His voice went quieter. "Doesn't make it less shitty."

Conrad was quiet for a long moment. "You remember when he missed your birthday? Sophomore year?"

"Which time?"

"Exactly." Conrad let out a breath. "I'm sorry, Jere. I know I'm not around much either. Med school's just—"

"It's different. You're actually doing something. He's just—" Jeremiah stopped, shook his head. "Forget it."

"No, I get it. He's never gonna change."

"Nope."

They sat with that for a minute. The highway stretched ahead, familiar and endless.

"How is Mom?" Conrad asked, voice quieter now. "Like, really."

Jeremiah thought about it. The good days and the hard ones. How she'd been painting again lately, which was good. But also how she got tired faster than she used to. How sometimes her hands shook when she thought no one was looking.

"She looks good, though. Stronger. Excited for today. Loves having everyone—" He stopped. "She's good, Con. I promise."

Conrad studied him, like he was trying to read between the lines. "You'd tell me if she wasn't, right?"

"Yeah. I would."

Conrad didn't look convinced, but he let it drop. "I worry about her. And you. Being there alone with her while I'm at school."

"I'm not alone. She's got friends, the art classes, all that." Jeremiah changed lanes. "And I'm fine. We're fine. I see her every Wednesday. Sometimes Sundays."

"Okay." Conrad looked at him for another beat, then nodded. "Okay."

The music filled the silence again. Jeremiah exhaled, hands loosening on the wheel.

"Thanks for picking me up," Conrad said after a while. "I know you had a lot going on today."

"Yeah, well. You're my brother." Jeremiah kept his eyes on the road. "That's what you do."

Conrad nodded. "Mom staying at the beach house tonight?"

"Yeah. I'm heading back to Finch after dinner."

"That's a long day."

"I'll survive." Jeremiah glanced over with a slight grin. "Wouldn't miss the chance to make you suffer through my cooking."

Conrad almost laughed. "Looking forward to it."

They fell quiet after that, letting the music and the road do the talking.

"Mom mentioned you're still thinking about what to do after graduation?"

"Yeah. Still figuring it out."

"Dad's still pushing Breaker?"

"Pretty much. He's got this whole plan. Me and Steven, taking over eventually. The Fisher-Conklin dream team or whatever."

"And you don't want that."

Not a question.

"Would you? If you actually had a choice?"

Conrad was quiet for a long moment. "Honestly? No. I'd hate it. The corporate thing, the suits, all of it." He paused. "But you've got options, Jere. You're talented at stuff. The cooking thing—Mom says you're really skilled."

"It's just cooking with mom."

"She doesn't think it's just cooking. And neither do I." Conrad looked at him. "You could do something with that. If you wanted."

"Yeah, maybe."

They were getting close to Cousins now. Jeremiah could see the familiar roads, the signs for the beach.

"Hey," Conrad said. "I'm serious though. Thanks for picking me up. And for... you know. Everything."

"Yeah, man. Anytime."

Conrad grinned. "It's great to be home."

"It's great to have you back, Con."

As Jeremiah turned onto the beach road, he could see the house in the distance through the bare November trees—white clapboard, blue shutters, string lights Susannah insisted on leaving up year-round even though half of them were burned out. The boardwalk was empty. The ocean looked mean and gray beyond it.

Windows glowing warm, cars already crowding the gravel driveway. He thought about Belly inside, probably at the sink, laughing at something Taylor said. Normal. Easy. The kind of scene he'd been holding together all day.

But as he pulled into the driveway, shells crunching under the tires, he couldn't shake the feeling that nothing about this was going to be fine.

They pulled up. Belly was already moving down the porch steps before they'd even cut the engine.

The second Conrad saw her, his whole face changed—the one that meant Conrad had finally found something worth caring about.

Conrad was out of the car before Jeremiah could say anything, taking the steps two at a time.

"Hey—"

She crashed into him, arms tight around his neck. He pulled her close, face buried in her hair, holding on like he'd been underwater and she was air.

Jeremiah grabbed the duffel from the back. Took his time with it. The porch light buzzed overhead—probably needed replacing—and inside someone was laughing. His mom, maybe. Or Laurel.

He stood there like an idiot, watching Conrad hold Belly like she was the only solid thing in the world.

This is how it goes, he thought. Con comes home, Belly lights up, everyone's happy. That's the script. You know the fucking script.

Knowing it didn't make it easier.

He shouldered the bag and made himself walk up the porch steps.

Conrad pulled back just enough to look at her. "Missed you."

"Missed you too." Belly's hand came up, brushing hair off his forehead. Automatic. Tender.

"You look like shit," she said, but her voice was soft.

"Thirty-hour shift. I'm fine now, though." Conrad kissed her—quick, sweet, like muscle memory.

Jeremiah made it to the porch. "Got your stuff."

Conrad turned, still close to Belly. His expression shifted—grateful, warmer. "Thanks, man. Seriously. I know you had—"

"Don't worry about it." Jeremiah set the duffel down, managed a grin. "Just don't tell me about every trauma case you saw on your shift. I'm trying to keep food down today."

Conrad almost smiled. "You got it, Jere." 

Belly stepped back from Conrad just enough to look at Jeremiah. "Drive okay?"

"Yeah. Smooth. Your boy here fell asleep ten minutes in, so I had full DJ control."

"Bullshit," Conrad said. "I closed my eyes for like two seconds."

"You were drooling on the window, Con."

"I don't drool."

"You absolutely drool." Jeremiah looked at Belly. "Back me up here. He drools."

She bit back a smile. "I plead the fifth."

"Traitor," both brothers said at the same time.

For half a second, it almost felt normal. The three of them standing there, the old rhythm trying to find its footing again.

Then Susannah burst through the door. "Conrad! Oh, honey, let me look at you."

Conrad moved toward his mom. Belly followed, her hand finding his without looking.

Jeremiah stood there one more beat—duffel at his feet, porch light still buzzing overhead.

He'd driven hours. Cooked since dawn. Held everything together.

And somehow, he was still the one on the outside looking in.

He picked up the duffel and followed them inside anyway. 

Chapter Text

The Cousins beach house kitchen was chaos in the best way.

Jeremiah stood at the massive island, arranging his dishes alongside Laurel's turkey and the side dishes everyone else had brought. Steam rose from half a dozen platters. The counters were covered—casseroles and serving bowls and that weird Jello mold John Conklin insisted on making every year even though nobody touched it.

"The Jello survived the drive," John announced, setting the wobbly green monstrosity on the counter with visible pride. "Didn't lose a single layer this time."

"Dad, nobody eats that," Steven said from across the kitchen.

"Your grandmother loved this recipe."

"Grandma also thought mayonnaise was a food group."

"Mayonnaise is delicious and I won't hear otherwise." John adjusted the Jello's position, tilting his head like he was framing a photograph. "There. Perfect."

Jeremiah caught Belly's eye across the kitchen. She pressed her lips together, fighting a smile.

"Jere, the stuffing goes next to the turkey," Laurel called, wrestling with a gravy boat threatening to overflow.

"I know where stuffing goes, Laur."

"You put it by the cranberry sauce last year and your mother almost had a stroke."

"That was a creative choice."

"It was a crime against Thanksgiving," Susannah said, appearing at his elbow and stealing a piece of bread from his basket. "I stand by my reaction."

"You're both dramatic."

"We're both right." She kissed his cheek, leaving a faint smudge of lipstick. "Now stop fussing. Everything looks beautiful."

Through the doorway, Jeremiah could see everyone migrating toward the dining room. Conrad sat on the couch with Belly tucked against his side, showing her something on his phone—actually showing her, not checking it. She laughed at whatever it was, that real laugh, and Conrad's whole face softened.

That was the thing about Conrad. When he was present, he was so present it almost hurt to look at.

His phone buzzed. Conrad glanced down, jaw tightening, and the moment evaporated.

"Need to take this quick," he murmured, kissing Belly's temple as he stood. "Two seconds."

First one of the night. Wouldn't be the last.

Denise appeared beside Jeremiah, reaching past him for the stack of cloth napkins. "Those go on the table?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He watched her fold them efficiently, creating neat triangles. "You don't have to help, you know. You're a guest."

"I like helping. Feels weird just standing around." She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Besides, my gran-gran always said you can tell a lot about a family by how they move in the kitchen. Whether they work around each other or through each other."

"Yeah? What's the verdict?"

She smiled, something warm in it. "You work around. It's nice. My family's more of the 'through' variety—lot of elbows, lot of yelling."

"Your family's not doing Thanksgiving?"

"They are. My parents went upstate to my sister's place—she's got three kids under five, so it's kind of an all-hands situation. I couldn't get enough time off to make the trip worth it." She shrugged, but something flickered across her face. "Steven didn't want me sitting alone in my apartment eating takeout, so."

"That was nice of him."

"He's a nice guy." She said it simply, like it was obvious. "Don't tell him I said that. He'll get insufferable."

Susannah swept past them, pausing to squeeze Denise's arm. "Sweetheart, you're an angel for helping. Come sit—you've been on your feet all morning."

"I really don't mind—"

"Sit. That's an order." Susannah's voice was warm but firm. "Jere's got the kitchen handled. Don't you, baby?"

"Apparently."

Susannah herded Denise toward the dining room, throwing a look back at Jeremiah that he couldn't quite read. Knowing, maybe. Or just tired.

She'd been on her feet for hours. He'd noticed her leaning against the counter when she thought no one was looking, pressing a hand to her lower back. The good days were more frequent now, but they still cost her.

Conrad reappeared, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Sorry. Where do you need me?"

"Grab the turkey?" Laurel gestured toward the massive bird. "Your brother's got his hands full with sides."

"On it."

For a moment, it was just the two of them in the kitchen—Jeremiah arranging his stuffing, Conrad hoisting the turkey platter.

"Smells incredible, Jere." Conrad paused beside him. "Seriously. This spread is insane."

"It's just Thanksgiving."

"It's not just anything. You've been cooking for like three days." Conrad's voice was quieter now, sincere in that way he usually saved for important things. "Mom told me. About the Wednesday dinners, all the meals you make her. I know I'm not around much, and I just—thanks. For taking care of her."

Jeremiah's throat went tight. "She's my mom too."

"I know. But you're here. Every week. And I'm—" Conrad shook his head. "Anyway. Thanks."

He was gone before Jeremiah could respond, carrying the turkey toward the dining room like it weighed nothing.

~*~

The long farmhouse table was set with Susannah's good china—the blue-and-white pattern from her grandmother, the one that only came out for holidays. Candles flickered in mismatched holders down the center, scattered between small gourds and fall leaves.

"Okay, everyone!" Laurel's voice cut through the noise. "Find your seats!"

The migration was chaotic in the way of all large family gatherings—too many people, not enough clear assignments. Steven pulled out Susannah's chair with exaggerated formality that made her swat his arm. John hovered near Laurel, uncertain whether helping was welcome or intrusive.

"John, just sit down," Laurel said, not unkindly. "You're making me nervous."

"I was going to—"

"Sit."

He sat, catching Steven's eye with a rueful shrug. Steven grinned.

Taylor slid into a chair near the middle, deliberately not looking at Steven as he settled across from her. Denise took the seat beside Steven, her hand finding his briefly under the table.

And Conrad and Belly, still orbiting each other, took the two seats near the window. Conrad's hand rested on her lower back as she sat, familiar and possessive.

Jeremiah ended up between his mom and Taylor. Good sightlines to everyone. Not that he was looking.

"Before we eat," Laurel said, raising her wine glass, "I'd like to say something."

"Mom, no speeches," Steven groaned. "I'm starving."

"Steven James Conklin, I pushed you out of my body. I get to make speeches."

"She's got you there," Denise murmured, and Steven's ears went pink.

"I want to second that," John added. "I was in the room. It was very dramatic."

"Dad—"

"What? It was. I almost passed out."

"Can we not discuss my birth at Thanksgiving dinner?"

"You brought it up," Taylor said, the first thing she'd said directly to him all night.

Laurel waited, wine glass still raised, until the laughter subsided.

"To Susannah," she said, her voice going soft. "Who's still here. Still fighting. Still making us all better just by existing."

Susannah's hand found Jeremiah's under the table. Squeezed hard.

"Three years cancer-free," Laurel continued. "Three years of Wednesday dinners and terrible art puns—"

"My art puns are excellent."

"They're objectively terrible and we love you anyway." Laurel's eyes were bright now. "To many more years. To family—the one we're born into and the one we choose. To everyone at this table, and everyone we're missing."

A brief silence. Adam Fisher's absence hung in the air, unacknowledged. Nobody mentioned it.

"To family," everyone echoed.

"Very nice speech," Halmoni said, already reaching for the turkey. "Now we eat."

Jeremiah drank. Watched his mom wipe her eyes with her napkin. Watched Conrad reach for his phone, catch himself, and deliberately set it face-down on the table.

Belly noticed. He saw her notice—the slight softening around her eyes, the way she leaned into Conrad's shoulder. Grateful for the effort, even if it wouldn't last.

"Okay, enough emotions," Steven announced. "Pass the turkey before I start gnawing on the table."

"Steven." Laurel's voice carried a warning.

"What? Emotional speeches make me hungry. It's biological."

"That's not how biology works," Conrad said.

"How would you know? You're not a doctor yet."

"I'm literally in medical school—"

"Key word: school. Still a student. Still not a doctor."

"I've done more rotations than you've done—what exactly do you do at Breaker?"

"I move numbers from one spreadsheet to another spreadsheet. Very important work."

John cleared his throat. "Speaking of Breaker—"

"Dad, can we not?" Steven's voice tightened.

"I was just going to say—"

"Turkey's getting cold," Steven interrupted, grabbing the carving knife. "Who wants a leg?"

Jeremiah caught the look that passed between Steven and Denise—quick, loaded with something he couldn't read. Denise's expression smoothed out almost instantly, but her shoulders had tensed.

Interesting.

~*~

Twenty minutes into the meal, the table had settled into its rhythm. Conversations overlapped, plates got passed, wine glasses emptied and refilled.

The front door opened, bringing a rush of cold air and a familiar voice.

"Aigoo, why is nobody helping me with the door?"

"Halmoni!" Belly was up from her seat instantly, nearly knocking over her water glass.

Laurel's mother appeared in the doorway, small and immaculate in a wool coat, her silver hair pinned back neatly. She carried a large covered dish that smelled incredible—sesame and garlic and something rich and savory.

"I told you not to bring anything," Laurel said, already crossing to take the dish. "You're supposed to be resting."

"Resting is for dead people." Halmoni waved her off, but let Laurel take the dish. "I made japchae. The store-bought kind is terrible."

"Halmoni, Jere makes japchae all the time for Susannah," Steven said, grinning.

The old woman turned her sharp gaze to Jeremiah, assessing. "You cook Korean food?"

"I try. Laurel taught me some basics, and I've been practicing—"

"We'll see." But there was a hint of approval in her voice. She let Belly help her out of her coat, patting her granddaughter's cheek. "You're too thin. Are you eating?"

"I'm eating, Halmoni."

"Not enough." She turned to Steven next. "And you. When are you going to get a real job?"

"I have a real job—"

"Pushing papers for that man." She made a dismissive sound. "You're smarter than that."

Steven's ears went red. Denise pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.

"Mom," Laurel said, a warning in her voice. "It's Thanksgiving."

"What? I'm thankful he's smart. He should use it." Halmoni settled into the empty chair beside Susannah, who immediately poured her a glass of wine. "Susannah. You look good. Strong."

"I feel good." Susannah squeezed her hand. "It's good to see you."

"Three years now, yes? Cancer-free?"

"Three years."

Halmoni nodded once, firmly. "Good. You keep fighting." She picked up her chopsticks—she'd brought her own, Jeremiah noticed—and surveyed the table.

"Jere, this stuffing is incredible," Denise said, closing her eyes on a bite. "What's in this? Is that fennel?"

"Yeah, and Italian sausage. Secret's in the bread—you have to dry it out overnight, otherwise it gets mushy."

"My gran-gran would love you. She always said the best cooks treat bread like it's alive. You have to respect its timeline."

"She sounds like she knows what she's talking about."

"She ran a little Italian place in the North End for thirty years. Retired when she was seventy-five, and only because my mom made her." Denise smiled, something soft and distant in it. "She'd love this whole thing. The noise, all the different dishes, people talking over each other. She always said the best meals are the loud ones. Too quiet means nobody's comfortable enough to be themselves."

"That's beautiful," Susannah said. "We should invite her next year."

"She doesn't travel much anymore, but I'll tell her you said so. She'll be thrilled."

Belly leaned forward. "Is she why you got into—" She stopped, glancing at Steven. "Sorry, I don't actually know what you do."

"Oh, um." Denise's smile flickered. "I work in finance. At Breaker, actually. Same as Steven."

"That's how we met," Steven added, a little too quickly. "Office romance. Very scandalous."

"It wasn't scandalous at all," Denise said. "We got coffee. Then more coffee. Very boring, honestly."

"Speak for yourself. I was extremely nervous."

Conrad snorted. "You? Nervous?"

"It happens occasionally. When someone's way out of my league."

Denise elbowed him, but she was smiling. "Stop it."

"Never."

Jeremiah watched them—the easy back-and-forth, the way Steven's whole demeanor shifted around her. Quieter, somehow. Less jokes.

And then he caught Taylor's face. Just for a second—a flash of something raw before she looked away, reaching for her wine glass.

"So Denise," John said, leaning forward with the earnest intensity of a dad trying to connect, "Steven mentioned you're working on something. An app? Aside from the finance stuff?"

The table went slightly still.

Steven's fork paused mid-air. Denise's smile froze, just for a beat, before recalibrating into something casual.

"Oh, it's nothing really," she said lightly. "Just a side project. Something I tinker with."

"He said you've got investors interested. That sounds like more than tinkering."

"Dad." Steven's voice had an edge now. "Maybe not the best time—"

"What? I'm interested!" John looked around the table, confused by the sudden tension. "It sounds exciting. You're building something of your own. That takes guts."

"It's really not that interesting," Denise said, reaching for her water glass. "Just some productivity software. Very niche market."

"Well, I think it's great." John was undeterred, warming to his subject. "Steven, you know what I've been saying—you should do what you love. You've been miserable at Breaker, I can see it every time you call. Maybe you two could combine forces. You've always had those video game ideas—"

"Dad—"

"I'm just saying, there's more to life than spreadsheets. When I was your age—"

"John." Laurel's voice was quiet but firm. "Maybe let the kids eat their turkey."

John blinked, looking around the table like he was just noticing the strained smiles. "Right. Sorry. Got carried away." He raised his glass with a self-deprecating grin. "Divorced dad energy. I'm told I have a lot of it."

A few awkward laughs. Steven's shoulders slowly unclenched. Under the table, Jeremiah saw Denise's hand find Steven's, squeezing once before letting go.

"Aigoo, enough about work," Halmoni said, waving her chopsticks dismissively. "It's Thanksgiving. Eat."

"She's right," Susannah added, raising her glass. "No more shop talk. That's an order."

"Thank God," Steven muttered, and Denise squeezed his hand again.

~*~

The meal continued, but Jeremiah kept watching.

Conrad's phone buzzed twice more. Both times he checked it under the table, thumb swiping quickly before returning to his fork. Both times Belly's attention drifted to the window for a moment, like she was steeling herself for something.

But there were good moments too. Conrad leaning over to cut Belly's turkey when her knife slipped, murmuring something that made her laugh. His hand finding the back of her neck briefly, thumb brushing her hair.

When he was there—really there—you could almost forget the rest.

The problem was the gaps between.

Across the table, Belly took another bite of green bean casserole. Then paused, looking down at her plate.

"No mushrooms," she said, almost to herself.

Jeremiah didn't look up from his own plate. "You hate mushrooms."

"You remembered."

"Bells, you've been complaining about mushrooms since we were twelve. Not exactly a secret."

But she'd seen the other dish further down the table—mushrooms visible, dotted throughout. He'd made two versions. One without, just for her.

She didn't say anything else. Just kept eating.

Conrad was texting under the table again. Missed the whole thing.

"Earth to Jere." Taylor's voice, low, beside him. "You're staring."

"What? No I'm not."

"You've been watching them for like ten minutes. It's creepy."

"I'm not—I was just—" He stabbed at his green beans. "Shut up, Taylor."

"Compelling defense." She took a sip of wine, then bumped his shoulder. "So. Beer Olympics. December 8th. You ready to lose?"

"Lose?" He turned to look at her, momentarily distracted. "Tri Phi hasn't beaten BEN in three semesters."

"That's because I wasn't social chair for three semesters." She grinned, sharp and competitive. "I've been training my girls. Flip cup drills. Pong accuracy exercises. We're coming for you, Jeremy."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not, Jeremy?"

"Because it's not my name and you know it pisses me off."

"Exactly why I do it." She stole a roll from his plate. "Face it, Fisher. Your reign is over."

"You're delusional. And that was my roll."

"Consider it a preview of December 8th. Tri Phi takes what we want."

He couldn't help it—he laughed. "Yeah, okay. I beat you in beer pong like two weeks ago."

"You haven't really partied in ages, Jere. That doesn't count—it was water."

"Fine. Game on, Hurricane Taylor."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? It's accurate. You blow through, leave destruction in your wake—"

She shoved his shoulder, but she was grinning. "I'm going to destroy you."

"Looking forward to it."

She nodded toward his plate. "The stuffing really is good, you know. Like, actually impressive."

"Thanks."

"Have you ever thought about—I don't know. Doing something with it?"

"With stuffing?"

"With cooking, dumbass. Like, culinary school or whatever."

Jeremiah laughed, the sound coming out sharper than he meant. "Can we not do this right now?"

"I'm just saying—"

"And I'm just saying I don't want to talk about it." He grabbed his water glass, took a long drink. "It's Thanksgiving. Let's just eat."

Taylor held up her hands. "Fine. Dropped." But she was still watching him with that look—the one that said she wasn't really dropping anything, just filing it away for later. "Just saying—you're the only frat house that serves actual appetizers at parties. Like, on plates. With toothpicks. That's not normal, Jere."

Before he could respond, Conrad's phone buzzed again. This time he pushed back from the table.

"Sorry, I really need to—" He was already moving toward the door. "Five minutes. I promise."

"Doctors," Halmoni muttered, shaking her head. "Always busy. Never present."

Susannah's smile flickered but held.

He was gone for twelve.

Laurel found him in the hallway on his way back, phone still in hand, shoulders tight.

"Hey, Connie." She kept her voice soft. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Work stuff. I'm sorry, I know I keep disappearing."

"You don't have to apologize to me." She reached up, smoothed down a piece of his hair the way she'd done since he was small. "But your mom's been looking forward to this all week. Maybe put it away for pie?"

Something in his jaw loosened. "Yeah. Okay."

"That's my boy." She patted his cheek once, then headed back toward the kitchen. "Now come on. Your brother made three desserts and someone needs to tell him they're good or he'll spiral."

Conrad almost smiled. "He does do that."

"He learned it from Susannah. Don't tell either of them I said so."

~*~

After dinner, the house split along predictable lines.

Laurel and Susannah claimed the kitchen, shooing away offers of help with the practiced efficiency of mothers who'd been doing this for decades. "Coffee and dessert in twenty minutes," Laurel announced. "Everyone out."

John stationed himself by the Jello mold, which remained untouched, as if his presence might somehow inspire someone to try it.

"The secret is to let it warm up slightly," he told no one in particular. "Brings out the flavor."

"Dad, there is no flavor," Steven said. "It's literally just Jello and regret."

"Your grandmother—"

"Loved it, I know. Grandma had unique taste."

"She had refined taste."

"She put ketchup on eggs."

"That's a regional thing!"

The bickering faded as Jeremiah stepped onto the back porch, beer in hand. The November air hit him like a slap—cold enough to see his breath, carrying the brackish smell of the marsh beyond the lawn.

Steven was already out there, leaning against the railing, his own beer half-finished.

"Escaping?" Jeremiah asked, settling beside him.

"Surviving." Steven took a long drink. "If my dad mentions Breaker one more time, I'm going to walk into the ocean."

"That bad?"

"It's—" Steven shook his head. "It's fine. It's a good job. Good money. Good connections. Everything I'm supposed to want."

"But?"

"But I sit in meetings about quarterly projections and I want to claw my own eyes out." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Don't tell anyone I said that. Especially not your dad."

"My dad's not exactly someone I confide in."

"Yeah, well. He signs my paychecks, so."

The door opened behind them. Conrad stepped out, phone finally absent from his hand, three beers dangling from his fingers.

"Figured you'd be out here." He handed one to each of them, keeping the third. "Hiding from the dishes?"

"Hiding from life," Steven said. "But sure, dishes too."

They stood in silence for a moment, three guys who'd grown up together, watching the sun sink toward the water. The dock stretched out into the marsh, the gazebo at the end empty this time of year. No boats, no summer crowds. Just the still water and the distant cry of gulls.

"Feels weird," Conrad said eventually. "Being back. Everything looks the same, but—"

"But we're different?" Steven finished.

"Something like that."

Jeremiah said nothing. He was too aware of the contrast—Conrad at Stanford, saving lives. Steven at Breaker, making money. And him, standing between them, with nothing but a frat position and a lifeguarding gig to show for four years of college.

"So, Jere." Conrad turned to him. "Rush chair. That's a big deal."

"It's just organizing parties and babysitting freshmen."

"That's not what Mom says. She says you basically run the house."

"She exaggerates."

"Does she though?" Steven raised an eyebrow. "Because I've heard things. Very impressive things."

"Like what?"

"Like you talked three legacies out of hazing pledges. Like you overhauled the whole rush process so it's actually about finding good fits instead of just whoever can shotgun the most beers."

Jeremiah shrugged, uncomfortable. "Someone had to."

"Yeah, but it was you. That matters."

"It's not—" He stopped, not sure how to articulate what he meant. "It's not like what you guys are doing. It's not a career. It's just... I don't know. Filling time until I figure out what I actually want."

The words hung there, more honest than he'd meant them to be.

"Hey." Conrad's voice was serious now. "The cooking thing. That's not nothing."

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because it's true. That stuffing in there? That's not just 'filling time.' That's real skill."

"It's stuffing, Con. It's not exactly saving lives."

"Not everything has to save lives. Some things just have to make them better." Conrad took a drink, looking out at the water. "Believe me, after thirty-hour shifts of telling people their loved ones are dying, I'd kill for someone who could just make something beautiful and put it on a plate."

"Yeah, well." Jeremiah didn't know what to say to that. "Easy for you to say. You've got the path figured out."

"You think I've got anything figured out?" Conrad laughed, but it sounded tired. "I'm barely holding on most days. The only thing I know for sure is that I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Could've fooled me."

"That's the trick, isn't it? Fool everyone else long enough and maybe you start believing it yourself."

Steven raised his beer. "I'll drink to that. The 'no idea what we're doing' club, official meeting in session."

They clinked bottles. Drank.

"Seriously though," Steven said, turning to Jeremiah. "Don't compare yourself to us. That's a losing game."

"I'm not—"

"You are. I can see it on your face." Steven's voice was gentler now, stripped of its usual sarcasm. "Look, I graduated early and got a fancy job and you know what I've learned? It sucks. I spend fifty hours a week doing work I don't care about for people I don't like. Conrad's saving lives but he never sleeps and my sister barely sees him." He gestured at Jeremiah with his beer. "You cook for your mom every Wednesday. You drove to pick up Conrad from the airport because that's just what you do. Don't act like that's less important."

"It's not the same—"

"No, it's not. It's probably better. At least you're not miserable."

Jeremiah looked away, throat tight. Through the window, he could see Belly and Taylor in the kitchen, laughing at something. Belly's head was thrown back, her whole face bright.

"How's she doing?" Conrad asked quietly. He'd followed Jeremiah's gaze. "Really, I mean. Not what she tells me on the phone."

Jeremiah hesitated. "She's, uh—she's okay. The PT's going well. She misses playing, but she's—she's dealing with it."

"And the Paris thing?"

"She's excited. Nervous, but excited."

Conrad nodded, still watching Belly through the window. "She talks about those Wednesday dinners a lot, you know. Texts me after every one. Says they're the best part of her week."

Something twisted in Jeremiah's chest. "She's easy to cook for."

"Yeah." Conrad turned to look at him, something unreadable in his expression. "She is."

For a moment, the air between them felt charged. Like Conrad was seeing something Jeremiah didn't want him to see.

Then Steven's phone buzzed and he swore, the moment breaking.

"Shit. Denise is looking for me." He drained the last of his beer. "Probably time to be a good boyfriend. See you guys inside?"

He disappeared into the house, leaving Conrad and Jeremiah alone on the porch.

"I should check in with Belly," Conrad said after a moment. "She's been patient tonight, and I've been—"

"Busy."

"Yeah." He grimaced. "That obvious?"

"Little bit."

"She deserves better." He said it quietly, almost to himself. "I keep telling myself it'll get easier. After residency, after—but that's years away. And she's already been waiting so long."

Any response felt like a trap—agree and he was trash-talking his brother's relationship, disagree and he was lying.

"You're both trying," Jeremiah said finally. "That counts for something."

Conrad looked at him for a long moment. Then he clapped a hand on Jeremiah's shoulder, squeezing once.

"Thanks for today. For the food, for picking me up, for—all of it. I know I'm not around much. But I see what you're doing for Mom. For everyone. It matters."

He was inside before Jeremiah could respond.

~*~

In the kitchen, Belly was elbow-deep in suds, washing the platters that wouldn't fit in the dishwasher. Taylor sat on the counter beside her, legs swinging, a half-eaten piece of pie balanced on her knee.

"I'm just saying," Taylor was saying, "if he can't even text me back within twenty-four hours, what is he even doing?"

"He's busy. Went home to see his family or whatever."

"Everyone's busy. That's not an excuse."

Belly scrubbed at a stubborn spot on a casserole dish. "Can we not? I don't want to spend Thanksgiving talking about Davis."

"Fine. It's over anyway." Taylor shoved a forkful of pie into her mouth. "Let's talk about something else. How's the physical therapy?"

"Good. Ahead of schedule."

"And Paris?"

"Six weeks." Belly rinsed the dish, setting it in the drying rack. "I still can't believe it's actually happening."

"You don't sound excited."

"I am excited. I'm also terrified." She grabbed another plate. "What if I hate it? What if my French is terrible and I fail all my classes and I have to come home after one semester?"

"Belly. You've been taking French since middle school. You're not going to fail."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." Taylor pointed her fork at her. "You're one of the most annoyingly competent people I've ever met. You'll be fine."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one leaving everything behind."

"Everything?" Taylor's voice was careful. "Or just Conrad?"

Belly's hands stilled in the water.

"Both," she said quietly. "All of it. My mom, you, the Wednesday dinners—"

"Wait, wait." Taylor held up a hand. "Wednesday dinners? At the Fishers'?"

"Yeah. Jere's been cooking for Susannah every week. I started coming a few weeks ago."

"You and Jere. Alone?"

"Susannah's there too."

"Uh-huh." Taylor's eyes narrowed. "And how's that going?"

"It's nice. He's a good cook."

"That's not what I asked."

Belly grabbed a dish towel, drying her hands with more force than necessary. "I don't know what you want me to say, Tay. We're friends. We hang out. That's it."

"Do you talk to him more than Conrad?"

"That's not fair."

"It's a yes or no question."

"Conrad's in med school. He doesn't have time to—"

"So yes."

"Taylor—"

"I'm not judging." Taylor set her pie down, her voice gentler now. "I'm just asking. Because you light up when you talk about those dinners. And I haven't seen you light up about Conrad in a while."

Belly stared at the sink, not speaking. The water had gone cold, soap bubbles dissolving.

"I love Conrad," she said finally. "I've loved him for as long as I can remember."

"I know you have."

"But sometimes—" She stopped. "Sometimes I feel like I'm waiting for him to come back. Even when he's standing right in front of me."

Taylor was quiet for a moment. Then she hopped off the counter, crossing to stand beside Belly.

"Have you told him that?"

"I don't want to add to his stress. He's already stretched so thin."

"Belly. If you can't tell him what you're feeling, what's the point?"

"The point is we've been together for four years. The point is we survived his mom's cancer and him leaving for Stanford and everything else. The point is—" Her voice broke. "I don't know. I don't know what the point is anymore."

Taylor pulled her into a hug, sudden and fierce.

"You don't have to figure it out tonight," she said into Belly's hair. "Just—don't disappear on yourself, okay? Whatever's happening with Conrad, whatever happens in Paris—don't get so busy taking care of everyone else that you forget to take care of you."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"Hey, I'm a cautionary tale. Learn from my mistakes."

Belly laughed despite herself, pulling back. "Speaking of—how's my brother?"

The smile vanished. "What about Steven?"

"I don't know. You've barely looked at him all night."

"I look at him all the time."

"Taylor."

"I don't want to talk about Steven." Taylor grabbed her pie, shoving another bite into her mouth like a shield. "It's complicated and stupid and not worth discussing."

Belly studied her for a moment. "You know you can tell me, right? Whatever it is."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I said okay."

They stood in silence, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them. Through the window, Belly could see the porch—empty now, the boys presumably back inside. The sun had set while they were talking, leaving the sky a deep purple fading to black.

"Paris is going to be amazing," Taylor said suddenly. "You're going to have croissants for breakfast every day and meet some hot European guy and forget all about your problems."

"I'm not going to forget my problems."

"You should. Problems are overrated." Taylor licked her fork clean. "And when you come back, you'll have perspective. Everything will look different from the other side of the ocean."

"You think?"

"I know." Taylor grinned. "Now come on. There's more pie and I refuse to eat it alone."

~*~

Steven found Denise in the living room, curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, scrolling through her phone. The house had that post-dinner quiet—dishes done, leftovers packed, everyone scattered to different corners.

"Hey." He dropped onto the cushion beside her. "You good?"

"Mm-hmm." She didn't look up. "Your dad's Jello is still untouched, in case you were wondering."

"Shocking absolutely no one."

She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "It was a nice dinner. Your family's... a lot. But nice."

"That's one word for it." He reached for her hand, threading their fingers together. "Sorry about my dad. The whole startup interrogation thing."

"It's fine. He means well."

"He means something. 'Well' is debatable."

She finally looked at him, something searching in her expression. "You okay? You've been weird all night."

"Weird how?"

"I don't know. Distracted." She tilted her head, studying him. "You keep looking at the door."

His stomach tightened. "No I don't."

"Steven."

"I'm just—it's been a long day. Lot of family stuff."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she set her phone down, turning to face him fully.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Taylor." She said the name carefully, like she was testing it. "What's the deal there?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you two have been avoiding eye contact all night. And every time she talks, you get this look on your face like—" She stopped. "I don't know. Like it hurts."

"That's—" He laughed, but it came out wrong. "That's crazy. Taylor's just Taylor. We've known each other forever. She's Belly's best friend."

"That's not an answer."

"There's nothing to answer. We're friends. That's it."

Denise held his gaze for a long moment. Something flickered across her face—not anger, exactly. Something sadder.

"Okay," she said finally. "If you say so."

"I do."

"Okay."

But she pulled her hand back. Reached for her wine instead.

Steven's chest ached. He wanted to say something—something true, something that would fix whatever was breaking between them. But the words wouldn't come.

"I'm gonna get some air," he said, standing. "Clear my head."

"Sure." She was looking at her phone again. "I'll be here."

He was halfway to the door when her voice stopped him.

"Steven?"

He turned.

She was still looking at her phone, but her jaw was tight. "Whatever you're figuring out—just be honest with me, okay? I can handle a lot of things. But I can't handle being lied to."

The words landed like a punch.

"Yeah," he managed. "Okay."

He stepped outside before she could see his face.

~*~

The driveway was dark except for the porch light, casting long shadows across the gravel.

Taylor leaned against her car, arms crossed, watching the stars. She wasn't sure why she was still out here—everyone else was inside, doing final cleanup, eating more pie than any reasonable person should consume.

But the quiet was nice. The cold air sharp in her lungs, clearing out the fog of too much food and too much wine and too many loaded glances across the dinner table.

She heard the door open behind her but didn't turn around.

"Hey."

Steven.

"Hey."

He stopped a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets. "You're missing the pie."

"Already had three pieces."

"There's still pie."

"Steven." She finally looked at him. "What do you want?"

He was quiet for a moment. The porch light caught the angles of his face, made him look older somehow. Or maybe that was just what a year at Breaker Capital did to a person.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I saw you come out here and I just—I don't know."

"Great. Really articulate. That MBA really paying off."

"I don't have an MBA."

"Same energy."

He laughed despite himself—that surprised laugh, the one she'd been pulling out of him since they were fourteen. "God, you're mean."

"You like it."

"Yeah." He wasn't laughing anymore. "I do."

The air between them shifted. Taylor felt it like a physical thing, like the temperature had dropped another ten degrees.

"You should go back inside," she said. "Denise is probably wondering where you are."

"Denise knows where I am."

"That supposed to make me feel better?"

"Taylor—"

"Don't." She pushed off from the car, facing him fully now. "We're not doing this. You have a girlfriend."

"And you just broke up with Davis."

"That's none of your business."

"It is, though." He stepped closer. "Because I'm the one you called after. Every time you two fought. Three AM, Taylor. You'd call me at three AM and I'd answer. Every single time."

Her chest hurt. Actually physically hurt, like something pressing against her ribs.

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair." Another step. "I've been doing the right thing for four years. Dating other people. Pretending I don't—" He stopped, jaw working. "I'm tired, Tay. I'm really fucking tired."

"So what do you want me to do about it?" Her voice came out sharper than she meant. "Blow up your relationship? Start something we can't finish again because we've already proven we don't work?"

"We never tried."

"We tried plenty."

"We kissed once. Right before you got with Davis. Right after I broke up with Mia. And then you panicked and we spent the next year pretending it never happened."

"Because it shouldn't have happened."

"Why not?"

"Because—" She couldn't breathe. "Because you're Steven. You're Belly's brother and you're Steven and if we tried and it didn't work I'd lose you. Forever. And I can't—"

She didn't finish the sentence.

She didn't have to.

Steven closed the distance between them and kissed her.

It wasn't like last time—sloppy and uncertain, tasting like cheap beer from someone's basement party. This was different. This was a year of pretending, a year of 3 AM phone calls and "just friends" and watching each other date the wrong people.

Taylor kissed him back. Couldn't help it. Didn't want to.

And then she remembered.

Denise. Inside. Wrapping leftovers. Being kind.

She pulled back so fast she nearly fell.

"We can't." Her voice was wrecked. "Steven, we can't. Not like this."

He was breathing hard, eyes still closed. "I know."

"You have a girlfriend."

"I know."

"A really good one. Who doesn't deserve—"

"I know." He opened his eyes. Stepped back. The space between them felt like miles. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—that was wrong."

Taylor pressed her hands against her face, trying to stop the trembling. "We should go back inside."

"Yeah."

Neither moved.

"She deserves better," Taylor said finally. "Denise. Whatever happens—you need to be honest with her."

"I will be."

"Promise me."

"Tay—"

"Promise me, Steven."

He met her eyes. Something broken in his expression, something she recognized because she felt it too.

"I promise."

They walked back inside separately. Five minutes apart. Like that mattered. Like anyone looking couldn't see it written all over both their faces.

Steven found Denise in the kitchen, drying the last of the serving platters. She looked up when he walked in, and he watched her expression shift—the way she catalogued something in his face, filed it away. She'd always been too smart for him.

"Hey," she said carefully. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Fine." The lie tasted like ash. "Can we talk?"

She nodded, but her eyes didn't leave his face. And he knew—whatever came next, she already had her answer.

~*~

The beach was freezing.

Belly pulled her jacket tighter, watching the waves crash against the shore in the darkness. The moon was half-hidden behind clouds, casting silver light across the water whenever it appeared.

Conrad walked beside her, close enough to touch but not touching. She couldn't remember the last time he'd reached for her hand first.

"Sorry about dinner," he said eventually. "The phone stuff. I know it was—I know."

"It's okay."

"It's not. But I don't know how to—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "They're understaffed. Everyone's out for the holiday. And there's this patient, this kid, she's only eight and her liver's failing and I just—I can't stop thinking about whether I missed something on her labs."

Belly stopped walking. "Conrad."

He stopped too. Looked at her. Even in the darkness, she could see the exhaustion carved into his face—the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw that never quite released anymore.

"You're a good doctor," she said. "Everyone says so."

"I'm not a doctor yet. I'm just—"

"You're going to be. A great one. Because you care this much." She paused, gathering courage. "But..."

"But?"

She didn't know how to say it. Didn't know if she should say it.

"When's the last time we actually talked?" The words came out anyway. "Not texted. Not scheduled FaceTime calls where you're half asleep. Actually talked?"

Conrad was quiet.

"I feel like I'm waiting for you to come back," she continued, voice smaller now. "But you're already here. You're standing right in front of me and I still feel like I'm waiting."

"Belly—"

"Are we okay, Con? Like, really okay? Because sometimes I think we are, and then I see you and it's like—" She pressed her palms against her eyes. "I don't know. It feels like we're going through the motions. Playing a part. And I don't know when that started or how to fix it."

The waves kept crashing. The wind cut through her jacket like it wasn't there.

"I love you," Conrad said finally. "You know that, right? That's never—that's not the issue."

"Then what is?"

"I don't know. Time. Distance. The fact that I can barely keep myself together most days, let alone be what you need." He looked out at the water, jaw tight. "Sometimes I think you'd be better off without me. Without this. Without having to wait for phone calls that never come at the right time."

"Don't say that."

"It's true though. You're thriving, Belly. Paris, your PT, figuring out what comes next—you're doing all of it. And I'm just... here. Exhausted. Holding on by my fingernails."

"So let me help. Let me in."

"I don't know how." He finally looked at her, something raw in his face. "I've been doing this alone for so long. Taking care of Mom when she was sick, then Dad leaving, then med school—I don't know how to let someone else carry any of it."

Belly stepped closer. Took his hands. Cold, both of them, but she held on anyway.

They started walking again. Slower. Her hand in his. Both trying to hold on to something slipping through their fingers.

"Remember when we first got together?" Conrad said after a while. "After Mom—after everything. You came to see me at Stanford. October. We just walked around campus for hours. You made me show you every building, every statue, the fountain that's supposed to be lucky if you throw in a quarter."

She smiled despite everything. "You said it was freshman superstition."

"It is. But you made me do it anyway." He squeezed her hand. "And I remember thinking... this is it. This is the person I want to do stupid things with."

"We can still do stupid things."

"Can we? When's the last time we just... existed together? Not on a phone screen, not rushing between obligations. Just us."

She thought about it. Really thought.

"Your birthday," she said finally. "September. When you came down for my surgery."

"Three months ago."

"Yeah."

The math was damning.

"Maybe Paris will help," she said, not sure if she believed it. "Time apart. Or—I don't know. Maybe it'll just give us both space to figure out what we want."

"I want you. That's not the question."

"Then what is?"

He squeezed her hands. Drew her closer. Rested his forehead against hers.

"Whether wanting is enough."

They stood like that for a long time, foreheads touching, the wind pulling at their clothes. Above them, the clouds shifted, and Belly found herself waiting for the moon to reappear—for the light to break through and make everything clearer.

It never did.

~*~

The house was quieter when Jeremiah finished cleaning up.

Most of the cars were gone—Taylor's first, then Steven walking Denise out to wait for her ride. Conrad and Belly had come back from the beach quietly, said their goodnights, and disappeared upstairs to his old room. Belly had hugged Susannah for a long time before going up, something desperate in the way she'd held on.

John had packed up his Jello with wounded dignity, extracting promises from everyone that they'd try it at Christmas. Halmoni had already claimed Jeremiah's old room for the night—Laurel was staying too, driving her mother back in the morning. But not before Halmoni had cornered him in the kitchen.

"Your stuffing," she'd said, fixing him with that sharp gaze. "Not bad. The bread was good."

"Thanks, Halmoni."

"But you should learn Korean food too. Come to my house. I'll teach you properly." She'd patted his arm once, brisk but warm. "You have good instincts. Don't waste them."

It was the closest thing to a compliment he'd ever gotten from her.

Steven had walked John out, their voices carrying back in fragments—something about work, about expectations, about doing what makes you happy.

"You heading out, honey?" Susannah appeared in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in the big cardigan she'd had since he was a kid.

"Yeah. Long drive back to Finch."

"Stay tonight. The roads are dark and you've been on your feet all day."

"Can't. Got a shift tomorrow."

"On Black Friday?"

"Pool doesn't close for capitalism, Mom."

She smiled, but he could see the tiredness around her eyes. She'd been on her feet for hours, and he knew what that cost her even if she'd never admit it.

"I can cancel," he said. "Stay tonight, drive back early—"

"Don't you dare. I'm fine. Laurel's here, and Halmoni's taken your room anyway." She crossed to him, cupped his face in her hands. "You did good today. The food was beautiful."

"It was just Thanksgiving."

"It was love. That's what cooking is, baby. Love made edible." She kissed his forehead. "I'm so proud of you. You know that, right?"

"Mom—"

"I'm always proud of you. Even when you don't see it in yourself."

He hugged her instead of answering, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume and the turpentine that never quite washed out of her clothes.

"Drive safe," she murmured. "Text me when you get home."

"I will."

He was almost to the door when Steven appeared, looking—wrecked was the word. Like he'd been gut-punched and hadn't recovered yet.

"Hey." Jeremiah paused. "You good?"

"Yeah. Fine." Steven shoved his hands in his pockets, not meeting his eyes. "Um, Denise needs a ride back—and I was wondering—"

"I can take her." An Uber from Cousins on Thanksgiving would be insane anyway. But that wasn't why Steven was asking. Something was definitely wrong.

"You sure? It's out of your way."

"Finch isn't that far from Quincy. It's fine."

Steven nodded, something complicated in his expression. "Thanks, Jere. I owe you."

He disappeared before Jeremiah could ask what was wrong. But he had a guess. The way Taylor had avoided looking at Steven when she'd left. The way Steven had stood on the porch watching her taillights disappear.

Something had happened in that driveway. Something that wasn't his business.

Denise was waiting by the door, overnight bag at her feet. She looked up when he approached, that quiet smile already in place, but her eyes were red-rimmed. Like she'd been crying and trying to hide it.

"Steven said you might be able to give me a lift?"

"Yeah. If you don't mind the Jeep. Heat's unreliable and I will snack. Loudly."

"We just had a full meal."

"I'm a growing boy."

"You're literally six feet tall."

"Six-two, actually. Maybe I'll hit six-five."

"That's not how growing works. You're twenty-one."

"You don't know. Late bloomer. Could happen."

She almost smiled. Almost. "Fine. Snack away. But you're sharing."

They loaded into the car, Denise's bag on the backseat. Jeremiah reached behind his seat and produced a tote bag that clinked with promise.

"Okay, we've got options." He started pulling things out. "Swedish Fish, Sour Patch Kids, gourmet popcorn from that place in the North End, fancy chocolates my mom puts in my stocking every year that I hoard like a dragon, and—" He held up the final bag triumphantly. "Gummy bears. The good German ones."

Denise stared at the spread. "This is unhinged."

"This is preparedness. There's a difference."

"You have a snack emergency kit."

"For road trips. And emotional emergencies. And Tuesdays." He shook the gummy bears at her. "Don't judge me."

"I'm absolutely judging you." But she grabbed the Swedish Fish. "I'm also participating."

"That's the spirit."

The engine coughed to life, heater sputtering, and Jeremiah pulled out of the driveway, shells crunching under the tires.

Mariah Carey's voice filled the Jeep immediately—"All I Want for Christmas Is You" at full volume.

Denise turned to stare at him. "Already?"

"It's after Thanksgiving. It's legally Christmas season now."

"It's been after Thanksgiving for like three hours."

"Three hours of wasted Christmas music time." He turned it up slightly, grinning. "I have the whole Michael Bublé album queued up after this."

"Of course you do." But she was smiling, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm festive. There's a difference."

They drove in silence for a few minutes, Mariah giving way to Kelly Clarkson's "Underneath the Tree." Denise stared out the window, and Jeremiah didn't push. Whatever had happened between her and Steven—it wasn't his place to ask.

"We broke up," she said finally, still looking out the window. "Steven and me. Just now."

"Shit. Denise, I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "It was the right call. For both of us."

The highway stretched ahead, dark and mostly empty. Jeremiah let the silence sit.

"What happened?" he asked eventually. "If you want to talk about it. You don't have to."

She was quiet for a long moment. "You know how you can tell when someone's not all the way there? Like, they're with you, but part of them is somewhere else?"

"Yeah."

"It was like that. All night." She pulled her sleeves over her hands, a self-soothing gesture. "And then I saw the way he looked at Taylor when she left, and I just... knew. I was never going to be the person he looked at like that."

Jeremiah's grip tightened on the wheel.

"So I asked him," Denise continued. "Point blank. And he couldn't lie to me. I'll give him that, at least."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "It's a shitty feeling. Being someone's almost. Their good-enough-for-now."

They drove in silence for another mile. Then Denise turned to look at him, something careful in her expression.

"Can I ask you something? And you can tell me to mind my own business."

"Sure."

"Belly. Is she your Taylor?"

The Jeep didn't swerve this time. But only because he was ready for it.

"I'm not—" he started, then stopped. Denise was looking at him with that patient expression, like she had all the time in the world for him to stop bullshitting. And after what she'd just told him, she deserved honesty.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I think maybe she is."

"Does she know?"

"No. And she's not going to. She's with Conrad."

"I know."

"He's my brother."

"I know that too."

"So what am I supposed to do? Pine forever? Make a move on my brother's girlfriend?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "There's no good option here. Just because she's my Taylor doesn't mean I'm her Steven."

"Maybe not." Denise was quiet for a moment. "For what it's worth—I don't think it's simple for her either. She loves Conrad. I could see that too. But there's something underneath. Something she's maybe not letting herself look at."

Jeremiah's chest ached. "That almost makes it worse."

"Yeah. It does." She turned to look at him, really look, and something shifted in the air between them. "You're a good guy, you know that? Most people wouldn't even be having this conversation. They'd just... take what they wanted."

"I'm not most people."

"No. You're not."

The moment stretched. Denise's eyes caught the light from the dashboard, and he noticed for the first time how pretty she was—not in a distant way, but in a present way. Here, in his car, being honest with him.

"We're kind of a mess, aren't we?" she said softly. "Both of us. Wanting people we can't have."

"Seems that way."

She held his gaze for another beat. Something flickered there—possibility, maybe. Or just two lonely people recognizing each other.

Then she looked away, and the moment passed.

"For the record," he said, "Steven's an idiot."

She laughed—surprised, real. "You're his best friend."

"Doesn't mean he's not an idiot. He's a huge idiot. I've known him since we were kids. Trust me on this."

"Okay." She was smiling now, wiping her eyes again but for a different reason. "I'll trust you."

"Good. Because you're—" He gestured vaguely at her. "You're smart and you're funny and you call people on their bullshit. That's rare. Steven's loss."

"Are you trying to make me feel better?"

"Is it working?"

"A little, yeah."

"Then yes. Absolutely. That's exactly what I'm doing."

She shook her head, but she was still smiling. "Who takes care of you, Jeremiah? While you're taking care of everyone else?"

The question hit him somewhere deep. A place he didn't usually let people see.

"It's just—I don't know. It's what you do, right?" he said finally. "Family. Friends. You just... show up."

"And what happens when you need someone to show up for you?"

"I don't—" He stopped. Really thought about it. "I don't know. Hasn't really come up."

"Maybe it should."

They drove in silence after that. The highway stretched ahead, dark and endless, headlights cutting through the night.

"For what it's worth," Denise said eventually, "I don't think you're a bad person. For feeling what you feel."

"No?"

"No. Love doesn't follow rules. It just happens." She paused, something shifting in her voice. "What you do about it—that's where character comes in. And you're clearly not doing anything. You're being loyal, respecting her relationship. That's not nothing."

"Feels like nothing. Feels like watching."

"Sometimes watching is all you can do. Until something changes."

"And if nothing changes?"

"Then you decide how long you're willing to wait." She smiled, something bittersweet in it. "Or you decide you deserve someone who's available. Who can love you back without complications."

He thought about that. About Belly at the sink, shoulder brushing his. About Conrad's hand on her back. About the way she'd looked at him when she said I'll miss this.

"Six weeks," he said quietly.

"What?"

"She leaves for Paris in six weeks. Spring semester. By the time she gets back—" He shrugged. "Maybe things will be different. Maybe I'll be different."

"Maybe."

He dropped her off at her building in Quincy—a converted triple-decker, Christmas lights already blinking in someone's window. She grabbed her bag from the back, then paused at his window.

"Hey, Jeremiah?"

"Yeah?"

"You know, Steven told me you were going to work at Breaker this summer. Your dad's firm." She tilted her head, studying him. "And I thought, here we go. Another nepo baby, coasting on Daddy's name."

"Ouch."

"But you're not that guy." She said it simply, like a fact. "The snack hoard, the cooking, the way you just spent an hour making sure I was okay when you didn't have to—you're someone I'd actually want to know."

Something in his chest loosened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She motioned toward his phone in the cupholder. "Can I?"

He handed it over. She typed for a second, then handed it back. Her number, saved under Denise (not a nepo baby fan).

"For when you need someone to talk to," she said. "Who isn't wrapped up in all the Belly stuff. Or the Conrad stuff. Or any of it."

"You just broke up with my best friend."

"I know. Gives me perspective." She smiled—small, but real this time. "Text me sometime. If you want."

"I will."

She started toward the steps, then turned back. "And Jeremiah? Don't lose yourself in the waiting. That's no way to live."

She was gone before he could respond. Up the steps, through the door, a light flickering on in a third-floor window.

Jeremiah sat there for a moment. Engine idling. Heat finally working.

Six weeks until Paris. Six weeks until everything changed.

He just didn't know yet what that change would look like. Or who he'd be on the other side of it.

He put the Jeep in drive and headed toward Finch, the highway empty and dark ahead of him.

~*~

Chapter Text

The first Wednesday dinner after Thanksgiving felt different.

Not bad different. Just... more. He wasn't going to think about why.

Jeremiah was at the stove when Belly arrived, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair still damp from the shower, stirring a pot of doenjang-jjigae with the focus of someone who'd been cooking since dawn. Which, knowing him, he probably had. The kitchen was warm and fragrant—fermented soybean paste, garlic, the earthiness of zucchini and tofu. Steam curled up from the pot, fogging the window above the sink.

"Something smells amazing." She unwound her scarf, cheeks pink from the cold. "Please tell me that's the stew."

"It's the stew." He didn't look up, but she could hear the smile in his voice. "Been simmering for like two hours. I think I finally nailed the ratio."

She crossed to the stove, peering into the pot. The broth was golden-brown, chunks of zucchini and potato floating alongside cubes of tofu. Her stomach growled audibly.

"Someone's hungry," he said.

"I skipped lunch. PT ran long."

"Belly, Belly, Belly." He turned to look at her, shaking his head. 

"I had a protein bar."

"That's not food. That's cardboard with marketing." He grabbed a clean spoon from the drawer, dipped it in the stew, and held it out to her. "Here. Taste."

She blew on it, then took a bite. The flavors hit her immediately—savory and deep, with just the right amount of heat. "Oh my god."

"Good?"

"Jere, this is incredible." She reached for the spoon again, but he pulled it back.

"Patience. Dinner's in twenty minutes." But he was grinning now, that pleased look he got when someone liked his cooking. "Also, your grandmother emailed me."

She stopped mid-reach. "She what?"

"Emailed. Me. Formally." He glanced over his shoulder, setting the spoon in the sink. "Said my japchae photos showed 'adequate promise.' Wants me to come to Philadelphia to cook with her."

Belly leaned against the counter, staring at him. "That's like... that's high praise from Halmoni. She once told my mom her rice was 'acceptable' and Mom cried happy tears."

"I know, right? She sent a PDF. Twelve pages of recipes with handwritten annotations. Some of them are in Korean, which—I'm gonna need help with that."

"That tracks. She's very thorough." Belly watched him move around the kitchen—checking the rice cooker, pulling banchan from the fridge, arranging everything with a precision that spoke to practice. "You really want to do this? Go to Philly?"

"We should go. Before you leave." He said it casually, like it wasn't a big deal. Like the countdown to her departure wasn't ticking in both their heads. "Road trip. I'll cook, she'll critique, you can translate when she starts yelling at me in Korean."

Something twisted low in her gut. "You want to road trip to Philadelphia to get yelled at by my grandmother?"

"I mean..." He shrugged, pulling out chopsticks and setting them on the table. "Yeah? Sounds fun. Plus I want to learn her kimchi jjigae. She mentioned it in the email. Said mine was 'passable but could benefit from guidance.'"

"Wow. 'Passable.' She really likes you."

"I'm very likeable."

"Debatable."

He threw a dish towel at her. She caught it, laughing.

"We'll see about the trip," she said. "Focus on not burning the stew first."

"I never burn the stew."

"You burned it three Wednesdays ago. I have photographic evidence."

"That wasn't burning. That was intentional caramelization. There's a culinary difference."

"Jere, there was actual smoke."

"Flavorful smoke. Adds depth. Ask any chef."

"Your mom opened every window in the house. In November."

"She was being dramatic." He grinned. "It's genetic. I come by it honestly."

She laughed despite herself.

"There she is," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Nothing." He turned back to the stove. "Set the table? Mom'll be down soon."

~*~

Susannah appeared twenty minutes later, paint-stained and pleased, drawn downstairs by the smell of dinner. There was yellow ochre on her cheek and what looked like burnt sienna in her hair, and she was smiling in that distracted way she got when she'd been deep in a piece.

"What smells so good?" she asked, settling onto a stool at the island. She gripped the counter edge as she sat—just for a second, like she needed the support—but then she was smiling again, and Jeremiah told himself he'd imagined it.

"Doenjang-jjigae," Belly said. "Korean stew. Jere's been experimenting."

"I added more gochugaru," Jeremiah said, ladling stew into bowls. "And I'm using a different ratio of doenjang to gochujang. More depth that way."

"It smells perfect, baby." Susannah smiled at him, that warm look she got when he was cooking—like watching him at the stove made something in her settle.

She reached for her wine glass, and Jeremiah noticed her hand trembling slightly. Just a little. Enough that the wine rippled in the glass before she steadied it.

He almost said something. But then she was smiling again, and the moment passed.

"Your father called, by the way."

The mood shifted immediately. Jeremiah's shoulders tensed, his hand stilling on the ladle. "What'd he want?"

"Just checking in. Asking about Christmas plans."

"Is he coming?"

Susannah's pause said everything. "He's going to try."

"So no."

"Jere—"

"It's fine, Mom. Really." He focused on the stew, setting bowls on the table with more force than necessary. "We don't need him here anyway."

Belly watched the exchange silently, recognizing the familiar rhythm of it—the disappointment Jeremiah tried to hide behind sharp words, Susannah's gentle deflection, the ghost of Adam Fisher hovering over everything even when he wasn't there. She'd seen this dance at holidays for years. It never got easier to watch.

"Conrad called too," Susannah added, changing the subject with practiced ease. "Said he's been swamped but he'll try to make it home earlier for Christmas."

"Try," Jeremiah repeated flatly. "Everyone's trying. Very inspirational."

"He's in his second year of med school, sweetheart. He'll still be here."

"I know." Jeremiah softened slightly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I know it is. I just—" He shook his head, sliding into his chair. "Never mind. Dinner's ready."

Belly caught Susannah's eye across the kitchen. Something passed between them—understanding, maybe. Or shared concern. The weight of watching someone you love carry more than they should.

~*~

They ate at the kitchen table, the three of them, steam rising from their bowls. Outside, the December darkness pressed against the windows, frost creeping up the corners of the glass. But inside it was warm. Safe. The kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the heating and everything to do with the company.

"How's your week been?" Susannah asked Belly.

"Actually really good." Belly straightened slightly, something like pride in her voice. "PT says I'm basically cleared for light jogging."

"That's wonderful, sweetheart."

"It doesn't feel real yet. Like, I keep waiting for something to go wrong." She stirred her stew. "But maybe it won't. Maybe I'll actually play again."

"You will." He said it like a fact. "Hey, when you're cleared—I could practice with you. If you want."

She looked up, surprised. "You want to play volleyball with me?"

"I mean, I'm terrible. You know that. Conrad's the one with the actual serve."

"He does have a better serve," she admitted, smiling. "But what I really need is just someone to pass with. Get my timing back. You don't have to be good for that."

"Wow. 'You don't have to be good.' Really selling it, Bells."

"I'm saying your mediocrity is actually useful for once."

"I'm honored. Truly."

But he was grinning, and so was she.

"That's a wonderful idea," Susannah said. "It's not too cold yet. You could use the park by campus."

"Mom, we literally just talked about it for ten seconds—"

"I'm just saying. Fresh air. Exercise. Good for both of you." She smiled innocently into her wine glass. "What? I'm being supportive."

Belly bit back a laugh. Jeremiah shook his head, but he was still smiling.

~*~

After dinner, he drove her back to Finch.

The Jeep was warm, heat blasting against the December cold, and Belly had her feet tucked up on the seat the way she always did when she was comfortable. Susannah had hugged her goodbye for too long, pressed leftover stew into her hands, made her promise to eat actual meals this week.

"Your mom's going to adopt me," Belly said.

"Pretty sure she already has." Jeremiah merged onto the highway, one hand on the wheel. "You're like the daughter she never had."

"She has you and Conrad."

"Yeah, but we're disappointing sons. You're the overachiever she deserves."

"I tore my ACL and I'm fleeing to Paris. Very overachiever of me."

"You got off the waitlist for Paris. That's elite."

She smiled, watching the highway lights blur past. "Thanks for dinner. And for... you know. The volleyball thing. You don't have to actually do that."

"I want to." He glanced at her. "I mean it, Bells. When you're ready."

"Okay." Softer now. "Okay."

The silence settled between them—comfortable, warm. Then Jeremiah reached for the aux, scrolling until he found something, and the opening notes of "Go Your Own Way" filled the Jeep.

He started singing along immediately—actually singing, not just mumbling. Jeremiah had always been able to carry a tune, something he only brought out at karaoke nights or road trips. He drummed on the steering wheel, throwing himself into it like he was performing for a stadium instead of an empty highway.

Belly laughed. "Oh my god, we haven't done this in forever."

"Exactly. We're out of practice." He turned it up louder. "Come on, Conklin. You know the words."

She did. They'd done this every summer—Cousins to the grocery store, Cousins to the ice cream place, Cousins to anywhere, really. Conrad would roll his eyes in the backseat while Belly and Jeremiah screamed songs at the windshield like their lives depended on it. Occasionally he'd join in if the song hit right—usually something older, something their parents had played—but mostly he just let them have their thing.

She'd forgotten. How had she forgotten?

And somehow she was doing it again—joining in on the chorus, her voice blending with his in a way that made him glance over, eyebrows raised. Belly never sang. Not in front of people, not ever—just in the shower, or in the car with him. This was the only place she let herself.

They shouted lyrics about loving and leaving while the heater blasted and the highway stretched out ahead of them. It was ridiculous and joyful and exactly what she hadn't known she needed.

She caught herself watching him instead of the road—the way his whole face changed when he sang, loose and easy, nothing performative about it. This was the Jeremiah she remembered from summers. Before everything got weird between them.

Stop, she told herself. You have a boyfriend. His brother.

She looked away. Focused on the windshield.

Somewhere in the second chorus, he glanced over. She was laughing, head thrown back, and in the passing streetlights she looked—

He looked back at the road. Gripped the wheel tighter.

When the song ended, they were both laughing, breathless.

"See?" He was grinning, that real grin, the one that made his whole face change. "You needed that."

"Maybe."

"You're good, you know. You should sing more."

"Absolutely not."

"Belly—"

"This is the only place I do this, Jere. Don't ruin it."

Something softened in his expression. "Okay. Our secret."

He glanced at her. "We should do this more. Before you leave."

"Yeah," she said quietly. "We should."

~*~

"So," Belly said as they pulled off the highway toward campus. "Beer Olympics. December 8th."

Jeremiah groaned. "Don't remind me."

"Taylor's been texting the group chat nonstop. She's taking this very seriously."

"She's taking it too seriously. It's Beer Olympics, not the actual Olympics."

"She says she's going to dethrone BEN."

"She's been saying that for three semesters. And yet." He spread one hand off the wheel. "Still champions."

"Maybe this is her year."

"It's not."

"You sound nervous."

"Nervous? Bells, I minored in beerology. Tolerance and technique—unmatched."

"That's not a real thing."

"It's a real thing if you believe in yourself."

Belly smiled, watching his profile in the passing streetlights. "I should come. Watch. Cheer you on while Taylor tries to destroy you."

He glanced at her. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, if that's okay. I know it's a frat thing, and I'm not—"

"Bells, you're always welcome." He said it simply, easily, like it was obvious. "You know that."

"I know. I just—" She shrugged, picking at a thread on her jacket. "I haven't really been to anything since the surgery. I've been kind of..."

"Hermit-y?"

"Yeah."

"Well, consider this your official re-entry into society." He glanced at her. "Low stakes. Cheap beer. Mildly embarrassing party games."

"Sold." She was smiling now. "You really think Taylor's not gonna destroy you this year?"

"I know she won't."

"You don't know that."

"I always know, Bells."

"Oh really?" She raised an eyebrow. "What am I thinking right now then?"

"That I'm annoyingly confident and you kind of love it."

"ESP," she said, half-laughing. "You still think that's real?"

He hadn't heard that in years. When they were kids, they used to sit cross-legged on the beach and try to read each other's minds. Belly was convinced it was real—that they had some psychic connection. Really, he'd just learned to read her face. The way her nose scrunched when she was lying, the way her eyes went wide when she was impressed, the way she bit her lip when she was thinking about something she wouldn't say out loud. But somewhere along the way, they'd gotten good enough at guessing each other's thoughts that it stopped mattering whether it was magic or not.

"Can't believe you remember that," he said.

"Of course I do." She was still smiling, but softer now. "But yeah, annoyingly confident sounds about right."

She reached over and shoved his shoulder lightly. He laughed, swerving the Jeep just slightly, and the weird tension dissolved into something easier. Familiar.

This was what they'd been missing, Belly realized. This easy rhythm. Four years of distance and now—now they were finding their way back.

"December 8th," she said. "I'll be there."

"Good." His smile was real now, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You can be my good luck charm."

"I thought you didn't need luck."

"I don't. But it never hurts."

~*~

Later, in her apartment, Belly lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

Her phone buzzed.

Conrad: Hey. How was your day?

She typed back: Good. Wednesday dinner at Susannah's. Jere made stew.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Conrad: Tell him I said hey. Miss you. I'm off tomorrow for real. FaceTime and a movie?

Miss you too. And yeah that sounds nice.

She set her phone down. Smiled a little.

This was good. Conrad making plans, actually following through. Maybe things were getting better. Maybe the distance wasn't as bad as it felt sometimes.

She closed her eyes, but the song from the Jeep was still stuck in her head. And when she finally drifted off, she wasn't thinking about movies or FaceTime.

She was thinking about cross-legged kids on a beach, trying to read each other's minds.

~*~

Steven's apartment was a disaster.

Not like, health-hazard disaster. Just the specific kind of mess that happened when a guy who'd been dating someone organized suddenly became a guy who was single and spiraling. Takeout containers on the coffee table. Laundry piled on the couch. ESPN playing on mute in the background.

"Dude." Jeremiah stood in the doorway, taking it all in. "This is... a lot."

"It's fine." Steven didn't look up from his laptop. "I'm fine."

"You're watching SportsCenter at 2pm on a Thursday."

"I'm working from home."

"While watching SportsCenter."

"Multitasking."

Jeremiah stepped over a pile of clothes and dropped onto the couch. "How are you actually doing?"

Steven finally looked up. Dark circles under his eyes. Stubble that had gone past intentional into just-forgot-to-shave territory.

"I'm fine," he said again. Less convincing this time.

"Steven."

"What do you want me to say, man? That I fucked up? That I kissed Taylor in the driveway at Thanksgiving while I was still dating Denise and now everything's a mess?" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Because yeah. All of that. That's where I'm at."

Jeremiah was quiet for a moment. "How's Denise doing?"

"She's okay. Better than me, probably. We talked. It was... honest." Steven laughed, but there was no humor in it. "She said she knew. Before it happened. That I wasn't over Taylor. She was just waiting for me to figure it out."

"Shit. That's brutal."

"Yeah. And now I see her at Breaker every day, so that's fun." Steven rubbed his face. "Your dad keeps scheduling meetings with both of us. I think he's enjoying it."

"That tracks. He loves a good awkward power play."

"Too smart. Way too smart for me." Steven closed his laptop, finally giving Jeremiah his full attention. "Anyway. Taylor won't talk to me. Davis is still in the picture, apparently. And I'm here, watching ESPN and eating cold lo mein. Living the dream."

"Taylor's at Beer Olympics next week."

Steven went very still. "What?"

"December 8th. BEN versus Tri Phi. She's team captain." Jeremiah shrugged, carefully casual. "Just figured you should know."

"Why would I need to know that?"

"I don't know. Maybe because you've been in love with her since like, sophomore year of high school, and she just watched you kiss her and walk away?"

Steven's jaw tightened. "It's complicated."

"It's really not. You like her. She likes you. You're both single now." Jeremiah stood, grabbing his jacket. "Come to Beer Olympics. Wear something that doesn't make you look like a divorced dad. See what happens."

"That's your advice? Just show up?"

"It's worked for me before."

"When has that ever worked for you?"

Jeremiah paused at the door. Every Wednesday dinner for the past month, he thought. Every time Belly laughs at something I say. Every time she looks at me like—

"Just trust me," he said instead. "December 8th. BEN house. Be there."

He left before Steven could argue.

~*~

The BEN house had been transformed.

Folding tables lined the main room, each one set up for a different event—flip cup, beer pong, quarters, something involving a complicated arrangement of shot glasses that Jeremiah didn't remember approving. Red and blue streamers hung from the ceiling (BEN colors versus Tri Phi's pink and green). Someone had made a surprisingly professional bracket board and mounted it on the wall, complete with glitter and what appeared to be hand-drawn logos.

The energy was chaotic in the best way—music thumping, people laughing, the particular electricity of college kids with too much competitive spirit and access to cheap beer.

"This is insane," Belly said, standing in the doorway. She'd come with Anika and Jillian, both of them already gravitating toward the drink table. "You do this every semester?"

"Twice a semester, actually. Fall and spring." Jeremiah appeared beside her, red solo cup in hand, wearing his BEN jersey and a backwards cap that shouldn't have looked good but somehow did. His smile was easy, confident—this was his territory. "Welcome to the thunderdome."

"I can't believe I've never been to one of these."

"You were busy being a volleyball star." He bumped her shoulder. "Come on. I'll give you the tour."

He led her through the crowd, one hand on the small of her back—casual, guiding, but she felt it like a brand through her jacket. People called out to him as they passed. "Fisher!" "Yo, Jere!" A girl with dark hair and a Tri Phi sweatshirt touched his arm, leaned in close to say something that made him laugh.

It shouldn't matter. It didn't matter. But she noticed anyway.

"Who's that?" she asked, keeping her voice light.

"Hmm? Oh, that's Casey. We had Econ together last year." He didn't seem to notice the way Casey was still watching him. Or maybe he did and just didn't care. "She's cool."

"She seems... friendly."

His hand pressed slightly firmer against her back. "She's not my type."

"What's your type?"

The question hung there. Too loaded. Too much.

He glanced down at her, something unreadable in his eyes. "Complicated question."

Before she could respond, Taylor's voice cut through the noise.

"Isabel Conklin!" Taylor was pushing through the crowd, pink cup in hand, expression caught between surprised and delighted. "You actually came!"

"I told you I would."

"Yeah, but you've been a hermit for like three months. I didn't believe you." Taylor hugged her, then pulled back, eyes narrowing at Jeremiah. "Are you corrupting my best friend, Fisher?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Liar." But she was smiling. "The flip cup tournament starts in twenty minutes. I assume you're defending your sad little title?"

"Three semesters undefeated, Jewel. Nothing sad about it."

"We'll see." Taylor turned back to Belly. "Please tell me you're on my team."

"Actually—" Jeremiah cut in smoothly, "she's already committed. BEN drafted her."

"You can't just—"

"It's in the bylaws. Section four, paragraph two. 'The hosting chapter reserves the right to recruit auxiliary team members from the general student body.'"

Taylor stared at him. "You literally just made that up."

"Prove it."

Belly bit back a laugh. This—the banter, the energy, Jeremiah in his element—was infectious. She'd forgotten what it felt like to be part of something, to be pulled into the chaos instead of watching from the sidelines.

"Fine," Taylor said. "But when we destroy you, I'm going to be insufferable about it."

"Taylor, you're insufferable about everything."

She flipped him off cheerfully and disappeared back into the crowd.

Jeremiah turned to Belly, grinning. "Ready to be a BEN boy?"

"I don't know. What does that involve?"

He grabbed a spare jersey from a pile on the couch—clearly prepared for this—and held it out to her. "Put this on. You're with me."

She pulled it over her tank top. It was too big, falling past her hips, smelling like laundry detergent.

"There." He tied a green bandana around her wrist, fingers brushing her skin. "Official."

"I feel very official."

"You look very official." His eyes lingered on her for a second too long. Then he cleared his throat. "Come on. First event's about to start."

~*~

Flip cup was chaos.

Two tables pushed together, red cups lined up, teams facing off across the sticky surface. Jeremiah had positioned Belly next to him—"You're my anchor, Bells, no pressure"—and was currently demonstrating the proper flipping technique with the intensity of an Olympic coach.

"It's all in the wrist. See? You flip from the edge, not the middle. The middle throws off your center of gravity."

"It's a cup, Jere."

"It's a vessel of victory." He demonstrated again. "Now you try."

She tried. The cup wobbled, tipped, fell off the table entirely.

"That was... a start," he said diplomatically.

"That was terrible."

"You're overthinking it. Trust the cup."

"Trust the cup?"

"Beerology 101, Bells."

Taylor appeared on the opposite side of the table, flanked by her Tri Phi sisters. "Ready to lose, Fisher?"

"Born ready, Jewel."

The whistle blew. Cups were drained, slammed, flipped. The room erupted in cheers and groans. Belly watched Jeremiah in action—focused, fast, competitive in a way that made his whole face sharpen.

He was good at this. Good at bringing people together, at making chaos feel fun, at being the center of gravity in a room full of noise. She'd forgotten this part of him, or maybe she'd never really seen it—the Jeremiah who wasn't just charming at Cousins Beach, but someone who'd built a whole world for himself here. Friends, responsibilities, a place where he belonged.

When it came down to her—the final flip—she panicked.

"Don't think," Jeremiah said quietly, suddenly right beside her. "Trust your hands."

She flipped. The cup spun, wobbled, landed perfectly on its rim.

The BEN side of the table exploded.

Before she could process what happened, Jeremiah grabbed her—not a side hug this time, a real one. Arms around her waist, lifting her off her feet, spinning her once while people cheered and Taylor groaned dramatically from the other side.

"That's what I'm talking about!" He was laughing, face close to hers, and when he set her down his hand landed on her chest—right over her heart.

She felt it through the jersey, through her tank top, his palm warm and steady against her sternum. Her heart slamming so hard he had to feel it too.

His grin faltered. Just for a second. Neither of them moved.

Then the noise of the room rushed back in, and he dropped his hand like he'd been burned.

"Told you," he said, voice rougher now. "Trust the cup."

"Beerology 101," she managed.

"Now you're getting it."

Someone jostled past them. 

"Next round!" a voice shouted.  

Jeremiah stepped back. Cleared his throat. "You, uh. You want a drink?"

"Yeah." Her voice came out weird. "Yeah, that'd be good."

He disappeared toward the kitchen. Belly stood there, hand pressed to her own chest now—right where his had been—trying to remember how to breathe normally.

~*~

Steven showed up during the second event.

Belly spotted him first—hovering near the door, looking uncomfortable in a button-down that was definitely too nice for Beer Olympics. Before she could say anything, Taylor's voice cut across the room.

"Steven Conklin!"

The noise level dropped. People turned. Steven froze like a deer in headlights.

Taylor marched toward him, pink cup in hand, expression unreadable. Belly tensed, waiting for an explosion.

"I thought you weren't talking to me," Steven said carefully.

"I'm not. But I need muscle and Fisher keeps stealing my players." She shoved a Tri Phi shirt at his chest. "Put this on. You're with me."

"I—what?"

"Did I stutter? She turned on her heel, then looked back. "And for the record, this doesn't mean I've forgiven you. It means I want to win."

Steven looked at Jeremiah, helpless. Jeremiah just grinned and shrugged.

"Better do what she says, man."

Steven pulled the pink shirt over his button-down and followed Taylor like a man walking to his own execution.

"Did you plan that?" Belly asked.

"I planted the seed. Taylor did the rest." Jeremiah was doing that smug face again. "She's competitive. I knew she wouldn't let me draft another Conklin without a fight."

"You're terrifying."

~*~

The third round came down to Belly versus Steven.

"Oh, this is happening," Taylor said, suddenly invested. "Conklin versus Conklin."

"No pressure, Bells," Jeremiah said. "Just the family honor on the line."

"I hate both of you," Steven muttered, lining up his cup.

Belly focused. Wrist loose, like Jere had shown her. Trust the cup.

She flipped. It landed.

Steven's wobbled, tipped, fell off the table entirely.

The BEN side erupted. Taylor threw her hands up in disgust.

"Are you kidding me?" she yelled at Steven. "You had one job!"

"The cup was wet!"

"The cup was fine! You choked!"

Jeremiah high-fived Belly so hard her palm stung. "Conklin supremacy."

"I'm also a Conklin," Steven said flatly.

"The better Conklin." Jeremiah grinned. "Sorry, man. Facts are facts."

Steven flipped him off. Taylor was still yelling.

God, she'd missed this.

~*~

The partner round went exactly as Jeremiah had planned—which is to say, chaotically.

Taylor's face when she realized Steven was her assigned partner was priceless. Fury, then confusion, then something softer that she quickly buried under more fury.

"Did you do this?" she hissed at Jeremiah across the table.

"The bracket is randomized."

"Bullshit."

"Taylor, I'm wounded by the accusation."

But they played. And despite Taylor's protests, they played well—the kind of instinctive teamwork that came from years of knowing each other, even when you were pretending you didn't.

Tri Phi won the round. Taylor screamed so loud Belly's ears rang.

"THAT'S what I'm talking about!" Taylor grabbed Steven's face and kissed his cheek, then seemed to realize what she'd done and shoved him away. "Don't get used to it. You still suck."

"We literally just won," Steven said, but he was grinning like an idiot.

When Jeremiah glanced over a few minutes later, they were in the corner—not talking, not fighting. Steven's hand was on her hip. Taylor was leaning into him, saying something low that made him laugh. Neither one seemed to remember anyone else was in the room.

"You're doing the face again," Belly said.

"What face?"

"The smug one."

"I don't have a smug face."

"You absolutely have a smug face." She poked his chest. "Cupid."

"Just doing my civic duty."

"Uh-huh."

"Guess the Beer next!" someone shouted. "Fisher, you're up!"

He stepped back. "Duty calls. Stick around?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

~*~

Guess the Beer was Jeremiah's event.

Blindfolded, he identified six out of eight beers correctly—his culinary palate finally useful for something other than impressing his mom. The crowd went wild. Taylor accused him of cheating. He accepted the trophy (a plastic cup spray-painted gold) with exaggerated humility.

"Speech!" someone yelled.

"I'd like to thank the academy," Jeremiah said, holding the cup aloft. "And my mother, who taught me that taste is everything. And Belly Conklin, my good luck charm—"

He found her in the crowd. Laughing, flushed, watching him like—

Nope. Not going there. Not tonight.

"—who reminded me that showing up is half the battle."

The room cheered. He took a bow. And when he looked for her again, she was still watching him.

Still smiling.

~*~

It was nearly midnight when the final scores were tallied.

BEN: 47. Tri Phi: 43.

"FOUR SEMESTERS UNDEFEATED!" Jeremiah bellowed, hoisting the trophy while his brothers chanted around him. "TRI PHI CAN'T TOUCH THIS!"

Taylor threw a cup at his head. He ducked, laughing.

"Next semester," she promised. "You're done, Fisher."

"Keep telling yourself that, Jewel."

But she had a sparkle in her eye, and when Jeremiah looked past her, he saw Steven waiting by the door. Taylor noticed him looking, turned, and her expression shifted into something complicated.

"Go," Jeremiah said quietly. "Talk to him."

"Absolutely not."

"Tay. Give him a chance."

"He's had plenty of chances."

But she went anyway. And Jeremiah watched her cross the room, watched Steven straighten up when he saw her coming, watched them disappear together onto the porch. He thought about all the summers they'd spent dancing around each other—Steven and Taylor, always almost, never quite.

Maybe tonight would be different.

He hoped it would be. Someone should get a happy ending.

"You did that," Belly said, appearing at his elbow. She'd been watching too.

"I may have nudged."

"You're going to be insufferable about this."

"Probably." He turned to look at her, something softer in his expression now that the performance was over. The party was winding down around them—cups being collected, people drifting toward the door, the energy shifting from chaotic to tired. "Walk you home?"

"It's freezing."

"I'll keep you warm."

The words landed weird. Too soft. Too much.

He cleared his throat. "I mean—I've got a jacket. In my room. Unless you want to freeze to death."

"Such a gentleman."

"I try."

She followed him upstairs. It was the first time she'd been in his room—really in it, not just passing by—and she stopped in the doorway, taking it in.

Teal walls covered in stuff: a yellow "High Water" road sign, a speed limit sign, a "No Parking" sign that definitely came from somewhere it shouldn't have. A huge surf painting over his bed. Orange bedding, rumpled and unmade. A colorful rug that looked like it belonged in a different decade. Coffee maker on his desk next to a stack of textbooks. Clothes on the floor. A paddle from some fraternity thing. A group photo tucked into the mirror frame—all of them at Cousins, years ago, sun-bleached and laughing.

It was chaos. It was completely him.

"Sorry about the mess," he said, digging through his closet. "Wasn't expecting company."

"It's very you."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's an observation."

He pulled out a hoodie—gray, soft, clearly worn a hundred times—and tossed it at her. "Here. This one's warm."

She caught it. Pulled it on. It smelled like Asian pears. Susannah's shampoo. She'd known that smell since she was twelve. He must wear this one a lot. 

"Thanks, Jere."

"Yeah." He grabbed his own jacket, not quite looking at her. "Whatever. Let's go."

The cold hit them as soon as they stepped outside. Belly pulled her hoodie tighter, still wearing the BEN shirt underneath, and Jeremiah walked close beside her. Close enough that their shoulders bumped. Close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him even through layers of clothing.

"That was fun," she said, breath misting in the air.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I forgot how much I missed... this." She gestured vaguely at the campus around them—the dark buildings, the empty paths, the distant sound of someone's music playing from an open window. "Being part of something. Feeling like I belong."

"Volleyball team stuff?"

"All of it. People. Parties. Having somewhere to be that isn't physical therapy or my apartment." She exhaled, watching her breath cloud and dissolve. "I've been hiding since the surgery. I didn't realize how much until tonight."

"Why?"

The question was simple, but it cut deeper than he'd probably intended.

"I don't know. Fear, maybe? Like, if I stayed small enough, nothing else could go wrong." She kicked at a crack in the sidewalk. "Stupid."

"Not stupid. Human."

"Same thing sometimes."

They walked in silence for a while. Past the library, dark and quiet, its columns casting long shadows across the lawn. 

"Can I tell you something?" Jeremiah said finally.

"Yeah. What's up?"

"I'm really glad you came tonight. Like, really glad. Not just because we won—though obviously that was great—but because..." He trailed off, shoving his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunching against the cold. "I don't know. It felt right. Having you there. In my world."

"Your world?"

"You know what I mean. The BEN stuff. The people. All of it." He glanced at her sideways. "You fit. With them. With... here."

"I had a good guide."

"I'm serious, Bells."

"So am I."

They kept walking. The silence between them felt different now—charged, expectant, like the air before a storm.

"I keep thinking," he said, voice rougher now, "what if we'd done this sooner? All those years we just... weren't."

She looked at him. His profile was sharp against the campus lights, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. "Weren't what?"

"I don't know. Friends? Close? Whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between them. "Four years, Bells. We lost four years being polite and distant and pretending everything was fine when it wasn't. All because—" He stopped. Shook his head.

"Because what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Jere."

"It doesn't matter. We're here now, right? That's what counts." But something in his voice said it did matter. It mattered a lot.

"Yeah. We're here now." She wanted to push, but she could feel him pulling back, retreating into safer territory. "And I'm glad. For the record. That we found our way back."

"Even though you're leaving soon?"

The words landed like stones. He'd said them matter-of-factly, but she heard what was underneath—the hurt, the frustration, the thing he wouldn't let himself name.

"Paris isn't forever," she said quietly.

"No. But it's not here either." He stopped walking, turned to face her. They were standing in the pool of light from a streetlamp, and his expression was doing something complicated. He looked away. "And I know that's good. Paris is going to be amazing for you. You deserve amazing things. But I just—"

He broke off, jaw working.

"What?"

"I'm gonna miss you, Bells." The words came out rough, almost torn from him. "I know that's stupid. You're not even gone yet. But I already miss you. Every time I think about January, about you getting on that plane, about Wednesday dinners with just me and Mom staring at your empty chair—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry. That's a lot. I shouldn't—"

"I'm gonna miss you too."

He looked at her. Really looked. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, Jere. A lot." Her voice cracked on the last word. "More than I know how to say."

Something shifted in the space between them. The air felt thinner, the streetlight brighter, the cold sharper on her cheeks—or maybe that was just the tears she was refusing to let fall.

"Bells—"

"We should keep walking." She said it quickly, before he could finish. Before either of them could say something they couldn't take back. Before she did something stupid like close the distance between them and find out what his mouth tasted like. "I'm freezing."

He studied her for a long moment. His eyes were unreadable, but she could see his throat move as he swallowed. Whatever he saw in her face made him nod.

"Yeah. Okay. Come on."

He started walking. She fell into step beside him.

They didn't touch for the rest of the way. Kept a careful distance, shoulders no longer bumping, hands shoved in pockets. But the silence between them was loud with everything they weren't saying.

~*~

At her door, they stood facing each other.

The porch light was on, casting warm yellow across his face, and she could see the exhaustion there now—the weight of the night, of the conversation, of whatever he was carrying that he wouldn't let her see.

"Thanks for tonight," she said. "For making me come. For the shirt. For..." She gestured vaguely. "Everything."

"Anytime." He was doing that thing where he looked at her too long, too intently, like he was memorizing her. "Wednesday?"

"Wednesday."

Neither of them moved.

The smart thing would be to go inside. Say goodnight, close the door, crawl into bed and pretend this ache she couldn't name was something else. She was with Conrad. She loved Conrad. Whatever this was with Jeremiah—

"Belly—"

His hand lifted, fingers hovering near her cheek. She didn't breathe. Didn't move. The porch light caught something in his eyes—want, maybe, or grief—and for a second she thought—

His fingers curled into a fist. Dropped to his side.

The air between them felt thin. Electric. She was suddenly aware of how close they were standing, of the cold biting at her cheeks, of the way her breath kept catching.

"Goodnight, Jere." She said it gently. A door closing, but not slamming. Not locked. Just... closed. For now.

He exhaled. Nodded. Took a step back.

"Goodnight, Bells."

She went inside. Closed the door. Leaned against it.

Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. What was that? What had he been about to—

What was she afraid of? That she already knew the answer.

On the other side of the door, she heard him stand there for a long moment. Then his footsteps, retreating down the path.

She didn't move until she couldn't hear them anymore.

The apartment was dark. Jillian's door closed, Anika's light off. She didn't turn on the lamp—just stood there in the entryway, hoodie still on. 

The silence felt loud.

She pressed her palm flat against her chest, right where his hand had been at flip cup. Her heart had slowed down. But the ache hadn't.

She stayed like that for a long time. Just standing. Just feeling it.

Outside, Jeremiah stood on her porch for a long moment.

Fuck.

He'd almost said it. Almost told her everything—that he couldn't stop thinking about her, that Wednesday dinners were the highlight of his week, that watching her laugh made something in his chest crack open. That he'd been in love with her for longer than he could admit.

But she was with Conrad. His brother. And he wasn't that guy.

He wasn't.

He wouldn't be. 

He walked back to frat alone, hands shoved in his pockets, breath fogging in the cold. The house was quiet when he got back—most of the guys crashed or gone home with whoever they'd managed to charm. He climbed the stairs to his room, collapsed on his bed, stared at the ceiling.

His phone buzzed.

Belly: thanks again for tonight  

Jere: sleep well bells

Five weeks, he thought. Five weeks until Paris.

Five weeks to figure out how to let her go.

~*~

The kitchen smelled like sesame oil and ginger.

Belly had fallen asleep on the couch.

Jeremiah hadn't meant to let her—they'd been watching some documentary about street food that she'd insisted on after dinner, curled up on opposite ends of the couch with bowls of leftover tteokbokki. Somewhere between Bangkok and Mexico City, her head had drifted onto his shoulder. Her breathing had gone soft and even. Her hand had found his arm, fingers curled loosely around his wrist like she was anchoring herself to him.

He should have woken her up. Should have said something about it being late, about her needing to get home, about the fact that her boyfriend was his brother and this was the kind of thing that crossed lines even if nothing technically happened.

Instead, he'd just... stayed. Let her sleep. Held very, very still so as not to disturb her. His arm had gone numb under the weight of her head about ten minutes ago—that pins-and-needles thing that meant he'd regret this tomorrow—but he couldn't make himself move it. Wouldn't. Not when she was breathing slow and even against his shoulder, her exhales warm through his shirt. Not when her fingers were still curled around his wrist like she was anchoring herself to him even in sleep.

He watched the way the light from the TV flickered across her face, the way her lashes fanned against her cheeks, the way a small crease appeared between her brows when something on screen got loud and then smoothed out again when it went quiet.

She looked peaceful in a way she rarely did when she was awake. The constant low-grade worry that had lived in her face since the surgery—about her knee, about Conrad, about Paris—all of it was gone. She just looked... soft. Like the girl he remembered from summers at Cousins, before everything got complicated.

He thought about sand crabs. That afternoon when they were kids—he was nine, she was eight—and they'd spent hours hunting for them in the wet sand near the shore. Conrad and Steven had come looking for him, said they were biking into town for a video game. If he didn't come, he couldn't play later. He'd looked at Belly, her hair tangled and sandy, her bucket half-full. And he'd said he didn't care. He'd stayed.

He thought about how she used to follow them everywhere—him and Conrad and Steven—trailing behind on her bike, showing up at the dock when they were fishing, appearing at the basketball court when they were shooting hoops. Conrad would roll his eyes. Steven would groan. But Jere would just shrug and say she's not hurting anyone. Let her stay. Every time.

He thought about teaching her to drive, her hands white-knuckled on the wheel, his hand covering hers to help her feel the clutch. About kissing her in the pool that summer, chlorine and wanting and finally, finally getting to touch her. About the deb ball—how beautiful she'd looked in that white dress, how happy he'd been for a moment, how he hadn't known yet that his mom was sick. How everything had been perfect for exactly one moment before it all fell apart.

All those years. All those moments. And still, somehow, he'd ended up here—watching her sleep on his mother's couch while his brother's name sat in her phone.

You're in so much trouble, he thought.

"Jere?"

He startled so hard he almost woke Belly up. Susannah stood in the doorway from the kitchen, paint-stained as always—green this time, something that looked like sea foam—watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"Mom. Hey. I was just—"

"I can see what you were just." Her voice was gentle, but knowing. The knowing was the worst part. She crossed to the armchair across from him, settling into it quietly so as not to wake Belly. "How long has she been out?"

"Maybe twenty minutes." His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. "I should probably wake her up."

"Probably." But Susannah didn't move. Just sat there, studying him with those artist's eyes that saw too much—that had always seen too much, even when he was a kid trying to hide a bad grade or a broken heart. "You know, I used to watch your father look at me that way. Before everything got complicated."

"Mom—"

"I'm not saying anything, sweetheart. I'm just observing." She paused, her expression softening into something that looked almost like sadness. "You're in trouble, baby."

Yeah. He was.

He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look at Belly either—just fixed his eyes on some point between them, the corner of the coffee table, a water ring someone had left on the wood.

"I know," he said finally.

"Does she?"

"No." The word came out harsh. He forced himself to soften it. "And she's not going to. She's with Conrad."

"I know she is."

"So." He finally made himself look at Belly's sleeping face—at the way her lips were slightly parted, at the small sound she made when she shifted. Then he looked away, something painful twisting in his gut. "Nothing's going to happen. I'm not that guy."

"I know you're not." Susannah reached over, squeezed his hand. Her fingers were cold, thin, but strong. "You've always been so good at protecting other people's happiness. Even when it costs you yours."

"That's not—"

"It is. Since you were little. You'd give Conrad your toys just so he'd stop crying. You'd pretend you didn't want the last cookie because you knew Steven wanted it. You make everyone else feel loved and then you wonder why no one thinks to love you back the same way." Her voice cracked slightly. "I see it, Jere. I've always seen it."

He didn't say anything. Couldn't.

"The heart wants what it wants," she continued, quieter now. "You know how I always talk about the underpainting? How even if you cover it up, it shapes everything that comes after?" She paused, her artist's hands folding over his. "That's what this is, baby. You're not acting on it. You're just letting it be part of the canvas. Letting it be true."

"What am I supposed to do with that, Mom?"

"I don't know, baby. I really don't. But you can't paint over something you won't look at."

She stood, and he could see the exhaustion in her movements—the way she used the arm of the chair to push herself up, the slight hitch in her breathing. "But maybe start by waking her up. It's late."

She kissed the top of his head—lingering for a moment, with no judgment but empathy and a little sadness—and then she was gone, her footsteps soft on the stairs.

He sat there for another minute. The TV was still playing, some chef in Tokyo now, talking about the perfect ramen. Belly's hand was still on his arm.

He didn't want to move. Didn't want this moment to end. But it had to—everything ended eventually, and he'd learned the hard way that holding on too long just made the letting go hurt more.

Gently, he touched her shoulder.

"Bells. Hey. Wake up."

She stirred, blinking up at him, disoriented. Her eyes were soft and unfocused, and for a second she just looked at him—really looked—and he felt his heart do something complicated.

"What time is it?"

"Late. You fell asleep."

"On you?" She sat up, suddenly aware of how close they'd been, of her hand still on his arm. She pulled it back, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine." He stood, putting distance between them. His arm felt cold where her hand had been. "I'll call you an Uber."

"Jere—"

"It's late. You should get home." He was being weird. He knew he was being weird. But he couldn't seem to stop—couldn't figure out how to be normal when everything felt like it was tilting sideways.

She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

He ordered the car. Walked her to the door. Watched her climb in and drive away, her face illuminated briefly by the dome light before it went dark.

Then he went back inside, sat on the couch where she'd been sleeping—where the cushions were still warm from her body—and stared at nothing until his eyes burned.

~*~

Wednesday dinner didn't happen.

Jeremiah showed up at the usual time with groceries for pasta—nothing fancy, just carbonara, his mom's favorite—but the house was quiet. Dark. His mom's car was in the driveway, but she wasn't in the kitchen.

"Mom?"

No answer.

He set the groceries down, a cold thread of worry winding through him. She never missed Wednesday dinner. Never.

"Mom!"

He took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding now. Found her bedroom door closed. Knocked.

"Come in." Her voice. Tired. Wrong.

She was in bed. Not painting, not reading, not doing any of the things she normally did. Just lying there, pale against the pillows, looking smaller than he'd ever seen her.

"Mom." He crossed to her, sat on the edge of the bed. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

"I'm just tired, sweetheart. It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. You never—" He stopped. Looked at her more closely. The shadows under her eyes. The way her hands trembled slightly on the blanket. "Mom. Tell me."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then:

"I have a scan scheduled. Next week. December 23rd."

The world tilted.

"A scan." His voice came out flat. Distant. "What kind of scan?"

"Just routine. My doctor found something on my bloodwork that she wants to check. It's probably nothing."

"Probably."

"Jeremiah—"

"When were you going to tell me?" The words came out sharper than he intended. "Were you just going to wait until after Christmas? Pretend everything was fine?"

"I didn't want to worry you—"

"Worry me? Mom, I—" He stood up, pacing now, hands shaking. "I can't do this again. I can't—"

"Baby—"

"I barely made it through the first time." His voice cracked. "Watching you in that hospital bed, not knowing if you were going to—" He stopped. Pressed his palms against his eyes. "I can't do this again."

"Come here." Susannah patted the bed beside her. When he didn't move, she said it again, softer. "Jeremiah. Come here."

He sat. She pulled him close, the way she used to when he was small and scared of thunderstorms. He was too big for it now—too old—but he let her anyway.

"It's probably nothing," she said again, stroking his hair. "But even if it's something, we'll handle it. Together. Okay?"

"Okay." He didn't believe it. Not really. But he said it anyway.

"I love you, baby."

"I love you too, Mom."

They stayed like that for a long time. The house quiet around them. The groceries forgotten downstairs.

December 23rd.  

Eight days until he found out if his world was about to fall apart again.

That night, alone in his room, Jeremiah stared at his phone.

Belly had canceled Wednesday dinner—Taylor and the girls had surprised her with a going-away celebration for Paris. She'd texted him apologizing, said she felt bad. He'd told her not to worry about it, go have fun, he wasn't going to bother her tonight.

So here he was. Just him and the quiet.

He should call Conrad. Should tell him about Mom. But Conrad was in the middle of finals, drowning in med school, and what was he supposed to say? Hey, Mom might be sick again, thought you should know?

He tried anyway. The call went to voicemail.

He tried Steven. Voicemail.

He even tried his dad. Thumb hovering over the contact for a long moment before he pressed call. It rang twice, then went to voicemail. Probably saw the caller ID and sent it through. Or maybe he was just busy. It was always one or the other with Adam Fisher.

The walls were too close. The silence too loud. He didn't want to be alone with the thoughts crowding his head.

He opened his contacts. Scrolled through. Stopped on a name he hadn't texted in weeks.

Denise (not a nepo baby fan)

They hadn't really talked since Thanksgiving. Since the car ride where she'd seen too much, asked too many questions, looked at him like she actually wanted to know the answers.

Who takes care of you?

His thumb hovered over the screen. The room was dark except for the blue glow of the screen, the blinking cursor waiting for words he didn't have. How did you text someone you barely knew and say my mom might be dying and I'm falling apart?

But he typed it anyway: You awake?

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Unfortunately. Investor pitch at 7am. What's up?

Then it rang. Denise, calling instead of waiting.

He sat on the edge of his unmade bed, realized he was shivering, and pulled the hoodie tighter around himself before answering.

"Hey," she said. No preamble. "You okay? You don't usually text this late. You don't text me at all, actually."

And something in her voice—that no-bullshit concern, that willingness to just ask—broke something loose in his chest.

"My mom might be sick again," he said. The words came out jagged. "She has a scan next week. And I don't—I can't—"

He couldn't finish. Couldn't get the words past the tightness in his throat.

Denise was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm here. Take your time."

So he did. And she listened—really listened—while he rambled about the scan and the fear and the way he'd barely survived the first time, when he was eighteen and terrified and pretending to be fine for everyone else's sake. He told her about cooking for his mom during chemo, about learning recipes so she'd actually eat something. About how he still couldn't hear certain beeping sounds without his hands starting to shake.

She didn't try to fix it. Didn't tell him it would be okay or that he was overreacting or any of the things people usually said. Just stayed on the line while he fell apart.

"Thank you," he said finally, voice hoarse. "For picking up. For... this."

"That's what friends are for."

"Are we friends?"

"We are now." He could hear the smile in her voice. "And Jere? Call me after the scan. Whatever happens. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And get some sleep. You sound like shit."

That startled a laugh out of him. "Thanks, Denise."

"Anytime, nepo baby."

She hung up. He stared at the phone.

Weird that a five-minute call with his best friend's ex could make him feel less like the world was ending. But it did.

He still didn't know what the scan would show. Still didn't know if his world was about to fall apart.

Eight days until the scan. Weeks until Paris. Everything pressing in at once.

But at least he wasn't completely alone.

Chapter Text

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 13

The BEN house was quiet for once.

Most of the guys had already left for Tri Phi's winter formal—some ancient tradition that involved semi-formal wear, cheap champagne, and an excuse for Greeks to hook up before everyone scattered for winter break. Jeremiah had begged off. Said he had studying to do. Said he wasn't in the mood.

Both lies. He just couldn't make himself care.

He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when Redbird appeared in his doorway.

"Dude." Redbird was already dressed—button-down, nice jeans, hair actually styled for once. "You've been depressing as fuck all week."

"Thanks. Really helpful."

"I'm serious. You've been moping around here like someone killed your dog. Did someone kill your dog? Do you have a dog I don't know about?"

"I don't have a dog."

"Then what's your excuse?" Redbird crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Tri Phi formal. Tonight. You're coming."

"I'm not—"

"Not a request, Fisher." He grabbed Jeremiah's ankle and yanked. "Get up. Put on a button-down or something. We're leaving in twenty."

"Redbird—"

"No babysitting the pledges tonight. No being the responsible one. Just get drunk and act like a normal twenty-one-year-old for once." He was already halfway out the door. "Twenty minutes. I'm timing you."

Jeremiah lay there for another minute. Stared at the ceiling. Thought about his mom's face when she'd told him about the scan. Thought about the way her hands had been shaking. Thought about December 23rd, circled in red on the calendar in his head, counting down like a bomb.

Ten days.

He got up. Found a clean shirt. Went to the formal.

~*~

The Tri Phi house was chaos in pink and gold.

Streamers everywhere, a DJ in the corner playing something with too much bass, bodies packed into every available space. The air smelled like perfume and beer and that particular electricity of college kids with nowhere to be tomorrow.

Jeremiah grabbed a drink from the makeshift bar—vodka something, he didn't ask what—and downed half of it in one go.

"Whoa." Redbird appeared beside him, eyebrows raised. "Slow down, champ."

"You told me to get drunk."

"I said get drunk, not get alcohol poisoning before ten."

Jeremiah finished the drink. Grabbed another. "Same thing."

Redbird studied him for a moment, something almost like concern flickering across his face. Then he shrugged. "Okay. Your funeral. But if you puke on anyone's shoes, I'm not cleaning it up."

He disappeared into the crowd. Jeremiah stayed by the bar.

The music was loud enough to drown out thinking. That was good. He didn't want to think. Didn't want to feel anything except the warm blur of alcohol spreading through his bloodstream, dulling the sharp edges of everything he'd been carrying all week.

Someone touched his arm.

"Jeremiah Fisher." Casey—dark hair, Tri Phi sweatshirt traded for a tight black dress, the same smile she'd had at Beer Olympics. "Didn't think you'd show."

"Wasn't planning to."

"But here you are." She stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral and heavy. "Wanna dance?"

He should say no. He knew he should say no. But the vodka was hitting now, making everything soft around the edges, and Casey was pretty and warm and looking at him like he was something worth wanting.

"Yeah," he heard himself say. "Sure."

Dancing turned into shots turned into more dancing turned into Casey's hand on his chest, her lips near his ear, saying something he couldn't quite hear over the music.

"What?" He leaned closer.

"I said—" Her mouth brushed his earlobe. "You want to get out of here?"

He should say no.

He said yes.

They ended up in one of the upstairs rooms—someone's bedroom, he didn't know whose, didn't care. The door barely closed before Casey was kissing him, her hands tugging at his shirt, pressing him back toward the bed.

She was a good kisser. Confident. Knew what she wanted. His hands found her waist, the zipper at the back of her dress.

And then—nothing.

Not nothing like he couldn't. Nothing like... he was watching himself from across the room. Going through motions that should've meant something but didn't.

Casey pulled back. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm—"

But he wasn't.

"Sorry." He stepped back, ran a hand through his hair. "I can't—I have to go."

"What?"

"I just—I'm sorry. I can't do this."

He left before she could respond. Down the stairs, through the crowd, out into the December cold that hit his face like a slap.

Taylor was on the porch, wrapped in someone's jacket, scrolling through her phone.

"Fisher?" She looked up. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just needed air."

"You look like shit."

"Thanks. Very helpful."

She studied him for a second, then went back to her phone. "Davis is being an idiot again. Shocking, I know."

"What'd he do this time?"

"Does it matter?" She shoved her phone in her pocket. "It's always something."

Jeremiah sat down on the porch steps. Pulled out his phone. The screen was too bright. He squinted at it.

"How's Steve-o doing?" he asked. Not subtle. The vodka was making him loose.

Taylor's head snapped up. "What?"

"Your boy. Steven. How's he doing at Breaker? He's been MIA all week. Figured he'd be with you tonight."

"He's not my boy." Her voice went sharp. "And he's working late for YOUR father."

"Right. Dad's got him doing the seventy-hour-week thing already."

"Yeah. Apparently." She looked back at her phone. "Not that it's, like, any of your business."

"Come on, Tay. I'm just saying. Everyone can see it. You and him. It's not exactly subtle." He grinned, drunk and enjoying this too much. "I saw you two at Beer Olympics. Real close. Cute."

Taylor's face went red. "We were just—we were just talking—"

"Yeah. Real close talking." He made a face, teasing. "Very intense conversation you were having."

"Fuck off, Fisher."

"And he broke up with D at Thanksgiving. Total coincidence, I'm sure."

Taylor went very still. "That's—he didn't—that's not why—"

"And I know you're not with Davis anymore—he's been a lovesick puppy for, like, two weeks now. Pretty sad, actually."

"I said fuck off."

"I'm just saying what everyone's thinking."

"There's nothing—" She stopped. "We text sometimes. That's it."

"Uh-huh."

"Whatever. What about you?" She turned it back on him, sharp. "I hear you've been texting Denise?"

That threw him. "What? Who said that?"

"Steven said you two have been talking. Like, a lot." She raised an eyebrow. "So what's that about?"

"We're friends."

"Friends." Flat.

"Yeah. Friends. She's cool. We talk." He shrugged, trying to play it off. "Not everyone is like you and Steven, Tay. Some people can actually just be friends."

"Oh fuck you." But she was laughing. "That's not—we're not—"

"Sure you're not."

"I hate you."

She threw her phone at him. He caught it, still grinning.

"Go home, Jere. Sleep it off."

"Rudeee," he said, singsong. "But yeah. Too late for that."

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm going." He handed her phone back. "Night, Tay."

She gave him a look—half concerned, half exasperated—then disappeared back inside.

Jeremiah sat there alone. Pulled out his phone again. 2:17am.

He should go home. Should sleep it off. Should do literally anything except what he was about to do.

His fingers were typing before his brain could stop them.

Jere (2:23am): cant sleep. keep thinking about you

He stared at it. Watched the little "sent" notification appear. Then locked his phone and shoved it in his pocket.

"Fuck," he muttered.

~*~

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 14

He woke up to sunlight stabbing his eyes and a headache that felt like divine punishment.

His phone was on his nightstand, screen dark. He grabbed it. 9:03am. Battery at 12%.

And there—one notification.

Belly (8:23am): You okay? Still good for Philly today?

He stared at it. Read it three times.

That was it? That was all she was going to say? No mention of the 2am confession, no acknowledgment that he'd basically told her she was all he could think about. Just... logistics.

Either she was ignoring it on purpose, or she thought it was just drunk rambling that didn't mean anything, or—

Or she didn't know what to say any more than he did.

He typed back, hating himself:

Jere (9:04am): yeah good. pick you up at 11?

Belly (9:05am): Perfect. See you then.

He set the phone down. Pressed his palms against his eyes.

Three hours. Three hours to shower, sober up, and figure out how to act normal around her when nothing felt normal at all.

He dragged himself out of bed and toward the bathroom.

By 11am he was in the Jeep, showered and caffeinated, driving toward Belly's apartment with his sunglasses on and the radio off.

She was waiting on her porch when he pulled up.

Jeans, sweater, hair pulled back. Looking exactly like herself, which somehow made everything worse. He'd half-hoped she'd seem different—distant, maybe, or awkward—something that would match the weird static in his chest. But she just looked like Belly. Like the person he'd been thinking about at 2am when he should've been sleeping.

"Hey." She climbed into the Jeep, bringing cold air and the faint smell of her shampoo. "You look rough."

"Thanks."

"Late night?"

"Something like that."

He pulled away from the curb. The silence settled between them—not comfortable, not quite tense. Just... waiting.

"So," she said after a few blocks. "Tri Phi formal?"

"Yeah."

"How was it?"

"Fine."

He glanced at her. "Wait. How'd you know about that?"

"Taylor told me." She was looking out the window. "She said you looked pretty wrecked when she saw you."

"Great. That's great."

"Were you?"

"Was I what?"

"Wrecked."

He kept his eyes on the road. "I was drunk."

"That's not what I asked."

He didn't answer. Just tightened his grip on the wheel.

"You're being weird," she said.

"I'm hungover."

"That's not—" She stopped. Tried again. "Did something happen last night?"

"No."

"Jere."

"I said no." It came out sharper than he meant it to.

She went very still. Her hand dropped from the armrest. Like she'd been slapped.

He saw it in his peripheral vision and felt like shit immediately. "Sorry. I just—it was a long night."

They drove in silence for another ten minutes. The highway stretched ahead of them, gray and endless, and Jeremiah gripped the wheel too tight and tried to think about anything other than the text sitting between them like a third person in the car.

"You texted me at two in the morning."

He almost swerved.

"I—yeah. I know."

"You said you couldn't stop thinking about me."

"I was drunk."

"Were you?"

He didn't answer. Just tightened his grip on the wheel.

"Because you've been weird for weeks," she continued. Her voice wasn't accusatory—just honest. Tired. "Since Beer Olympics. Since maybe before that. And I keep trying to figure out what I did wrong—"

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then what is it?" She twisted in her seat to face him. "What's going on with you? And don't say nothing, Jere. Don't lie to me."

The highway blurred past. Signs for Philadelphia, still an hour away. Too far to pretend this conversation wasn't happening.

"There's stuff," he said finally. "Family stuff. I can't—"

"Is that why you've been pulling away? Is that why you almost—" She stopped. "At my door. After Beer Olympics. You were going to say something."

"Belly—"

"What were you going to say?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

He laughed—harsh, bitter. His hands tightened on the wheel. "Why? You're leaving in weeks. So what's the point? Nothing I say is gonna—" He stopped. "It doesn't matter."

"So there is something."

"I didn't say—"

"You just did." Her voice cracked. "God, Jere. How long have we been dancing around this?"

"We're not dancing around anything."

"We've been dancing around it since November. Since the diner. Maybe since before that." She was crying now—not sobbing, just tears sliding down her cheeks, silent and steady. "And I don't know what to do with it because you won't just say it. You won't just—"

"What do you want me to say?" He was almost yelling now, the pressure in his chest finally exploding. "That I can't stop thinking about you? That Wednesday dinners—" He stopped. "That watching you with Con—I can't—" His voice broke. "That I—fuck, Belly, that I—"

He stopped. Couldn't finish it. The words were right there but saying them out loud would make it real and he couldn't—

Silence. Just the highway, the engine, his heart hammering so hard he could hear it.

"Jere—"

"Forget it." He was gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles had gone white. "Just forget I said anything."

"I can't just forget—"

"Well, try. Because it doesn't matter. None of it matters." His voice was ragged now. "You're with my brother. You chose him. Four years ago, you chose him, and I've been trying to be okay with it ever since, and I can't—I can't do this, Belly. I can't sit here and—"

"I chose him?" She stared at him. "Is that what you think happened?"

"That's what did happen."

"No. What happened is you disappeared." Her voice had gone cold. Hurt. "After the deb ball, after everything—you just stopped. Stopped texting, stopped calling, stopped being my friend. I thought you hated me."

"I didn't hate you."

The exit for a rest stop appeared ahead. He pulled off, tires crunching on gravel, and parked in the empty lot. Killed the engine.

Silence.

"I couldn't watch it," he said finally. Quietly. "You and him. Together."

"So you just cut me out? Four years of nothing?"

"It wasn't nothing." He turned to face her. "It was survival. My mom was—she was dying, Belly. And I was the one who—" He stopped. Started again. "Conrad was falling apart. Dad wasn't there. Someone had to cook for her during chemo. Drive her to appointments. Pretend everything was fine while she threw up every night. And I couldn't—" His voice broke. "I couldn't do that and watch you fall in love with my brother at the same time. It was too much."

She was staring at him. Tears still on her cheeks. Something shattered in her expression.

"I didn't know," she whispered. "You never told me—"

"I couldn't tell you. You were with Conrad. You were happy. And I wasn't going to be the guy who made that about me."

"But you disappeared."

"Yeah, I did." His jaw tightened. "And you know what? You did too."

"What?"

"We've been at the same fucking school for three years, Belly. Same campus. You never once—" He laughed, bitter. "You never texted. Never showed up at BEN. Never tried to find me either. So don't act like I'm the only one who walked away."

Her face went white. "That's not—"

"It is though." He stopped. Swallowed. "I thought you didn't want me in your life anymore."

"That's not—" Her voice broke. "I wanted you. I just—I didn't know how to reach out when you seemed so fine without me. And Conrad needed me and you were—" She wiped her face. "I fucked it up too. That's what I'm saying."

He pressed his palms against his eyes. Rubbed hard. "I don't know, Belly. I don't know what I wanted except to not feel like I was drowning every time I saw you."

Silence. Heavy. Four years of missed connection sitting between them like wreckage.

"If you don't want to be here," she said finally, voice small, "just drop me off. I can take the bus or train back."

"What?"

"This was supposed to be fun. Halmoni, cooking, a nice day before—" She wiped her face with the back of her hand. "If you can't stand being around me, just say so. I'll figure it out."

"Belly." He reached for her, then stopped himself. "That's not—I don't—"

"Then what?"

He closed his eyes. Breathed.

"I want to be here," he said. "I'm sorry. I've been—there's stuff going on. Stuff I haven't told you about. And I've been taking it out on you and that's not fair."

"What stuff?"

"Can we—" He ran a hand over his face. "Can we just get through today? And I'll tell you on the way home. I promise. I just—I need to not think about it for a few hours. Can you give me that?"

She studied him for a long moment. Whatever she saw in his face made her nod.

"Okay."

"Thank you."

He started the car. Pulled back onto the highway.

They drove the rest of the way in silence—not the sharp silence from before, but something softer. Bruised. Two people who'd said too much and not enough, trying to figure out where to go from here.

About twenty minutes in, Belly pulled out her phone.

"Halmoni? Hi, it's me." Pause. "Yeah, he's with me. The one from Thanksgiving." Pause, then she smiled. "I know. I told him." Another pause. "See you in like thirty minutes. Love you."

She hung up.

"She says your technique better be decent this time, or she's kicking us both out."

"This time?"

"She hasn't stopped talking about you since Thanksgiving. Apparently she told half her friends about the 'polite boy who can actually cook.'" Belly's smile was small but real. "You made an impression."

"Great. No pressure."

"You'll be fine. She likes you."

"Uh-huh."

"Mostly."

An hour later, they pulled up to a narrow brick rowhouse in South Philly. Halmoni's apartment was small, warm, and crammed with forty years of accumulated life.

Plants on every surface. Religious icons on the walls. The smell of something fermented and delicious coming from the kitchen. A tiny Korean woman in a floral apron stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp as she surveyed them.

"You're late," she said.

"Traffic, Halmoni." Belly bent to hug her. "We got here as fast as we could."

"Mmm." Halmoni's gaze shifted to Jeremiah, looking him up and down. "Today we cook properly."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm ready to learn."

"Come in. You're letting cold air in."

She turned and disappeared into the apartment. Belly shot him a look—half apologetic, half amused—and followed.

The kitchen was tiny but spotless, every pot and pan in its place, ingredients already laid out on the counter like a mise en place from one of his culinary shows. Halmoni was tying an apron around her waist, her movements quick and practiced despite her age.

"Wash hands," she commanded. "Then you." She pointed at Jeremiah. "Show me your knife work."

He washed his hands. Picked up the knife she'd set out. It was Japanese, well-maintained, clearly her favorite. He recognized the brand from his research.

"Onion," Halmoni said. "Thin slices. Show me."

He cut. Focused on the technique—letting the knife do the work, keeping his fingers tucked, maintaining consistent thickness. When he finished, he stepped back.

Halmoni examined the slices. Picked one up. Held it to the light.

"Adequate," she said.

Belly coughed to hide a laugh. "That's high praise, Jere."

"Your knife work is sloppy," Halmoni continued, ignoring her granddaughter. "But trainable. You have patience. That's good. Most young people—" She waved a hand dismissively. "No patience. Want everything fast. Cooking is not fast. Cooking is time."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't ma'am me. I'm not your schoolteacher." She handed him another onion. "Again. Thinner this time."

Two hours later, the kitchen was in chaos—controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

Halmoni had them making kimchi jjigae from scratch, and nothing about the process was simple. She barked orders in a mixture of English and Korean, slapping Jeremiah's hand when he reached for the wrong ingredient, clicking her tongue at Belly's chopping technique.

"You chop like you're angry at the vegetables," she told Belly.

Belly's cheeks went red. She set down the knife carefully. "Maybe I am."

"Vegetables did nothing to you. Respect the vegetables."

Jeremiah bit back a laugh. Belly shot him a look—half embarrassed, half daring him to comment.

"And you—" Halmoni pointed at him with a wooden spoon. "Too much gochugaru. This is stew, not torture."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Fix it."

He fixed it. Added more broth. Adjusted the seasoning under her watchful eye.

Something was shifting as they worked. The tension from the car had started to dissolve, replaced by something else—the rhythm of cooking, the focus required to follow Halmoni's rapid-fire instructions. They kept bumping elbows at the tiny counter. Passing ingredients back and forth. At some point, Belly started translating when Halmoni switched to Korean, and Jeremiah found himself actually learning—not just recipes, but history. Stories about Belly's grandfather, who'd owned a small restaurant in Seoul before they immigrated. About Belly's mother as a child, burning rice and crying at this very stove.

"She was terrible cook," Halmoni said, almost fondly. "No patience. Too much thinking, not enough feeling."

"She's still pretty bad," Belly admitted.

"I know. I don't understand. I raised her in this kitchen." Halmoni shook her head. "You—" She pointed at Jeremiah again. "You have the feeling. I see it. Your hands know what to do even when your brain is thinking too much."

"Thank you."

"Not compliment. Observation." She turned back to the stove. "Now. The tofu. Show me how you cube it."

By the time the stew was ready—bubbling in its clay pot, the smell rich and deep and perfect—Jeremiah's arms were tired and his brain had finally gone quiet. There was something meditative about cooking under Halmoni's direction. No room for spiraling. No space for anything except the next instruction, the next ingredient, the next technique.

"Sit," Halmoni commanded, ladling stew into bowls. "Eat. Then I critique."

They sat at her small table—mismatched chairs, paper napkins, but somehow perfect—and ate in near-silence. The stew was incredible. Richer than his version, more complex, the fermented kimchi adding depth that he couldn't quite identify.

"This is amazing, Halmoni," Belly said.

"I know."

Jeremiah took another bite, trying to deconstruct it. "What's the base? I'm getting anchovy—"

"And dried shrimp. And the liquid from the kimchi—very important. Most people throw it away." Halmoni watched him eat, something almost like approval in her expression. "You taste with your whole mouth. That's good. Most Americans only taste with tongue."

"I'm trying to learn."

"Yes. I can see." She set down her spoon, studied him with those sharp eyes. "You. Cooking boy. Why you look so sad?"

The question caught him off guard. "I'm not—"

"Don't lie to old woman. Waste of time." She gestured at his face. "You smile, but eyes are sad. Very sad. What's wrong?"

Belly had gone still beside him.

"It's—" He couldn't finish. Couldn't explain the scan and the fear and the way everything felt like it was balanced on a knife's edge.

"He's going through something," Belly said quietly. "Family stuff."

"Ah." Halmoni nodded slowly. "Family stuff is always hardest. No one can hurt you like family." She reached over, patted his hand once. "You have good hands. Patient hands. Whatever is happening—you'll survive. Patience is surviving."

He didn't trust his voice. Just nodded.

Halmoni turned back to her stew, giving him space to collect himself. Under the table, Belly's hand found his and squeezed.

He squeezed back.

They stayed for another hour. Halmoni showed him her recipe journal—decades of annotations in Korean, ingredients and techniques passed down through generations. She made him copy three recipes by hand, then corrected his Korean characters with a red pen.

"You watch K-drama?" she asked suddenly while he was writing.

"Uh, no. Not really."

"Good. All trash. Everyone crying all the time." She shook her head in disgust. "My friends watch. Waste of time. Real life is better. Real life you can fix with good soup."

Belly was trying not to laugh. "Halmoni, you cried at Crash Landing on You."

"That was different. Soldier very handsome. And soup was accurate." She turned back to Jeremiah. "You eat American ramen? The orange package?"

"Sometimes?"

"Garbage. You want good ramyeon, I send you home with proper kind. Korean brand. Not that American chemical water." She was already moving toward her pantry, pulling out packages. "This one. Only this one. You add egg, green onion. Maybe kimchi if you're not lazy."

"I'm not—"

"Most Americans are lazy with food. You—maybe not so lazy. We see." She thrust three packages at him. "Take these. Don't insult me by saying no."

"Thank you, Halmoni."

"Now. You come back," she said as they gathered their things. "Spring. I teach you proper banchan. Your sidedishes are—" She made a face.

"Adequate?"

"Barely." But there was almost a smile there. Almost.

She hugged Belly first—small but fierce, whispering something in Korean that made Belly's eyes go wet. Then, to Jeremiah's surprise, she turned to him.

"Come here. Arms down."

She hugged him. Tiny grandmother arms, surprisingly strong, and something loosened in his chest that he hadn't realized was tight.

"You take care of her," Halmoni said, quiet enough that only he could hear. "She pretends to be strong, but heart is soft. Needs someone who sees."

"I—" He didn't know what to say. "I'm not—"

"I know what you are." She pulled back, looked up at him with those knowing eyes. "Question is if you know."

Then she released him, patted his cheek once, and stepped back.

"Go. You have long drive. And you—" She pointed at Jeremiah. "Practice the knife work. Sloppy."

"Yes, Halmoni."

"Good boy."

The sun was setting as they hit the highway.

Pink and orange bleeding across the sky, the kind of sunset that looked fake, too pretty to be real. Jeremiah drove in silence, and Belly let him. Something had shifted in Halmoni's kitchen—some of the jagged edges between them sanded down by shared work and good food and her grandmother's blunt wisdom.

Halfway through New Jersey, Belly spoke.

"You promised you'd tell me."

He knew what she meant. Didn't pretend otherwise.

"Yeah." He gripped the wheel. "I did."

"You don't have to. If it's too—"

"My mom has a scan. December 23rd."

She went very still.

"What kind of scan?"

"The kind you get when something shows up in your bloodwork that shouldn't." He kept his eyes on the road. "Her oncologist found something. Called it concerning. Ordered more tests."

"Jere—"

"It's probably nothing. That's what she keeps saying. Probably nothing." His voice cracked on the word. 

He couldn't finish.

The car was too quiet. The sunset too beautiful. Everything too much and not enough all at once.

"Pull over."

"What?"

"Pull over. Right here. There's a shoulder."

He pulled over. Hazards on, engine still running, the car suddenly feeling very small.

He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles had gone white. Staring straight ahead at the highway, at the cars passing, at anything except her.

"I can't do this again, Bells." The words came out ragged. "I barely survived the first time. Watching her disappear piece by piece—watching her get so small in that hospital bed—" His vision blurred. "I was eighteen. I was a fucking kid. And I had to be the strong one because Dad kept disappearing and Conrad was at school and someone had to—"

"Jere—"

"She'd lost so much weight, nothing tasted right. Spent hours in the kitchen, failing, trying again. And sometimes she'd take a bite and smile and say 'that's good, baby,' and it was—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "It was the only thing that made any of it bearable."

Belly unbuckled her seatbelt.

"And now—" He pressed his palms against his eyes. "Now I'm just supposed to wait. Nine more days. Not knowing if—if—"

"Hey." Her hand on his arm. "Look at me."

He couldn't. His eyes were stinging, chest going tight, everything he'd been holding in was finally breaking through the surface.

"Jeremiah. Look at me."

He looked.

She was right there. Inches away. Her hand came up, cupped his cheek, thumb brushing away tears he hadn't realized were there.

"You're not alone this time," she said. "Okay? Whatever happens—you're not doing this alone."

"Belly—"

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." A pause. "Well—Paris. But that's not—you know what I mean."

"I don't want you to—"

"Stop. Stop trying to protect everyone else. Stop trying to be the strong one for five seconds and just let me be here for you."

He broke.

Not dramatically—not sobs or wailing or anything that loud. Just quiet tears he couldn't stop, his forehead dropping to the steering wheel, his shoulders shaking with everything he'd been carrying.

Belly shifted. Unbuckled her seatbelt completely. Reached across the center console and pulled him into the most awkward hug possible—half twisted, the gearshift digging into her ribs, but neither of them cared.

He felt her tears hit his shoulder. Warm. Real.

He held on like she was the only solid thing in the world.

She held on like she had nowhere else to be.

They stayed like that until the shaking stopped. Until his breathing evened out. Until the sky outside had faded from orange to purple to the deep blue of early night.

He pulled back. Wiped his face with the back of his hand.

"Thank you," Belly said quietly. "For telling me. For trusting me with this."

He ran a hand through his hair. "Dad and Steven are working on some big deal at Breaker. Haven't been able to get ahold of them. And Con—I've tried calling."

"And I'm glad I'm here now."

"Me too." He turned to face her, and for a second everything he couldn't say was right there between them. "Bells, I—"

"We should probably get back on the road."

She said it gently. Not a rejection. Just a boundary. A reminder that whatever this was, whatever was happening between them, there were still things they couldn't say. Lines they couldn't cross.

"Yeah. Probably."

Neither moved for another moment.

Then he put the car in drive, and they pulled back onto the highway.

~*~

He pulled up to her apartment. Engine idling. Neither moved to get out.

The porch light was on, casting warm yellow across the frozen lawn. Everything felt different than it had this morning—heavier and lighter at the same time. Like they'd been cracked open and put back together slightly rearranged.

"Thanks for driving," she said.

"Thanks for making me go." He was looking at the steering wheel, not her. "And for not letting me be an asshole about it."

"You weren't an asshole. You were scared. There's a difference."

He finally looked at her. Something raw still there, not fully put back together.

She unbuckled but didn't open the door yet.

"Text me? After the scan. Whatever it says. I want to know."

"Yeah. I will."

"Promise?"

"Promise, Bells." He paused. Rubbed the back of his neck. "And hey—you can tell him. If you want. Con. Tell him to call me."

Her face did something complicated. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I mean—he should know. And I've been trying to reach him anyway, so."

"Okay. I'll tell him."

She opened the door. Cold air rushed in. She was halfway out when she stopped, turned back.

"Jere?"

"Yeah?"

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she leaned across the console and hugged him—quick but tight, her arms around his neck, her cheek pressed against his.

"You're not alone," she said into his ear. "Don't forget."

Then she was gone. Door closed, walking up the path, porch light catching her hair.

He watched until she was inside. Until the door closed. Until the light in her window flicked on.

Then he sat there for another minute. Engine still running. Hands still on the wheel.

Something's different now, he thought. He didn't have a name for it yet. But something's different.

He drove home in silence. No music. Just the highway and the dark.

He wouldn't forget.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 18

Jeremiah stood in his mom's kitchen, staring at the empty counter.

It had been four days since Philly. Four days since he'd broken down on the side of the highway and told Belly everything. Four days of her checking in—texts asking how he was doing, if he needed anything, if he wanted company. Four days of him deflecting with "I'm fine" while stress-baking at 2am.

And now it was Wednesday. And he had nothing.

No ingredients prepped. No menu planned. He'd just... shown up. Stood here. Stared at the fridge like answers might appear.

"Jere?" Susannah appeared in the doorway, paint-stained cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. She tilted her head slightly, seeing right through him the way only she could. "You okay, honey?"

"Yeah. I'm—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Mom, is it okay if we just order in tonight? I'll get your favorite. That Thai place you like."

She went very still.

He never asked to order in. Wednesday dinners were his thing. Had been for years. Even when he was drowning in midterms or worked a double shift at the natatorium, he still cooked. It was the rule. The one constant.

"Of course we can order in." She crossed to him, put a hand on his arm. "But what's going on?"

"Nothing. Just tired."

"Jeremiah."

"I'm fine, Mom. Just—" He gestured vaguely. "Long week. And I've got finals coming up, and work's been crazy, and—" He stopped. "Can we just not cook tonight? Please?"

She studied him. "Is this about Monday?"

He had to look away. "No."

"Because you know it's probably nothing—"

"I know."

"The doctor said the bloodwork could be a false alarm—"

"Mom. I know." It came out sharper than he meant. He looked away. "Sorry. I just don't want to talk about it, okay? Can we just order food and watch a movie or something?"

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Why don't you go pick it up? Give you a chance to clear your head."

"Yeah. Okay." He grabbed his keys. "Be back in like twenty."

Twenty-three minutes later when he pulled up, there were four cars in the driveway that shouldn't have been there.

Laurel's sedan. Steven's BMW. Denise's Subaru. And—was that Belly's car?

What the fuck?

He grabbed the takeout bags and headed inside. Heard voices before he opened the door. Laughter. The clatter of pots and pans.

The kitchen was chaos.

Laurel stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring something that smelled like butter and garlic. Belly was at the island chopping vegetables—badly, knife at the wrong angle, but focused. Steven and Taylor were arguing over a recipe on someone's phone. Denise was pulling ingredients from the fridge.

"Um." Jeremiah set the takeout bags on the counter. "What's happening?"

"We're cooking!" Susannah announced from her stool, hands wrapped around a glass of wine, looking delighted. "I may have made a few calls."

"A few—"

"I texted everyone. Mom was in town," Belly said, glancing up. Her eyes caught his—soft, worried, knowing. She'd seen him break down four days ago. Knew exactly why he was off. "Your mom said you weren't cooking tonight. So we figured we'd cook for you."

Something in his chest went tight.

"You don't—I already got food."

"Cool. We'll eat that too." Steven pointed at him with a wooden spoon. "Sit down, Jere. You're off duty tonight."

"I don't need—"

"Sit. Down." Taylor's voice was firm. "You cook for everyone, like, every week. Let us return the favor for once."

"But—"

"No buts." Denise appeared beside him, put a hand on his shoulder, steered him toward a chair. "Sit. Observe. Let other people take care of you for once."

The front door opened again. Footsteps in the hallway.

"Fisher! I come bearing gifts!" Redbird appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding two bottles of wine—actual decent wine, not the shit they usually drank. Behind him was Blake, dark hair and easy smile, carrying what looked like a bakery box.

"What the—" Jeremiah blinked. "Redbird? Blake?"

"Found your secret stash." Redbird held up the bottles. "Figured if we're doing this, we're doing it right."

Blake set the box on the counter. "Tiramisu. From that place on Hanover you're always talking about."

Jeremiah stared at Blake. Then at Redbird. Then back at Blake.

"Wait. You two—"

Redbird grinned. "Surprise. Hope you don't mind I brought him."

"You're—" Jeremiah actually coughed. "What?"

"We've been hanging out. Since Beer Olympics, actually." Blake looked amused. "You kinda set us up at that party in October. Told him I was single and he should stop being a baby and ask me out."

"I was drunk."

"Yeah, well." Redbird shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "Turns out drunk you gives good advice."

Blake caught Jeremiah's eye. There was something there—recognition, maybe. History. They'd gone to homecoming together senior year, while Jeremiah was taking care of Mom and deeply still trying to forget Belly. Nothing had happened beyond that one dance and a few stolen kisses in Blake's car, but still. It mattered.

"Good to see you, Fish," Blake said quietly.

"Yeah. You too."

Jeremiah stood up. Crossed the kitchen. Pulled Redbird into a hug.

"Dude," Redbird said, surprised.

"Thanks for coming." Jeremiah pulled back. "Both of you. This is—yeah. Thanks."

"Course, man." Redbird clapped his shoulder. "Where do you want the wine?"

Jeremiah sat. Watched them.

Laurel was making pasta—carbonara, from the looks of it, bacon already crisping in the pan. Belly had moved on to tomatoes, chopping them slightly less terribly now. Steven and Taylor were apparently in charge of garlic bread, which mostly involved them fighting over how much butter was too much butter.

"Dude, that's like a stick and a half."

"It's never too much butter."

"That's literally too much butter."

"You're too much butter."

Denise had taken over vegetables—roasting Brussels sprouts with balsamic, efficient and precise like she'd done it a hundred times.

Jeremiah watched them all move around each other—bumping elbows, passing ingredients, the easy chaos of people who cared about each other trying to figure out how cooking worked. It wasn't graceful. Belly nearly cut herself twice. Steven added way too much garlic. Taylor kept asking if things were "supposed to look like that."

But it was—

Something in his chest squeezed. Couldn't get the words out.

"You okay, baby?" Susannah asked quietly.

He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.

"They love you." She squeezed his hand. "All of them. They showed up because they care."

"I know."

"Belly told them. About Monday. About how scared you are."

He looked at Belly. She glanced over, caught him staring. Mouthed: Sorry. They wanted to help.

He mouthed back: It's okay.

She smiled—small, relieved.

"So let them help," Susannah said.

He swallowed. Nodded.

Forty-five minutes later, they'd somehow produced an actual meal.

The pasta was slightly overcooked. The garlic bread was extremely buttery. The Brussels sprouts were perfect because Denise had made them. And the Thai food sat on the counter, still in its containers, because they'd all forgotten about it.

"We'll eat it for lunch tomorrow," Laurel said, already dividing it into Tupperware.

They crowded around the table—too many people, chairs pulled in from other rooms, elbows bumping, everyone talking over each other. Susannah sat at the head, glowing, hands steady around her wine glass.

"I want to make a toast," she said.

Everyone quieted.

"To Wednesday dinners. And to all of you—" Her voice caught. "For taking care of my boy when he won't take care of himself."

"Mom—"

"Let me finish." She looked at him, eyes bright. "You've been cooking for me every week since I got sick. You show up, you make beautiful food, you make sure I'm eating and laughing and not just sitting in my studio worrying. And I love you for that. But watching all of you show up tonight to take care of him the way he takes care of everyone else—" She stopped. Blinked rapidly. "That's the best thing I've seen in a long time."

"Okay, you're gonna make me cry," Taylor said, voice thick. "And I specifically didn't wear mascara for this reason."

"Too late." Belly wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Already crying."

"Same." Denise raised her glass. "To Jere. Who's apparently everyone's emotional support chef."

"And to Beck," Laurel added. "Who raised him to be this disgustingly kind."

Glasses clinked. Everyone drank. Jeremiah stared at his plate because if he looked at any of them he was definitely going to lose it.

"Eat," Susannah commanded gently. "Before it gets cold."

They ate.

The conversation flowed easy—Taylor telling stories about her latest Tri Phi drama, Steven complaining about the work, Denise asked about Susannah's paintings. Laurel mentioned a book she was working on.

Belly was quiet across the table. When he looked up, she was already looking at him.

Not checking. Not worried-looking. Just... looking.

And in that look—relief that he wasn't alone tonight. Worry about Monday. Something warmer that neither of them had a name for. And underneath it all, something that felt like guilt.

She was the first to look away.

He ate his overcooked pasta and extremely buttery garlic bread and tried to memorize this. All of them here. His mom laughing. The kitchen still a mess because everyone had been too excited to clean as they went.

This. He wanted to remember this.

"So." Steven leaned back in his chair. "You guys doing anything special this weekend? Before, you know—"

"Steven," Taylor kicked him under the table.

"What? I'm just asking."

"Conrad's flying in Sunday," Jeremiah said. "We'll probably just... I don't know. Hang out. Try not to think about Monday."

"You want company?" Belly asked.

"Yeah, man," Steven added. "We're here. Whatever you need."

Something in his chest cracked open a little.

"Thanks," he managed. "Really. This—" He gestured at the table, at all of them. "This helps. A lot."

~*~

After dinner, they all insisted on cleaning up.

Jeremiah stood uselessly by the sink while Belly washed dishes, Steven dried, Taylor put things away in completely wrong cabinets that he'd have to reorganize later. Laurel packed up leftovers. Denise wiped down counters.

"This was nice," Belly said quietly, handing him a plate to dry even though Steven was on drying duty. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

He met her eyes—actually held her gaze instead of deflecting. She'd seen him break down on the side of the highway. Held him while he cried. Told him he wasn't alone. And now she was here, in his mom's kitchen, making sure everyone showed up for him.

"No," he said. Honest. "But I will be."

She nodded. Squeezed his arm once. "Five more days."

"Five more days."

"You're not doing this alone. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I know."

One by one, people started leaving.

Denise: "Anytime, killer. I mean it."

Steven and Taylor: "Love you, man. Call if you need anything."

Laurel hugged him at the door. "You're a good son. Don't forget that."

Until it was just him and Belly and Susannah in the living room, the house suddenly quiet again.

"I should go too," Belly said, grabbing her jacket. "Early PT tomorrow."

Jeremiah walked her to the door. Out on the porch, the December air was sharp and cold, their breath fogging between them.

"Thanks," he said. "For coming. For—" He gestured vaguely. "Everything. For telling everyone."

"Of course." She zipped her jacket. Hesitated. "Saturday. I'm serious. If you need company, I'm there."

"I know."

"I mean it, Jere."

"I know you do, Bells."

She studied his face for a moment. Then stepped forward and hugged him—quick, tight, real.

"You've got this."

"Thanks, Bells."

She pulled back. "See you this weekend?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Okay." She stepped off the porch. Turned back. "And Jere? Whatever happens Monday—we're all here. All of us."

He nodded. Watched her walk to her car. Watched her drive away.

Then he went back inside.

Susannah was still on the couch, wine glass empty, looking tired but content.

"That was nice," she said. "Having everyone here."

"Yeah. It was."

"You have good people, Jere."

"I know."

"And they love you. You know that too, right?"

He sat down beside her. "Mom—"

"I'm just saying." She leaned her head on his shoulder.

He pressed his palms against his eyes for a second.

"I'm scared," he admitted. Quietly.

"Me too, baby."

"What if—"

"Shhh." She took his hand. "We don't know anything yet. Let's not borrow trouble. Five more days. We can handle five more days."

They sat like that for a while. Just the two of them in the quiet house, the kitchen still smelling like garlic and butter and good intentions.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, Jeremiah. So much."

~*~

Later, lying in bed at the BEN house, Jeremiah stared at his phone.

Belly (11:34pm): tonight reminded me why i love wednesdays. thank you for always cooking for everyone. and for letting us cook for you tonight.

He stared at it for a long time.

Typed: thanks for coming. meant a lot

Deleted it.

Typed: yeah it was good. thanks for telling everyone

Deleted that too.

Finally just sent: yeah. wednesdays are good

She responded immediately.

Belly: they really are

Belly: goodnight jere

Jere: night bells

He set his phone down. Closed his eyes.

Saturday. She'd come over Saturday if he wanted. Sunday Conrad would fly in. And then Monday—

Monday was the scan.

Five days.

He rolled over. Tried to sleep.

Couldn't.

At 2:18am, he got up and went to the kitchen. Started making bread he didn't need. Just to have something to do with his hands.

Just to not think about Monday.

~*~

THURSDAY & FRIDAY, DECEMBER 19-20

Thursday and Friday passed in a blur.

Finals week meant he had an excuse to hide. Studied at the library. Picked up extra shifts at the natatorium. Avoided everyone who might ask if he was okay.

Belly texted twice: you good? and want company this weekend?

He responded: yeah all good and maybe. got a lot of studying

Both lies. He wasn't good. And he definitely wanted company. But having her there—having anyone there—meant talking about Monday. Meant being honest about how terrified he was. And he couldn't do that. Not yet. Not when holding it together felt like the only thing keeping him from completely losing it.

Friday night Redbird found him in the BEN kitchen at midnight, making his third batch of cookies that week.

"Dude. What the fuck."

Jeremiah didn't look up from the mixer. "What?"

"You're stress-baking again. At midnight. On a Friday." Redbird grabbed a cookie from the cooling rack. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Just felt like baking."

"Bullshit. You only bake when you're freaking out." He took a bite. "These are good though. Really good."

"Thanks."

"Seriously, man. Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Is it about your mom? The scan thing?"

Jeremiah's hands stilled on the mixer.

"Belly mentioned it," Redbird said. "Said you were stressed. Wanted to make sure someone was checking on you."

"I'm fine."

"You're making cookies at midnight."

"So?"

"So that's not fine." Redbird leaned against the counter. "You want company tomorrow? We can hang out. Play Xbox. Order pizza. Not talk about anything."

"Can't. Conrad's flying in Sunday. Gotta—" He gestured vaguely. "Get stuff ready."

"Okay. But if you need anything—"

"I know. Thanks, man."

Redbird grabbed another cookie on his way out. "These better be at the next house meeting. Everyone's gonna want some."

"Yeah. Sure."

Alone again, Jeremiah went back to mixing. Flour. Sugar. Butter. Eggs. Simple. Concrete. Something he could control.

Not like Monday.

Nothing like Monday.

~*~

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21

Saturday morning, his mom called.

"Conrad's flight lands at 2:30 tomorrow. You're still picking him up?"

"Yeah. I got it."

"You sure? I can get him if you—"

"Mom. I said I got it."

Silence on the other end. Then: "Okay, baby. Just checking."

"How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Nervous. The usual." She tried to sound light. Failed. "But I'll feel better once we know."

"Yeah."

"Jere—"

"I gotta go. Studying."

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you too, Mom."

He hung up. Stared at his phone.

One more day until Conrad got home. Two more days until the scan.

He went to the gym. Ran until his legs burned. Came back. Took a shower that lasted too long. Stared at the ceiling.

His phone buzzed.

Belly (4:47pm): movie night at my place tonight. jillian and anika are gone for the weekend. could use the company if you're free

He stared at it.

Should say no. Should keep his distance. Should not spend the night before his brother came home sitting alone with Belly in her apartment while his mom's scan loomed and his brain spiraled.

Jere: what time

Belly: whenever. door's unlocked

He showed up at 7:30 with Thai food he'd picked up on the way. The same order from Wednesday—pad see ew with extra broccoli for his mom, drunken noodles for everyone else. Habit.

Belly opened the door in sweats and an oversized Finch Volleyball hoodie, hair piled on top of her head, no makeup. She looked tired. Comfortable. Real.

"Hey."

"Hey." He held up the food. "Figured you hadn't eaten."

"You figured right." She stepped aside. "Come in."

Her apartment was small—living room that connected to a tiny kitchen, two bedroom doors off to the side, bathroom at the end of the hall. Cozy. Lived-in. String lights hung across one wall, textbooks scattered on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch.

She'd queued up something on Netflix—some rom-com he'd definitely seen her watch before.

They sat on opposite ends of the couch, food between them, eating in comfortable silence while the movie played. He wasn't really watching. Just staring at the screen, fork moving automatically, brain somewhere else.

"You okay?" she asked eventually.

"Yeah."

"Jere."

"I'm fine, Bells."

"You're not." She set down her food, turned to face him. "You've been stress-baking for days. Your mom told mine. Apparently you made like twelve loaves of bread this week."

"Thirteen. But who's counting."

"Jere—"

His voice came out harder than he meant. "Can we just—can we just watch the movie? Please?"

She studied him. Then nodded. "Okay."

They went back to eating.

But halfway through the movie, she shifted closer. Not touching. Just closer. Her presence solid and warm and there.

She picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "Jere, we haven't talked about everything. Since Philly."

He went still. "Bells—"

"I know you're dealing with Monday. And I'm not trying to make this about us or whatever. But that car ride—" She looked at him. Vulnerable. Sweet. Perfect. "We just left it there. And I can't—I need to—"

"I was out of line." He set his food down. "All that shit I said. About you not reaching out either. That was—I was being an asshole. I'm sorry."

"No." Her voice was firm. "You were right."

He blinked. "What?"

"You were right. I didn't reach out. Not really." She pulled the blanket tighter around herself. "After the deb ball, the next morning, after you and Conrad and your mom—everything got so heavy. I didn't know what to say. So I just... didn't say anything."

"Belly—"

"And then you started dating people. And I thought—okay, he's moved on. He doesn't need me calling and making it weird. And Conrad was there and he did need me, so I just—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I told myself it was fine. That we'd grown apart. That's just what happens."

He was staring at her. "It wasn't fine."

"No. It really wasn't." She wiped her face quickly. "I missed you. I'd see something funny and think 'Jere would laugh at that' and then remember we didn't talk anymore and it would just—hurt."

His chest felt tight. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you seemed fine. You were always fine, Jere. Laughing at parties, posting photos with people, living your life. And I was the idiot who couldn't let go of—" She gestured vaguely. "Whatever we were."

"I wasn't fine." The words came out rough. "I was just good at pretending."

"I know that now."

They sat with that for a second. The movie kept playing, neither of them watching.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "For making you feel like you didn't matter. You did. You do."

He had to look away. "Yeah. Me too. For shutting you out."

"We both fucked it up."

"Pretty badly."

"Yeah."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. Just rested it there. Not asking, just being.

He didn't move. Didn't pull away.

"Conrad gets in tomorrow," she said quietly.

"Yeah."

"How's that gonna be? Seeing him?"

He shrugged. "Fine. Probably."

"Probably."

"I don't know, Bells. We're—we're good. It's not weird anymore. But having him here when Mom's—" He stopped. "It'll be fine."

"You don't have to be fine all the time. You know that, right?"

He looked at her. "What else am I supposed to be?"

"Scared. Human." She pulled her knees up to her chest. "You're allowed to be scared, Jere."

"Being scared doesn't help."

"Maybe not. But pretending you're not doesn't help either."

He set down his food. Leaned his head back against the couch. Stared at the ceiling.

"I keep thinking—" His voice cracked. "What if it's back? What if we did all of this, the trial worked, three years of clear scans, and it's just—what if it's back?"

"Then you deal with it. Like you did before."

"I barely made it through before, Bells. I was—I was a fucking mess."

"You won't be alone this time." She shifted closer again. Took his hand. "You've got me. And Conrad's in a better place now. And Steven, Taylor, Denise—everyone. You're not doing it alone."

He looked down at their hands. Hers small and warm in his.

If she weren't with Conrad—

No. He couldn't think about that. Not now. Not when everything felt like it was falling apart.

"I'm terrified," he admitted. Barely a whisper.

"I know."

"And I can't—I can't lose her, Belly. I can't."

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"No. But I know you. And I know you'll be okay. Whatever happens."

He wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that if the worst happened, he'd survive it. But sitting here, the scan thirty-six hours away, his mom's voice tired on the phone, Conrad flying home because they both knew this was serious—

He couldn't.

"Can I stay?" he said suddenly. "Tonight. Can I just—can I just stay here? With you?"

She went still. Just for a second.

Her hand started to move—like she was going to push him away, or touch his face, she didn't know which. Her breath caught.

She should say no. She knew she should say no. This was—this crossed a line she'd been trying not to look at too closely. Conrad was flying home tomorrow. They were still together. And Jeremiah was here, asking to stay, and she could feel the weight of what that meant even if neither of them said it.

But he looked wrecked. And she couldn't send him away.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "Of course."

They stayed like that for a long time. The movie played on. Neither of them watching. Just sitting in the quiet, holding on.

Eventually she fell asleep, head tilted against the couch cushion, hand still in his.

He watched her breathe. In and out. Steady. Real.

Tomorrow Conrad would be home. Monday they'd know.

But tonight—tonight he wasn't alone.

He closed his eyes. Let himself lean into her just slightly. Felt her shift in her sleep, moving closer.

And he didn't feel like he was drowning.

~*~

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 22

He woke up on Belly's couch, neck stiff, morning light sharp through the windows. She was still asleep next to him, curled into the cushions, breathing slow and even.

He checked his phone. 11:47am. Fuck. Conrad's flight landed at 2:30.

He moved carefully, trying not to wake her. Failed.

"Jere?" Her voice was rough with sleep.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you."

"What time is it?"

"Almost noon. I gotta go. Conrad's flight—"

"Right. Yeah." She sat up, rubbing her face. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks. For last night."

"Anytime." She walked him to the door. "Call me after? Let me know how it goes?"

"Yeah. I will."

He drove home, showered, changed, tried to eat something and couldn't. Then headed to Logan.

Sunday traffic wasn't bad. He made good time. Parked in the cell phone lot, waiting for Conrad's text.

His phone buzzed at 2:41.

Conrad: landed. grabbing bag. 10 min

Jere: 👍

He pulled up to arrivals. Scanned the crowd.

And there—Conrad, duffel over his shoulder, looking exactly like he always did. Tired. Serious. Older somehow, even though it had only been a few months.

Jeremiah leaned over, popped the passenger door.

Conrad climbed in. "Hey."

"Hey man. Good flight?"

"Long." Conrad tossed his bag in the back. "But I'm here."

Jeremiah pulled back into traffic. Neither of them spoke for a while.

"How is she?" Conrad asked finally.  

"Scared. Trying not to show it. You know Mom."

"Yeah."

"She's been painting a lot this week. That's usually a good sign." Jeremiah changed lanes. "But she canceled her Thursday classes. First time all semester."

Conrad went still. "She canceled?"

"Yeah."

"That's—" Conrad's jaw tightened. "What else? Any other symptoms?"

"She's tired. More than usual. And her hands shake sometimes when she thinks no one's looking."

"Tremor. Okay. What kind? Resting or intention? Does it happen when she's reaching for something or just—"

"I don't know, man. It just shakes."

"Right. Okay." Conrad was already in doctor mode, Jeremiah could hear it. "What did the oncologist say about the bloodwork? Which markers were elevated? Tumor markers? CA 19-9? CEA?"

"I don't—I don't know the numbers."

"You didn't ask?"

"Con—"

"Did they order a PET scan? Or just CT? Because if the bloodwork's showing activity, they'd usually—"

"Dude, I don't know." Jeremiah's hands tightened on the wheel. "They said levels were off. That's all I got."

"Off how? Like, baseline variation or actual concern? Because there's a difference between—"

"I don't fucking know, okay?" It came out sharper than he meant. "I'm not in med school. I don't know what half that shit means. They said come in Monday. Get imaging. That's it."

Silence.

Conrad stared out the window. His thumb kept rubbing against his index finger—back and forth, back and forth. "Sorry. I just—"

"I know."

"I'm trying to—if I can understand the clinical picture—"

"I don't need the clinical picture." Jeremiah's voice went rough. "I need my brother. Not Dr. Fisher doing a differential diagnosis."

Conrad flinched. Nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

They drove in silence. Jeremiah took the exit toward Cousins.

"I haven't slept," Conrad said finally. Quieter. "In three days. Keep thinking—what if I wasn't there when she needed me. Again."

Jeremiah glanced at him. Conrad looked wrecked—dark circles, jaw clenched, hands shaking slightly in his lap.

"You're here now," Jeremiah said. "That's what matters."

"Is it?" Conrad's voice cracked. "Because I wasn't here the three years before this. Calling once a week, pretending that was enough."

"Con—"

"And if something's wrong tomorrow—" He pressed his palms against his eyes. "I wasted three years being too busy to show up. And I'm supposed to be becoming a doctor. Can't even take care of my own mom."

Jeremiah pulled over. Not dramatically. Just eased onto the shoulder. Hazards on.

"What are you—"

"Look at me," Jeremiah said.

Conrad looked.

"You didn't waste three years. You were becoming something that would've made her proud." Jeremiah's voice was steady. "I was here because I'm local. You were there becoming a fucking doctor. That's not nothing, man."

"But—"

"Tomorrow we're both gonna be there. Together. Okay?"

Conrad nodded. Wiped his face with the back of his hand.

"I'm scared," he said. Barely audible.

"Yeah. Me too."

"I don't know how to do this again."

"Neither do I." Jeremiah put the car back in drive. "But we're gonna figure it out. Together."

They pulled back onto the highway.

Neither of them spoke again until they reached the beach house.

Susannah was waiting on the porch when they pulled up. Paint-stained clothes, bare feet despite the cold, arms wrapped around herself.

The second Conrad got out of the car, she was down the steps.

"Oh, sweetheart." She pulled him into a hug. "You're here."

"I'm here, Mom."

She held him for a long moment. Then pulled Jeremiah in too. The three of them standing in the driveway, holding on.

"Both my boys," she said into their shoulders. "Together. That's all I wanted."

They had dinner together—leftovers from Wednesday plus pasta Jeremiah threw together because he couldn't just sit still. Conrad caught them up on rotations, the nightmare attending who made everyone cry, how he'd been surviving on four hours of sleep.

Susannah asked about Belly. Conrad and Jeremiah exchanged a look.

"We're good," Conrad said carefully. "Leaving for Paris soon."

"I know. She's very excited." Susannah glanced between them. "You two okay? With all of that?"

"Yeah, Mom," Jeremiah said. "We're fine."

She didn't look convinced. But she let it drop.

Later, after dishes were done and Susannah had gone upstairs to rest, Conrad and Jeremiah sat on the porch. 

"Tomorrow," Conrad said. "8am appointment?"

"Yeah."

"And then we wait for results?"

"Results same day. They said by afternoon."

Conrad nodded. Leaned back in his chair.

"Remember when she got sick again?" he said quietly. "I kept thinking—if I could just understand it better, if I could just study hard enough, maybe I could fix it. Like all the medical knowledge in the world would somehow make her okay."

"Did it help? The studying?"

"No." Conrad laughed. Rough. "Just made me realize how little control any of us actually have." He paused. "Been trying to let go of that. The idea that I can fix everything. That I'm supposed to."

"And?"

"It's hard." Conrad ran a hand through his hair. "You stress-bake at 2am. I read medical journals until I can't see straight. We're both disasters."

"Speak for yourself."

"I am." Conrad managed a small smile. "You should try actually sleeping sometime, Jere. Revolutionary concept."

"It's better than whatever you're doing."

Conrad almost smiled. Then it faded. "Tomorrow's gonna suck. Whatever the results are."

"Yeah."

"But we're doing it together."

"Yeah. We are."

They sat there until the cold drove them inside.

Monday morning came brutal and early.

Jeremiah woke up at 5:30, couldn't fall back asleep. Showered. Made coffee no one would drink. Stood in the kitchen watching the clock.

Conrad appeared at 6:45, already dressed, looking as tired as Jeremiah felt.

"Mom up?"

"Yeah. She's getting ready."

They waited. Neither talking. Just the sound of the coffee maker and the clock ticking down.

Susannah came downstairs at 7:15, dressed in soft clothes—the kind you wear when you might be in a hospital all day. Hair pulled back. Minimal makeup. She looked smaller somehow.

"Ready?" she asked. Too bright.

"Yeah, Mom."

They drove in silence. Conrad in the passenger seat, Jeremiah driving, Susannah in the back. No radio. No conversation. Just the sound of tires on pavement and three people trying not to think about what came next.

The hospital was twenty minutes away. Felt like forever.

They parked. Walked through the main entrance. Took the elevator to Oncology—third floor, turn right, past the nurses' station. Jeremiah had the route memorized from years ago. Hated that he still knew it.

Check-in was efficient. "Susannah Fisher? Great. Have a seat. We'll call you shortly."

The waiting room was exactly how Jeremiah remembered. Beige walls. Uncomfortable chairs. Magazines no one read. A TV playing morning news too quietly to actually hear. Other families waiting, all wearing the same expression: controlled terror.

They sat. Susannah between her sons. All three of them staring at nothing.

Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

Jeremiah's leg bounced. Conrad reached over, put a hand on his knee. Stopped the movement. Then Conrad's leg started bouncing.

Jeremiah almost laughed. Almost.

"She'll be fine," Conrad said. To himself as much as anyone.

"Yeah," Jeremiah said. "She will."

Susannah took both their hands. Said nothing. Just held on.

At 8:37, the nurse appeared. Clipboard in hand. Professional smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Susannah Fisher?"

His mom stood. Jeremiah and Conrad stood with her.

The nurse glanced at them. "Just the patient for now. You two can wait here. We'll call you back after the initial scan."

"How long?" Jeremiah asked.

"About forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour."

His mom turned to them. Squeezed both their hands. "I'll be fine."

Then she followed the nurse through the double doors.

And they were alone.

Conrad sat down. Hard. Like his legs had given out.

Jeremiah stayed standing. Staring at the doors. Like if he looked away, something terrible would happen.

"Jere." Conrad's voice was quiet. "Sit down."

"I can't."

"You can't stand there for an hour."

"Watch me."

Conrad grabbed his wrist. Pulled him down into the chair. "Sit. Please."

Jeremiah sat.

His hands were shaking. He shoved them under his thighs.

The clock on the wall ticked. Loud. Relentless.

8:42.

Someone's phone rang. Someone else coughed. The TV droned on about traffic and weather.

8:49.

"Remember when she first got sick?" Conrad said suddenly. "I was twelve. You were ten. And we sat in a waiting room with Dad, and you kept asking if she was gonna die. Over and over. 'Is Mom gonna die, Con? Is she?'"

"I don't remember that."

"I do." Conrad's voice went rough. "You were wearing that stupid SpongeBob shirt. And Dad just sat there reading his Blackberry. Couldn't even look at us." He stopped. "But she didn't die. She fought through it. And she's gonna fight through this too."

"That was different. She was younger then. Treatment was—"

"She survived." Conrad cut him off. "Clinical trial worked four years ago when it came back. Three years of clear scans. She's tougher than cancer. Always has been."

Jeremiah looked at his brother. "You really believe that?"

"I have to." Conrad's voice cracked. "Because the alternative—I can't think about the alternative."

9:04.

A nurse walked through. Not their mom. Someone else's family stood up. Followed her back. Relief and terror mixed on their faces.

9:17.

Jeremiah's hands were shaking. He shoved them under his thighs.

Conrad was doing the same thing.

"I should've been here more," Conrad said again. "These past few months—"

"Stop. You're here now."

"But if something's wrong and I wasn't here—"

"Con. Stop. Please."

Conrad stopped. Nodded. Stared at his hands.

9:33.

Same room. Same fear. Still asking questions no one could answer.

The doors opened.

Different nurse. Younger. Nervous smile.

"Fisher family?"

They both stood.

She gestured toward the doors. "Doctor wants to speak with you. If you'll follow me."

Jeremiah's heart stopped.

"Is she—" he started.

"Just follow me, please."

They walked through the doors. Down a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and fear. Past exam rooms and supply closets. Took a left. Then another left.

The nurse stopped at a door. Knocked twice.

"Fisher boys are here, Doctor Hayes."

A voice from inside: "Send them in."

She opened the door.

Small office. Desk covered in files. Computer screen showing medical images Jeremiah couldn't read. And there—his mom, sitting in a chair across from an older woman in a white coat. His mom's face unreadable.

Doctor Hayes stood. "Please, sit."

They sat. One chair each. Facing the doctor. Their mom between them.

No one spoke.

She pulled up something on her screen. Turned it slightly so they could see. X-rays. CT scans. Things that looked important and terrifying.

"Thank you for coming in today, Susannah. And thank you both for being here." She folded her hands. Professional. Calm. The kind of calm that made Jeremiah want to scream.

"I've reviewed the bloodwork. And the imaging we just completed."

She paused.

Jeremiah's entire world narrowed to her next words.

His mom's hand found his. Squeezed tight.

Conrad's breathing had gone shallow beside him.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Doctor Hayes looked at all three of them.

She inhaled.

And opened her mouth to speak.

Chapter Text

Doctor Hayes looked at all three of them.

She inhaled.

And opened her mouth to speak.

"The imaging shows a benign cyst on your pancreas. Not malignant. Not cancer."

The words didn't land right away. Jeremiah heard them—benign, not cancer—but his brain couldn't process fast enough. Beside him, Conrad went very still.

"What?" Susannah's voice came out small.

"The elevated markers in your bloodwork were a false alarm. The cyst is benign—no cellular abnormalities, no signs of malignancy. We'll want to monitor it with imaging every six months, but this isn't the cancer returning."

Jeremiah's ears were ringing. He could see Doctor Hayes's mouth moving but the sound felt underwater.

Benign.

Not cancer.

False alarm.

"You're sure?" Conrad, clinical. Measured. "You checked for—"

"We ran a full panel. CA 19-9, CEA, imaging with contrast. Everything's clear." Doctor Hayes turned the screen toward them. "See here? This is the cyst. Small, well-defined borders, no vascular involvement. Textbook benign."

Conrad leaned forward, studying the images like he could verify the diagnosis himself. His hands were shaking.

Jeremiah couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Ten days of holding his breath, ten days of counting down to this moment, and now—

"So she's okay?" His voice cracked. "She's actually okay?"

"She's okay," Doctor Hayes confirmed. Gentle now. Like she understood what those two words meant. "The scan is clean. No signs of recurrence."

His mom's hand squeezed his so tight it hurt.

Conrad made a sound—half laugh, half sob—and pressed his palms against his eyes.

And then Jeremiah was crying. All the fear he'd been holding, all the nights he couldn't sleep, all the bread he'd stress-baked at 2am—it just came out. He didn't even realize it until his mom pulled him down against her shoulder.

"It's okay, baby. I'm okay."

"I thought—" He couldn't finish. Just held on while his mom rubbed his back the way she used to when he was little.

Conrad was crying too. Quiet, controlled, but crying. The kind of crying that looked like it hurt.

"I'm sorry," Susannah said. "I'm so sorry I scared you both."

"Don't." Conrad wiped his face. "Don't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong."

"But watching you two—" She stopped. Started again. "I hate that you had to go through this again. That you had to be scared."

"We're okay," Jeremiah said. "We're just—we're glad you're okay."

Doctor Hayes gave them a moment. Then: "I know this was a difficult wait. But I want to emphasize—this is good news. The best possible outcome."

"When do we come back?" Conrad asked. Doctor mode, even with tears still on his face. "For the six-month follow-up?"

"June. We'll schedule before you leave today." She looked at Susannah. "Any questions?"

"No. I—thank you. Thank you so much."

Doctor Hayes stood. "Take your time. When you're ready, the nurse will help you schedule your next appointment."

She left, closing the door softly behind her.

The three of them sat there. Susannah between her sons, all of them crying and laughing and trying to breathe.

"Ten days," Jeremiah said. "We waited ten fucking days for this."

"Language," Susannah said automatically. Then laughed—real, relieved laughter. "Oh god. Ten days."

"Worth it," Conrad said. "Worth every second."

They sat there until the crying stopped. Until breathing felt easier. Until the relief was real. Solid. Not going anywhere.

"Come on," Susannah said finally. "Let's go home. I want to get out of this hospital."

They stood. Jeremiah kept his arm around his mom's shoulders all the way to the front desk, through scheduling, out to the parking lot. Like if he let go, the good news might disappear.

Conrad drove. Jeremiah sat in back with his mom, holding her hand.

Nobody spoke. Just three people breathing easier than they had in days.

When they pulled into the driveway, Susannah turned to face both of them.

"My boys," she said. Soft. "Thank you for being here. For showing up. For—" She stopped. "For loving me through this."

"Always, Mom," Conrad said.

"Yeah," Jeremiah said. "Always."

She kissed both their foreheads. Then: "Now. Who's hungry? Because I've been too nervous to eat for three days and I'm starving."

Jeremiah laughed—surprised it out of him. "I can cook."

"No." She was already climbing out of the car. "Today you're not cooking. Today we're ordering from that Italian place I love. The expensive one. We're celebrating."

"Mom, you don't have to—"

"I'm alive, Jeremiah. My cancer hasn't come back. We're ordering the expensive pasta and we're going to enjoy every bite." She looked between them. "No arguments."

Conrad grinned. "Yes ma'am."

They went inside. Ordered enough food for six people. Opened a bottle of wine Susannah had been saving. Ate until they were too full to move.

His lungs loosened. Ten days of holding everything tight, and now—this. His mom, laughing. Expensive pasta. Wine she'd been saving. He took a breath that didn't hurt.

~*~

That night, Jeremiah texted everyone.

Jeremiah (7:34pm): mom's scan came back clear. benign cyst. not cancer. she's okay.

The responses came fast.

Steven: FUCK YES. Tell Beck I love her

Taylor: oh thank god. i've been holding my breath all day

Denise: That's incredible news. Give your mom my love.

Redbird: DUDE. YES. Celebrate at BEN this weekend?

And then—Belly.

Belly (7:41pm): jere oh my god

Belly: i'm so relieved

Belly: tell susannah i love her

Belly: and i'm so glad you're okay too

He read the last text three times. Fucking idiot.

Jeremiah: thanks bells. means a lot

Belly: you holding up okay?

Jeremiah: yeah. just tired. relieved. feels like i can finally stop holding my breath

Belly: i'm so happy for you. for all of you.

He locked his phone. Set it face-down on the nightstand.

She was still with Conrad. Still his brother's girlfriend. Nothing had changed.

Except everything felt different now.

~*~

Conrad woke up at 2am to the sound of someone moving around downstairs.

He lay there for a minute, listening. Cabinets opening. Water running. The familiar sounds of someone trying to be quiet in a kitchen.

Jeremiah.

He got up. Pulled on sweatpants. Headed downstairs barefoot.

His brother was at the stove, heating milk in a saucepan. Hair everywhere. BEN t-shirt and pajama pants. Looking exactly like he had when they were kids and couldn't sleep.

"Hey."

Jeremiah startled. "Shit. Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. Couldn't sleep either." Conrad leaned against the counter. "Making your weird milk thing?"

"It's not weird. Warm milk with honey. It helps."

"It's weird, Jere."

"You eat unseasoned chicken breast out of tupperware. You don't get to judge."

Conrad couldn't argue with that.

He watched his brother stir. The kitchen was dark except for the stove light, casting everything in soft shadow.

"Can't believe it's over," Jeremiah said. "The waiting. The not knowing."

"Yeah."

"I kept thinking—what if it was back? What if we had to watch her go through treatment again?" He stopped stirring. "I don't know if I could've done it again."

"Yeah you could've."

"Probably." Jeremiah poured the milk into a mug. Added honey. "But I'm glad we don't have to find out."

"Yeah." Conrad was quiet for a moment. "I'm starting therapy. When I get back to Stanford."

Jeremiah looked up. "Really?"

"Agnes gave me her therapist's number. Study partner," he added, catching Jeremiah's expression. "We've been talking. She said I should probably deal with my shit instead of just reading about other people's shit."

"That's—that's good, man. Really."

"We'll see." Conrad stole a sip from Jeremiah's mug, made a face. "This is disgusting, by the way."

"It's comforting."

"It tastes like warm disappointment."

"Coming from the guy who eats plain chicken breast out of tupperware."

"That's fuel. This is—" Conrad gestured at the mug. "Sadness in liquid form."

"And yet you drank it."

"I was curious. I regret everything."

Jeremiah laughed—real, surprised. It felt good. Normal. Like maybe they could just be brothers for a minute, without all the weight.

"Mom's okay," Conrad said. "That's what matters. Everything else—we'll figure it out."

"Yeah."

They stood there in the dark kitchen. Two brothers who didn't always know how to talk to each other, but were trying anyway.

"I'm glad you're here," Jeremiah said. "Even if it took a cancer scare to get you home."

Conrad almost smiled. "Yeah. Me too."

They finished their drinks in comfortable silence. Then Jeremiah rinsed his mug, headed toward the stairs.

"Hey, Jere?"

Jeremiah turned.

"Merry Christmas."

Jeremiah's smile was small but real. "Merry Christmas, Con."

~*~

Christmas morning was quiet.

No big traditions. No elaborate gifts. Just the three of them in the living room with coffee and cinnamon rolls from the bakery down the street.

Susannah sat in her favorite chair, wrapped in the blanket Jeremiah had bought her last year, hair loose around her shoulders. She looked tired but content. Alive.

"This is nice," she said. Soft. "Both my boys. Home for Christmas."

"Where else would we be?" Conrad asked.

"I don't know. With friends." She paused, eyes finding Jeremiah. "You could've invited Belly. She's always welcome here."

Conrad's expression flickered. Shuttered.

Jeremiah looked at his brother. "She's with her family. And she's your girlfriend, so."

"I know." Conrad's jaw tightened. "Just—yeah. She's with her family."

Susannah studied them both. Didn't say anything. But the way she looked at Jeremiah—like she was solving a puzzle she already knew the answer to—made him want to leave the room.

They opened presents. Small things—a new cookbook for Jeremiah, a stethoscope upgrade for Conrad, art supplies for Susannah. Nothing extravagant. Just tokens of I thought about you.

"Best gift is just being here," Susannah said, pulling both sons into a hug. "My scan is clear. You're both healthy. We're together. That's everything."

Jeremiah held on. Breathed in the smell of her shampoo—Asian pears and something floral. Memorized this moment.

His mom, alive and cancer-free.

His brother, home and trying.

Christmas morning, quiet and perfect.

And then, around noon, a delivery truck pulled up. Two boxes from Neiman Marcus. One for each of them.

Conrad opened his first. A Tag Heuer watch. Had to be four, five grand at least. The card said: Merry Christmas. Make us proud. —Dad

Jeremiah's was a leather briefcase. The kind you'd bring to a corner office at a hedge fund. The card was identical. Same handwriting. Probably written by his assistant.

"Wow," Conrad said flatly.

"Yeah." Jeremiah shoved the briefcase back in the box. "Really nailed it."

Susannah's mouth pressed into a thin line. She didn't say anything. Didn't have to.

The gifts sat unopened in the corner for the rest of the day. Jeremiah looked at the cookbook his mom had given him—the one she'd had signed by the author at a book event last spring, with a note inside that said For my favorite chef—and thought about the difference between expensive and valuable.

"Thank you," Susannah whispered later, pulling them both close. "For showing up. For loving me through the hard parts."

"Always," Conrad said.

"Yeah," Jeremiah said. "Always."

They spent the rest of the day doing nothing important. Watching holiday movies. Eating too much. Susannah painting in her studio while her sons argued over who was responsible for Conrad's broken collarbone junior year.

"You tackled me," Conrad said. "Full speed. During a non-contact drill."

"You had the ball. What was I supposed to do, let you score?"

"It was practice, Jere. Practice."

"And you learned a valuable lesson about keeping your head on a swivel."

"I learned my brother has no chill."

"I have plenty of chill. You just have weak bones."

"I got into Stanford."

"And yet you couldn't take a hit."

Susannah appeared in the doorway, paint on her hands, smiling at the sound of them bickering. "My boys. Still arguing like you're twelve."

"He started it," they said in unison.

She laughed. Bright and real and perfect.

~*~

That night, his phone buzzed.

Belly (11:47pm): merry christmas jere

Belly: i know today was probably a lot

Belly: just wanted to say i'm thinking about you

He stared at the texts. Should ignore them. Should not respond at almost midnight on Christmas when his brother was asleep down the hall.

Smooth, Fisher. Texting your brother's girlfriend at midnight. Real fucking smooth.

Jeremiah: merry christmas bells

Jeremiah: today was good. quiet. needed that

Belly: i'm glad

Belly: you did more than try

He set his phone down. Stared at the ceiling.

Four more days until Conrad left. Four more days of pretending everything was normal.

Then what?

He didn't want to think about it.

~*~

The days between Christmas and New Year's blurred together.

Conrad stayed. Said he had until January 2nd. Said he wanted to be around.

Jeremiah tried not to read into it. Tried not to wonder if his brother was avoiding going back to California for reasons that had nothing to do with Susannah.

Thursday they helped their mom reorganize her studio. Friday they drove into the city, walked around, got coffee. Saturday Jeremiah cooked while Conrad studied at the kitchen table.

"Don't you have the week off?" Jeremiah asked, chopping garlic.

"Technically. But I'm behind on reading."

"You're always behind on reading."

"True." Conrad didn't look up from his textbook. "You figure out what you're doing after graduation yet?"

Jeremiah kept chopping. "Nope."

"Dad still pushing Breaker?"

"When isn't he?"

"You could tell him no."

"Could. Won't be pretty." Jeremiah scraped the garlic into the pan. "I'm thinking about some stuff. Cooking stuff. But I haven't—I don't know. It's not a plan yet."

"You should do it. Whatever it is." Conrad finally looked up. "You're good at this, Jere. Really good."

"Thanks."

Silence. Just the sound of the knife on the cutting board, the occasional turn of a page.

"How are you and Belly?" Jeremiah asked. Casual. Like it didn't matter.

Conrad's hand stopped mid-page-turn.

"We're—we're fine."

"Fine." Conrad said it like he was closing a door.

"Yeah. Fine." He paused. "It's just—"

"Hard."

"Yeah."

Jeremiah kept chopping. Didn't push. Just let the silence sit.

"I don't know if we're gonna make it," Conrad said suddenly. Quiet. "The distance. It's—I think we're both holding on because letting go feels worse."

Jeremiah's knife stopped mid-chop. He should feel bad about this. Should feel something other than the sick twist of hope in his gut.

You're a piece of shit, Fisher.

"Have you talked to her about it?"

"No."

"Con—"

"I know. I should. But every time I try, I just—" He stopped.

"What do you want?"

"I don't know. I want her to be happy. I want us both to be happy. And right now—" He laughed, bitter. "Right now we're just two people who love each other but can't figure out how to actually be together."

"That's not nothing."

"Isn't it?"

He went back to chopping. No good answer for that one.

They went back to their separate tasks. Conrad reading. Jeremiah cooking. Both of them carrying things they couldn't quite say out loud.

~*~

Jeremiah hit the gym that afternoon. Needed to burn off the restless energy that had been building since Christmas, the feeling of being stuck in a house with too many things he couldn't say.

He pushed through a brutal leg day, then shoulders, then ran until his lungs burned and his brain finally shut up. By the time he got home, he was wrecked—shirt somewhere in the car, still sweating.

He walked in through the kitchen door just as Belly was setting down her bags.

She was wearing a blue sweater with little snowflakes on it, hair down, cheeks pink from the cold. She looked up. Her eyes went wide for a second—swept down, then back up—before she turned very deliberately toward the counter.

"Hey." She busied herself with the wine bottle. "You, um. You went to the gym."

"Yeah." He grabbed a dish towel, wiped his face. "Didn't realize you'd be here already."

"Traffic was light." She was very focused on reading the wine label. "You should probably... shower. Before dinner. Put on a shirt."

"Probably." He didn't move.

Conrad appeared in the doorway. Looked between them—Jeremiah half-naked, Belly determinedly not looking at him. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No." Belly's voice came out too fast. "Jere was just going to shower."

"Right." Jeremiah tossed the towel over his shoulder. "Be back in ten."

He took the stairs two at a time. Stood under cold water until his heart rate returned to something resembling normal.

Get it together, Fisher.

~*~

The dinner itself was awkward as hell.

Jeremiah cooked. Conrad set the table. Belly hovered somewhere in between, still in her snowflake sweater, trying to help without getting in the way.

When she pulled out the gifts, Conrad's eyebrows went up.

"Christmas presents. I know we're late but—" She set the gift bag on the counter. "This one's for Susannah. And this—" She held up the Korean box, eyes finding Jeremiah. "This is from Halmoni. For you."

Conrad's hand stilled on the wine bottle. "From Halmoni?"

Belly's voice was careful. "She wanted Jere to have it."

"Since when does your grandmother send Jeremiah presents?"

The kitchen went quiet. Susannah looked up from her chair. Jeremiah focused very hard on stirring the sauce.

"We went to Philly," Belly said. "To see her."

"You went to Philly." Conrad looked between them. "Together."

"It was a day trip. She wanted to teach him some recipes." Belly set the box on the counter. "It wasn't a big deal."

"Wasn't a big deal." Conrad's tone was careful. Too careful. "You drove almost four hours to see your grandmother with my brother and didn't mention it."

"Con—" Jeremiah started.

"No, I'm just trying to understand." Conrad turned to him. "When was this?"

"The Saturday after Beer Olympics."

"That was like the other weekend. And neither of you thought to mention it."

"It was about cooking," Belly said. "That's it. She made us kimchi jjigae and yelled at us for chopping vegetables wrong."

"Us." Conrad set down the wine. "Right."

Susannah cleared her throat. "Why don't we open presents after dinner? Jere, is the food ready?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's ready."

They moved around each other carefully. Too polite. Belly helping Jeremiah with plates while Conrad stood by the window, jaw tight. Nobody meeting anyone's eyes for too long.

Dinner was tense. The food was great. The conversation was stilted.

Jeremiah opened Halmoni's box while they ate. Inside: a set of hand-forged Korean knives, the kind you couldn't buy in stores. A note in shaky English: For the boy who listens. Don't waste your talent on bad ingredients.

"These are incredible," he said quietly.

"She had them made." Belly smiled, small. "Said you earned them."

Conrad said nothing. Just ate his short ribs in silence.

Belly gave Susannah a hand-painted silk scarf—something she'd found at a vintage shop, she said, but the way Susannah's eyes went wet suggested she knew exactly how much thought had gone into it. And for Conrad, a first edition of some medical text he'd been looking for. He thanked her. Kissed her cheek. But the space between them was obvious.

"I have something for you too," Jeremiah said to Belly. He'd almost chickened out, almost decided not to give it to her with Conrad right there. But fuck it. "It's not much."

He handed her a small wrapped box. Inside: a vintage recipe card holder, brass and worn, the kind his mom used to have.

"For when you start collecting your own," he said. "Recipes, I mean. From all the places you go."

Belly stared at it. Ran her thumb over the brass. "Jere..."

"It's stupid. You don't have to—"

"It's perfect." She was looking at him the way she used to. Before everything got complicated. "Thank you."

Conrad watched them. Said nothing.

Susannah interjected. "Tonight is for celebrating. Clean scan. Family. Good food. Everything else can wait."

Belly nodded.

They finished eating. Cleaned up together.

~*~

Later, after the dishes were cleared and Susannah had retreated to her studio, Jeremiah went to grab his jacket from the hook by the back door.

He stopped when he saw them through the window.

Conrad and Belly on the porch swing. Her head on his shoulder. His arm around her, thumb tracing slow circles on her arm. Both of them looking out at the dark yard, not talking.

Just... being.

For a second, Jeremiah saw it. What they must have been like before—before med school and distance and all the ways life had pulled them apart. Two people who fit together. Who made sense.

Conrad said something. Low, too quiet to hear through the glass. Belly laughed—small but real—and tilted her face up to look at him.

He kissed her forehead. Gentle. The kind of kiss that said I'm sorry and I'm trying and please don't give up on me yet.

Belly's hand came up to his chest. Stayed there.

Fuck. Just—fuck.

Jeremiah grabbed his jacket and went back to the kitchen.

Some things weren't meant for him to see.

~*~

Jeremiah spent most of Sunday at the BEN house. Needed space. Needed to not think about Conrad and Belly on the porch swing or the fact that she was leaving in nine days.

He stress-baked. Started with brownies—the easy stuff. Then moved on to macarons because he'd never tried them and apparently he hated himself. First batch cracked. Second batch came out hollow. Third batch was actually decent. He kept going.

The front door banged open around 3pm. Redbird, keys in hand, stopped dead when he saw the kitchen.

"What the fuck, Fisher."

"Hey."

"It's winter break. Why are you—" He looked at the counter. The cooling racks. The mixing bowls. Trays of pastel-colored macarons next to a pan of brownies. "How long have you been here?"

"Few hours."

"Are those macarons? Since when do you make macarons?"

"Since today."

"Dude." Redbird grabbed his phone charger from the drawer—the thing he'd apparently come back for. "This is unhinged. Even for you."

"Probably."

Redbird studied him. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Then just grabbed a cookie instead. "I'm not gonna ask. But if you need to talk—"

"I'm good."

"You're not. But okay." He pocketed another cookie on his way out. "Don't burn the house down."

"I'll try."

The door closed. Jeremiah went back to mixing.

His phone buzzed.

Conrad (3:47pm): Mom says you're at BEN. You good?

Jeremiah: yeah just needed space

Conrad: Got it. Can you call me when you get a sec?

Jeremiah stared at the text. Then hit dial.

"Hey." Conrad's voice was tight. "So I just got a call from Stanford."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. It's—remember the Moreno case? Sofia, the eight-year-old with the tumor on her brainstem?"

"The one you said was inoperable?"

"Dr. Kapoor found a way in. New approach, something with the angle of entry." Conrad exhaled. "Surgery's New Year's Eve. I've been following her case all semester for my research—she's the reason I got into pediatric neurology in the first place."

"Are you going back?"

"I can't. I'm a second year—I'd just be in the way. But Dr. Kapoor said he'd update me throughout. It's gonna be twelve hours, maybe more." A pause. "She's eight, Jere. She has a little brother who won't leave her hospital room. And if this works, she might actually get to grow up."

"That's—yeah. That's huge."

"I just keep thinking about her. About whether it's going to work." His voice cracked slightly. "I know I should be focused on Belly, on being here, but—"

"Con. It's okay to care about both."

"Yeah." He didn't sound convinced. "I'll be at the party. I'm not leaving. I just—I might be checking my phone a lot."

"I get it."

"Thanks, Jere."

He hung up. Stared at his phone.

An eight-year-old with a brain tumor. Conrad, stuck here, unable to do anything but wait and watch his phone.

This was going to be a long New Year's Eve.

He packed up everything—the macarons, the brownies, all of it—and brought them home. Susannah didn't ask questions, just cleared space in the freezer and kissed his cheek.

~*~

New Year's Eve morning, Susannah was already making lists.

"It's just going to be small," she said. "Laurel. Steven. Taylor. Maybe Denise if she's free. Belly."

She went back to her list. "We'll need champagne. And that cheese spread you make that everyone likes."

"The one with the caramelized onions?"

"That's the one."

He spent the rest of the day cooking. Cheese spread. Bruschetta. Some bacon-wrapped dates that were probably overkill but whatever. Kept his hands busy. Kept his brain from spiraling.

People started arriving around 8pm.

Laurel first, with wine and stories about her latest manuscript. Steven and Taylor together, her hand in his, both of them glowing in that new-couple way. Denise showed up with champagne and a grin.

"Told you I'd make it, killer."

"Thanks for coming."

"Wouldn't miss it." She looked around. "Where's Belly?"

"Not here yet."

"Huh." She studied him. "You good?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one where you're trying very hard not to have feelings." She squeezed his arm. "It's okay to have feelings, you know."

"I know."

"Do you though?"

Before he could answer, the doorbell rang.

Belly.

Jeans and a sweater. Hair down. No makeup except maybe mascara. She looked like she hadn't slept. 

"Hey."

"Hey." He stepped aside. "Come in."

She came in. Unwound her scarf. Handed him a bottle of wine.

"You didn't have to—"

"I know. But I wanted to." She met his eyes. "Where's Conrad?"

"Living room. Checking his phone every thirty seconds."

"The surgery."

"Yeah."

She nodded, something complicated crossing her face. "He told me. About Sofia. I get it—I do. It's just..." She trailed off.

"Hard to compete with an eight-year-old's brain surgery?"

"That makes me sound like a monster."

"It doesn't. It makes you human."

She almost smiled. "Thanks, Jere."

They stood there for a second. Too long. Long enough that Denise appeared in the hallway, eyebrows raised.

"Belly! Come here, I haven't seen you in forever."

Belly went. Jeremiah watched her go.

~*~

The party settled into an easy rhythm.

Conrad was there, but not really. He'd planted himself on the couch, phone in hand, flinching every time it buzzed. Belly sat next to him for a while, her hand on his knee, but he kept drifting—eyes going to the screen, murmuring "sorry, just checking" every few minutes.

By 10pm, she'd migrated to the kitchen with Taylor. Conrad didn't seem to notice.

Susannah held court from her favorite chair, telling stories about the boys when they were little—the time Jeremiah tried to make her breakfast in bed and nearly set the kitchen on fire, the time Conrad got his head stuck between the porch railings. Laurel countered with Belly and Steven stories. The moms traded embarrassments like currency, laughing until Laurel had to wipe her eyes.

"Remember when Belly was convinced she was going to marry a Jonas brother?" Laurel said. "She had the whole wedding planned. Wrote out the invitations by hand."

"Mom." Belly covered her face. "I was nine."

"You were twelve."

"Oh my god."

Everyone laughed. Conrad's phone buzzed. He checked it immediately, shoulders tense, then relaxed slightly. "Sofia's still stable. They're closing."

"That's good, right?" Belly asked.

"Yeah. That's good." But he was already looking at the phone again.

Around 9:30, the doorbell rang again.

Jeremiah wasn't expecting anyone else. He opened the door to find John Conklin on the porch, holding a bottle of champagne and looking slightly sheepish.

"Mr. Conklin. Hey."

"Jeremiah." John smiled—that warm, easy smile Belly had inherited. "Laurel mentioned the party. Thought I'd stop by, say happy new year to everyone. That okay?"

"Yeah, of course. Come in."

John stepped inside, stomping snow off his boots. He'd aged a little since Jeremiah had last seen him—more gray at the temples, deeper lines around his eyes—but he still had that same steady presence. The kind of dad who showed up, even when things were complicated.

"John!" Susannah appeared in the hallway. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Neither did I, until about an hour ago. Plans fell through." He held up the champagne. "Figured I'd crash the party. Laurel said you guys were doing something small."

"You're always welcome. You know that."

Belly came around the corner. Stopped. "Dad?"

"Hey, sweetheart." He pulled her into a hug. "Couldn't let you ring in the new year without at least saying hi. You leave for Paris in what, a few days?"

Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. "You didn't have to come."

"I know. But I wanted to." He pulled back, held her at arm's length. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah. I'm good."

Jeremiah watched the exchange. There was something easy between them—different from the tension Belly had with Laurel sometimes, different from the complicated weight of the Fisher family. Just a dad who loved his daughter, showing up.

"Come on," Susannah said. "We've got champagne and Jeremiah made those bacon-wrapped dates you like."

"Say no more."

The party expanded to fit him. John ended up on the couch between Laurel and Susannah, the three of them falling into that comfortable rhythm of people who'd known each other for decades.

Jeremiah was in the kitchen refilling the cheese spread when Steven cornered him.

"Dude."

"What?"

"You're staring."

"I'm not staring."

Steven grabbed a bacon-wrapped date. "It's not subtle."

"I'm not—" Jeremiah stopped. Sighed. "Is it that obvious?"

"To me? Yeah. To everyone else?" Steven shrugged. "Denise definitely knows. Taylor probably suspects. The moms are too busy trading embarrassing stories to notice."

"Great."

"Look, man." Steven lowered his voice. "Let her go to Paris. Let her figure her shit out. If it's still the same when she comes back—if you're both free—then tell her. And if not, move on."

"That simple?"

"No. But it's the only thing that doesn't blow up in everyone's face." Steven grabbed another date. "Both of you need to just—put yourselves first for once. Stop trying to protect everyone else."

"When did you get smart?"

"I graduated early from Princeton with honors. Think I've earned the title." Steven grabbed another date and gave him a look. "Also spent six months pining after Taylor while dating Denise and fucked everything up. Learned some shit the hard way."

"Yeah. I know."

Steven grabbed another date. "These are really fucking good, by the way."

"Thanks."

"Seriously. You should do this professionally."

"Working on it."

"Good." He headed back to the living room. "Tay wants champagne. Duty calls."

Jeremiah stayed in the kitchen for a minute. Collecting himself.

When he came back out, Belly was in the corner with Taylor. Their heads were close together, voices low. Taylor's hand was on Belly's arm—comforting. Belly was shaking her head, saying something Jeremiah couldn't hear.

Taylor glanced up. Caught Jeremiah watching. Her expression did something complicated—warning, maybe. Or understanding. Hard to tell.

Belly looked up too. For a second, their eyes met across the room.

Then Taylor said something, and Belly turned back to her, and the moment was gone.

~*~

At 11pm, Taylor stood up. "Okay, so. We have news."

Steven grinned. Took her hand.

"We're together," Taylor announced. "Like, officially. No more bullshit on-again off-again nonsense. Just—together."

"Finally," Laurel said. "We were all wondering when you two would figure it out."

Susannah raised her glass. "To Steven and Taylor. About damn time."

"Hear, hear," John added. "Though if you hurt my son, Taylor, I know where you live."

"Dad." Steven groaned.

"What? I'm being supportive."

Everyone laughed. Drank. The mood lifted.

Denise appeared at Jeremiah's elbow. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because you've been watching the door to the porch for the last ten minutes." She followed his gaze. Belly had slipped outside somewhere during the toast. Conrad was still on the couch, phone in hand. "Go."

"I shouldn't—"

"Jere." Denise's voice was gentle. "It's almost midnight. She's alone on the porch. Her boyfriend is ten feet away and hasn't noticed she left. Whatever's happening between you two—at least be there for her."

"Nothing's happening."

"Okay." She didn't sound like she believed him. "Then go be her friend. That's allowed."

~*~

Midnight was coming. Jeremiah could feel it. The countdown ticking in his chest.

At 11:58, everyone migrated toward the TV to watch the ball drop.

Except Belly.

She was on the porch. Arms wrapped around herself. Staring out at the dark yard.

Jeremiah found her at 12:01.

"Hey."

She startled. Wiped her face quickly. "Hey."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just—needed air."

He could see she'd been crying. Could see the way her shoulders were curled in, the way she was holding herself together.

"He didn't even notice I left."

"Belly—"

"No, I get it. The surgery. Sofia. It's life or death, and I'm just—" Her voice cracked. "I'm just his girlfriend who's about to leave for six months. I'm not a priority. I never am."

She broke. Quiet tears that she tried to hide.

"Hey." He moved closer. Put a hand on her shoulder. "Come here."

She turned into him. Let him hold her while she cried.

Inside, everyone was cheering. Hugging. Kissing. Celebrating the new year. Conrad was probably still on his phone, waiting for the final update.

Out here, it was just them. The cold air. The sound of her crying into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she said. "This is pathetic."

"It's not."

"I'm crying because my boyfriend cares more about a surgery three thousand miles away than midnight with me. That's literally pathetic."

"He's not choosing surgery over you. He's just—"

"Drowning. I know. You keep saying that." She pulled back slightly. Looked up at him. "But I'm drowning too, Jere. And he doesn't even see it."

Her face was inches from his. Tear-streaked. He could see the way the cold was making her nose red.

Close enough that if he leaned forward—

"Belly—"

"I know," she whispered. "We can't."

"We can't."

But neither of them moved.

The space between them was nothing. Everything. Four years of distance compressed into inches.

"I should go inside," she said. Didn't move.

"Yeah. You should."

Still didn't move.

His hand came up. Cupped her cheek. Thumb brushing away tears.

"Jere—"

"I know."

"We can't do this."

"I know."

But his forehead was against hers now. Both of them breathing the same air. Both of them frozen in this moment that was too much and not enough.

"You're with—" He couldn't finish it. Couldn't say his brother's name. "Con. You're with Con."

"I know."

Kiss her now and you lose him forever.

"And we can't—this isn't—" He pulled back. Ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck."

"I know."

She stepped back. Created space. The cold air rushed in between them.

"I should—" She gestured toward the house. "I should go."

"Yeah."

She started toward the door. Stopped. Turned back.

"Happy New Year, Jeremiah."

"Happy New Year, Bells."

She went inside.

He stayed on the porch. In the cold. Trying to catch his breath.

Nothing happened.

They didn't kiss. Didn't cross that line.

But standing there alone, forehead still warm from where hers had been—

It felt like something had shifted anyway.

Like they were both falling toward something neither of them could stop.

Real stellar, Fisher. Brother's girlfriend. New Year's Eve. Classic.

~*~

New Year's Day was quiet.

Susannah made pancakes. Jeremiah cleaned up from the party. Conrad had crashed on the couch around 2am, phone still in his hand, finally getting word that Sofia was out of surgery and stable.

Neither of them mentioned Belly. Neither of them mentioned the porch.

Conrad woke up around noon, groggy but relieved.

"She made it," he said, showing Jeremiah his phone. A text from Dr. Kapoor: Sofia stable. Walking the halls already. Asking for ice cream.

"That's amazing, Con."

"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair. "I should call Belly. Apologize for last night. I was—I know I wasn't really present."

You were sitting ten feet away and didn't notice she left.

"Yeah. You should."

Conrad nodded, already pulling up her contact. He headed upstairs to make the call.

Jeremiah finished the dishes. Tried not to think about the porch.

He heard Conrad's muffled voice through the ceiling. Couldn't make out the words, but he could hear the tone—low, apologetic, trying. Twenty minutes later, Conrad came back down looking lighter.

"We're okay," he said. "She's coming over tomorrow. We're gonna—we're gonna try."

"Good." Jeremiah meant it. Mostly. "That's good, Con."

~*~

The next few days were better.

Not perfect. But better.

Jeremiah would come downstairs in the morning to find them on the couch—Belly's feet in Conrad's lap while he highlighted passages in a medical journal and she scrolled through Paris apartment listings on her phone.

"This one has a balcony," she'd say, tilting the screen toward him.

"Does it have heat?"

"It's Paris, not Siberia."

"You say that now. Wait until February."

They went on a real date—just the two of them, some restaurant in the city Conrad had been wanting to try. Came back late, cheeks pink from the cold, her hand in his.

"Good night?" Susannah asked from the living room.

"Really good," Belly said. And she meant it. You could hear it in her voice.

Conrad pulled her onto the couch, and she curled into him like she belonged there. He said something low, just for her, and she laughed—the kind of laugh that came from somewhere real. For a second, they looked like they used to. Like the distance and the missed calls and all the ways they'd been failing each other didn't exist.

Jeremiah went to the kitchen. Stayed there until he heard Conrad grab his keys, say he was staying at Belly's tonight.

"Drive safe," Susannah called.

They left. The door closed. Susannah caught Jeremiah's eye.

Neither of them said anything.

~*~

It was like watching someone try to bail out a sinking boat with a teacup.

Admirable. Exhausting. Probably futile.

But they were trying. Conrad was actually present—not distracted, not checking his phone every five minutes. He brought her flowers one afternoon, "just because," and Belly had laughed and called him ridiculous and kissed him anyway.

Jeremiah told himself that should make him happy. That watching his brother fight for something—fight for her—should feel like a good thing.

It didn't.

But he buried that thought deep and kept his mouth shut.

Then Conrad's phone would ring—always Stanford, always something urgent—and he'd disappear into the other room for an hour. Belly would sit on the couch, pretending to read, checking her own phone every thirty seconds. When he came back, she'd smile. "Everything okay?" And he'd say yeah, just post-op stuff, Sofia's doing great. And she'd say good, that's good. But her smile didn't reach her eyes anymore. Like a light going out behind glass.

One night, Jeremiah was in the kitchen making tea when he heard them in the living room.

"You're not listening," Belly said.

"I am. You were saying—"

"What was I saying?"

Silence.

"I'm sorry." Conrad's voice was tired. "I'm just—there's a lot going on. Following up on Sofia, and I'm behind on my coursework, and Dr. Kapoor wants to talk about summer research opportunities, and—"

"I know. I know you're tired." She stood. Jeremiah could hear it in the creak of the couch. "I'm gonna go to bed."

"Belly—"

"It's fine. Really. I'll see you tomorrow."

Footsteps on the stairs. A door closing. Not a slam—just a close.

Conrad didn't follow her.

Jeremiah stayed in the kitchen until he heard his brother go upstairs twenty minutes later. Then he made his tea and went to bed.

Some things weren't his to fix.

~*~

Conrad left for Stanford on Sunday.

Spring semester started Monday. He'd pushed it as long as he could—stayed through the first week of January, tried to make up for NYE, for all the times he'd been half-present. But med school didn't wait.

Jeremiah drove him to the airport. Early morning, just the two of them in the car.

"Take care of Mom," Conrad said at the curb.

"Always do."

"And—" He hesitated. "Look after Belly? I know it's weird to ask. But she's leaving Wednesday and I can't be there, and I just—"

"I got it, Con."

"Thanks." Conrad grabbed his bag, then turned back. "I'm trying, Jere. I know it doesn't always look like it. But I'm trying."

"I know you are."

He watched his brother walk into the terminal. Thought about all the things he couldn't say.

~*~

The last Wednesday dinner before Belly left for Paris.

Jeremiah had been thinking about it all week. What to cook. What to say. How to make it mean something without making it mean too much.

He settled on her favorite: his mom's japchae recipe with the glass noodles and vegetables, perfectly balanced between sweet and savory. Banchan on the side. The gochugaru sauce he'd perfected. Simple. Familiar. Home.

Belly arrived at 6:30.

Just her. Conrad was back at Stanford, three thousand miles away. They'd said their goodbyes Sunday at the airport—Belly had driven him, came back quiet, said it was fine, said they had a plan.

"Hey." She unwound her scarf. Wouldn't quite meet his eyes.

"Hey."

They stood there for a second. Too much unsaid.

"So," she said. "Last one."

"Last one."

Susannah appeared from her studio. "Belly! Come here, sweetheart."

They hugged. Long and tight. When they pulled apart, Susannah was crying.

"I'm going to miss you so much."

"I'm going to miss you too." Belly pulled back, wiping her eyes. "Six months. That's all. Then I'll be back."

"I know. But still." Susannah cupped her face. "You're going to do amazing things in Paris. I can feel it."

"Thank you. For—" Belly gestured vaguely. "For everything. The Wednesday dinners. Being here for me. All of it."

"You're family, sweetheart. You'll always be family."

They went into the kitchen. Jeremiah had everything set up—plates, chopsticks, water glasses. The food was still hot, steam rising from the bowls.

"This looks incredible," Belly said.

"Tried to nail it. For your last dinner."

"You did more than try."

They sat. The three of them. Susannah at the head of the table, Belly and Jeremiah across from each other.

For a while, nobody spoke. Just ate. The food was good. Perfect, even. But something felt off. Wrong. Like they were all trying too hard to make this normal when nothing about it was normal.

"So," Susannah said finally. "Paris. Are you excited?"

"Yeah. Nervous. But excited." Belly picked at her noodles. "It's going to be good for me. Getting away. Focusing on school."

"And Conrad?"

The question sat there.

"We're—we're figuring it out."

"Figuring it out." Susannah's voice was gentle. Not pushing. Just observing.

"Yeah. Long distance is hard. We're both—" She stopped. Started again. "We're trying." Soft. Like saying it out loud might make it true. "Scheduled calls, actually communicating. All the stuff we should've been doing."

Jeremiah kept his eyes on his plate.

After dinner, Susannah excused herself. "I have to finish a painting before Friday. You two clean up?"

"Yeah, Mom. We got it."

She left. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller. Just Belly and Jeremiah and too much unsaid.

"I'll wash," Belly said.

"I'll dry."

They worked in silence. Passing dishes. The water running. The comfortable rhythm of a task they'd done together a hundred times.

"I'm scared," Belly said suddenly.

"Of Paris?"

"Of everything. Paris. Conrad. Leaving." She set down the dish she was holding. "Of what happens when I get back and nothing's the same."

"Things change, Bells. That's not always bad."

"Isn't it?" She looked at him. "We were so good at this. Wednesday dinners. Being friends. And now—"

"Now what?"

"Now I don't know what we are."

He reached into the freezer. Pulled out a small box. "Here. Almost forgot."

She opened it. Macarons—a little lopsided, pastel pink and green.

"You made these?"

"Tried to. They're not great. But I figured—you're going to Paris. Land of fancy French pastries. Thought you should have some terrible American ones to compare."

She laughed, but her voice caught. "Jere—"

"Practice for when you come back and tell me how wrong I did everything."

"They're perfect." She closed the box carefully. "Thank you."

He shrugged, focused on the dish towel in his hands. "We're friends."

"Are we?" She turned to face him fully. "Because friends don't—what happened on New Year's Eve—"

"Nothing happened."

"Jere—"

"Nothing happened, Belly. We didn't cross any lines. We didn't do anything wrong."

"But we wanted to."

True. Undeniable.

"It doesn't matter what we wanted," he said. "You're with Conrad. And I'm not—I'm not going to be that guy."

The guy who steals his brother's girlfriend. The guy who blows up his family for a girl. The guy he'd hate if he looked in the mirror.

"I know you're not." She wiped her face. "That's what makes this so hard."

"What?"

"That you're good. That you're loyal. That you're exactly who I need you to be and I can't—" She stopped. "I can't have you. Not the way I want."

His hands went completely still on the counter. He could feel his ears going hot. Somewhere in the house, the furnace kicked on. The hum of it filling the silence.

"Belly—"

"I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm not asking you to wait for me. I just—I needed you to know. Before I leave. That this—" She gestured between them. "This isn't nothing. Not for me."

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just stood there, frozen, gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"You're leaving in two days," he said finally.

"I know."

"And you're still with my brother."

"I know."

"So what are you asking me to do here?"

"Nothing." Her voice cracked. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed you to know."

She grabbed her coat. Started toward the door.

"Belly, wait—"

"I have to go." She wouldn't look at him. "I'll see you before I leave, okay? At the airport or—or something."

"Belly—"

But she was already gone. Door closing behind her. Leaving him alone in the kitchen with dishes still in the sink and words he couldn't say lodged in his throat.

He stood there for a long time.

Then he finished the dishes. Put everything away. Turned off the lights.

Sat on the couch in the dark.

Two more days.

Then she'd be gone. Off to Paris. Away from him. Back to figuring out whatever she and Conrad were.

And he'd be here.

Pathetic. That's what you are, Fisher. Completely fucking pathetic.

~*~

Susannah found him in the kitchen at 2am. Again. Flour on his hands, bread dough on the counter. The whole room smelled like yeast and warmth—the oven had been going for hours.

"You love her."

It wasn't a question.

"Mom—"

"You don't have to say it. I can see it." She paused. "She told you, didn't she? Tonight."

He stopped kneading. "How did you—"

"I saw her face when she left." Susannah leaned against the counter. "And I see yours now."

He didn't say anything. Just kept working the dough. Punching it down. Folding it over. The rhythm familiar, grounding.

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. She's with Conrad. She's leaving in two days. What am I supposed to do?"

"You could tell her how you feel."

"She knows." His voice came out rougher than he meant. "She already knows."

Susannah crossed to him. Took his flour-covered hands. "There's a difference between someone knowing and someone hearing you say it. The actual words. Not just talking around it."

"What's the point? She's still with Con. She's still leaving."

"The point is you stop carrying it alone." She squeezed his hands. "You've spent your whole life putting everyone else first. Taking care of me. Conrad. Your father when he didn't deserve it. And I love you for it, baby. But sometimes—sometimes you have to let yourself want things too."

"I don't know what to say to her."

"You'll figure it out." She smiled sadly. "You always do."

She left him alone in the kitchen.

He went back to kneading. But his hands were shaking now.

Tomorrow. Belly left tomorrow.

And he still didn't know what he was going to say.

~*~

His alarm went off at 5:30am.

Belly's flight was at 9am. She'd texted him yesterday—casual, like it didn't mean anything—asking if he'd drive her to the airport. She and Conrad had done a long video call last night. She said it was good. Said they had a plan.

So here he was. Showered. Dressed. Drinking coffee he didn't taste. Staring at the dark morning through his kitchen window.

His phone buzzed.

Belly (5:42am): outside whenever you're ready. no rush.

He grabbed his keys. Headed out.

She was waiting on her porch. Two suitcases. A backpack. Wearing leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, hair pulled back. Her breath fogged in the cold.  

"Hey."

"Hey." He grabbed her suitcases. Loaded them in the back. "You ready?"

"No. But I don't think I'm going to get more ready."

They drove in silence. The highway was empty this early—sky just starting to gray at the edges, streetlights still on. Just them and the occasional semi truck, headlights cutting through the dark.

"Thank you," she said finally. "For doing this."

"Course."

More silence. The kind that felt heavy. Full of things neither of them could say.

"I keep thinking," Belly said, "about what I said. Wednesday night."

"Belly—"

"Let me finish." She turned to face him. "I keep thinking about how unfair it was. To put that on you. To tell you how I feel when I'm leaving and you can't—when we can't—"

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Didn't I?" Her voice cracked. "I'm still with Conrad. We're trying to make things work. Give it one more shot. I'm leaving for six months. And I just—I told you that this isn't nothing. What was I expecting you to do with that?"

He kept his eyes on the road. What could he say? You were expecting me to feel it too. And I do. That's the problem.

"I keep waiting to regret telling you," she said. "But I don't. Even if it doesn't change anything—I needed you to know."

"It changes everything," he said.

She went still.

"It changes everything, Bells. Knowing you feel it too. That I'm not—" He ran a hand through his hair. "That I'm not just going crazy over here by myself."

She didn't say anything. Just looked at him.

"But you're right. You're leaving. You're with Conrad. And I'm not going to ask you to do anything about it."

"Jere—"

"Go to Paris. Figure out what you want. What you need." He glanced at her. "And when you come back—we'll figure out the rest."

"What if when I come back, everything's different?"

"Then it's different." He paused. "But right now, you need to go. You need to do this for yourself."

They pulled into the airport. Departures. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the hiss of automatic doors, announcements echoing off concrete. He found a spot at the curb.

Engine running. Neither of them moving.

"I'm going to miss you," she said. Small.

"Yeah." He had to clear his throat. "Yeah, me too."

"Every Wednesday. Every—" She stopped. "Every everything."

"Yeah."

She turned to face him. Eyes red but determined.

She started to reach for him. Stopped. Hand hovering between them like she wasn't sure she was allowed.

"Can I—" She gestured vaguely. "Can I hug you? Is that okay?"

"Yeah, Bells. Of course."

She unbuckled. Leaned across the center console. Wrapped her arms around his neck.

He held her. Tighter than he should. Longer than he should. Breathing her in—coconut and sugar, the way she always smelled. The way she'd smelled since they were kids. Memorizing it.

Let go, Fisher.

He did. Barely.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything. For Wednesday dinners. For being my friend."

"Always, Bells."

She pulled back. Their faces were inches apart.

For a second—one breathless second—they just looked at each other.

He could kiss her. Right now. Right here. Tell her he loved her. Beg her to stay.

But he didn't.

Because she needed to go. Needed to do this.

And he needed to let her.

"Paris, Bells," he said. "Go."

She nodded. Wiped her face. "Okay."

He got out. Grabbed her suitcases from the back. Set them on the curb.

She stood there. One hand on her suitcase handle. Looking at him like she was trying to memorize him too.

"I'll see you in six months," she said.

"Six months."

"Take care of yourself, okay? No stress-baking at 2am. Actually sleep. Maybe go on a date or something."

He almost laughed. "Yeah. Maybe."

"I mean it, Jere. Don't wait for me."

The words landed hard.

She didn't soften them. Didn't take them back. Just looked at him like she meant it and hated meaning it at the same time.

"I know what you meant."

"Okay. Good." She picked up her suitcase. Started toward the doors.

Turned back.

"Hey, Jere?"

"Yeah?"

"If when I come back—" She stopped. Started again. "If when I come back, and things are different, and we're both—if we're both free—"

"Then we'll figure it out," he finished.

She smiled. Small but real. "Okay."

"Okay."

She walked through the automatic doors. Looked back once. Waved.

He waved back.

Then she was gone. Swallowed by the crowd. Heading toward security. Toward Paris. Toward six months of distance and growth and figuring out what she wanted.

Jeremiah stood there for a long time. Engine still running. Airport curb. 6:47am on a Saturday morning.

Then he got in the Jeep. Pulled away from the curb. Drove back toward Boston.

His phone buzzed when he was halfway home.

Belly (7:23am): made it through security. thank you again for the ride.

Belly: and for everything else.

Belly: see you in six months?

He pulled over. Stared at the texts.

Six months felt like forever. Six months felt like nothing.

Jeremiah: six months

Jeremiah: have an amazing time bells

Jeremiah: you're gonna be incredible

Belly: ❤️

He pocketed his phone.

Then he drove the rest of the way home.

Back to BEN. Back to his life. Back to Wednesday dinners without her.

Back to figuring out what came next when the person you loved was an ocean away.

Six months. He could do six months.

He pulled into the parking lot. Got out of the Jeep. Headed inside.

Tried to ignore the ache that felt like it might never go away.

But he'd survive it.

He always did.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, January 15

The first Wednesday without her.

Jeremiah stood in his mom's kitchen, staring at the empty chair across from him. Belly's chair. Where she'd sat every Wednesday for months, chopsticks in hand, trying not to laugh when he told some stupid story about BEN.

Now: nothing. Just an empty seat at the table.

Get it together.

He'd made japchae anyway. Her favorite. Couldn't help himself. Muscle memory or something—Wednesday meant cooking, meant setting three places, meant—

He caught himself reaching for a third plate. Put it back.

"Just me tonight, baby." Susannah appeared in the doorway, looking better than she had in weeks. More color in her cheeks. Hair pinned up loosely. Paint on her fingers—the good kind of mess, the kind that meant she'd been working. "Smells wonderful."

Her eyes swept over him—the tight set of his shoulders, the way he was gripping the spatula a little too hard. She didn't say anything. Just settled onto her stool.

"Yeah." He kept his voice even. "I know."

She'd been different since the scare. More present. Like almost losing everything again had reminded her to actually live. She'd started teaching again—Saturday morning watercolor classes at the community center, beginners mostly, retirees who wanted to "find their creative side." She came home from them glowing.

"How was class this weekend?" He kept stirring the vegetables.

"Good. Really good." She settled onto her stool at the island. "I have this one student, Margaret—she's seventy-three, never painted in her life, and she's absolutely fearless. No hesitation. Just goes for it." Susannah smiled. "I told her she's my favorite. Don't tell the others."

"Your secret's safe with me."

"Laurel and I are planning a trip, by the way. February. Just a long weekend—maybe the Berkshires, maybe Vermont. Somewhere with a spa and too much wine."

"That sounds good, Mom. You should do that."

"I intend to." She picked a piece of carrot from the cutting board. "Life's too short to keep postponing things. I've been saying that for years and not actually doing it."

Jeremiah glanced at her. She looked different. Not just healthier—lighter. Like the scan results had given her permission to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Oh," she added, almost casually. "Your father called."

Jeremiah's hand stilled on the spatula. "What?"

"Yesterday." She said it like it was nothing. "Conrad must have told him."

"What did he want?"

"To see how I was doing. Make sure I was okay."

"Since when does he care?"

He hadn't meant it to sound like that. Susannah didn't flinch.

"He cares, Jere. He just—" She paused, choosing her words. "He doesn't know how to show it. Never has."

"He knows how to send expensive gifts nobody asked for. He knows how to pressure us about jobs and 'living up to potential.'" Jeremiah turned back to the stove. "That's not caring."

"It's the only language he has." She wasn't defending him, exactly. Just explaining. "Some people show love with presence. Some people show it with words. Your father shows it with trying to set you up for success. Making sure you're financially secure."

"With briefcases and watch collections."

"With giving you opportunities he didn't have." She let that sit. "It's not enough. I know that. But it's not nothing, either."

Jeremiah didn't say anything. Just stirred harder than necessary.

"I'm not asking you to forgive him," Susannah said. "I'm not even asking you to understand him. I just—" She stopped. Her face did something complicated. "He's your father. And he's trying, in his own broken way."

"Are you defending him?"

"No." The word came out firm. Final. "I'm just tired of carrying anger, Jere. It's exhausting. And life's too short."

He wanted to push. Wanted to ask why she wasn't angrier, why she could talk about him with such measured calm when he'd been absent for every moment that mattered. When he'd been a ghost through both her cancer battles.

But she had that look—the one that meant drop it. The one that said there was more to the story than he knew.

"How was the call?" Quieter now.

"Awkward. Stilted. He asked about my doctors and whether I needed anything." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Very practical. Very Adam."

"Did you tell him to fuck off?"

"Language." But she was almost smiling for real now. "No. I told him I was fine. That the boys were taking good care of me. That I'd let him know if anything changed."

"And?"

"And he said okay. And then he asked about the beach house maintenance schedule, because God forbid we have an actual conversation." She laughed, soft and tired. "Some things never change."

They were quiet for a moment. The oil sizzled.

"I'm glad you're okay, Mom." He had to look away for a second. "I'm glad you're teaching again. And planning trips. And—living."

"Me too, baby." She reached over, squeezed his arm. "Me too."

He served the japchae onto plates. Set the table for two. Didn't look at the empty chair.

They ate in near silence. The food was good—he'd nailed the balance of sweet and savory, the glass noodles perfectly chewy. But it felt wrong. Empty chair wrong.

"How are you doing?" Susannah asked. "Really."

"I'm fine."

"Jeremiah."

He set down his chopsticks. "I don't know, Mom. I'm—" God. "I miss her. Which is stupid because she's been gone for, like, days and—"

"It's not stupid."

"Yeah, well, it feels stupid." He pushed food around his plate. "She told me not to wait for her. Literally said 'don't wait for me' at the airport. So I'm not. I'm just—I don't know. Cooking her favorite food on Wednesday and missing her like an idiot."

"You're allowed to miss people, sweetheart. Even when it's complicated."

"Yeah, well." He stood, started clearing even though they weren't done. "Doesn't change anything."

"Maybe not." She caught his wrist. "But in the meantime—you figure out what you want. Not what everyone else wants for you. What you want."

After dinner, she showed him the painting she'd finished that week. Blues and golds swirling together, light breaking through something dark.

"What's it called?" he asked.

"After." She stood next to him, studying her own work. "I painted it the day we got the results. When I realized I was going to be okay."

His eyes stung. He pulled her into a hug, held on longer than usual.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, my darling boy." She pulled back, studied his face. "Now go home. Get some sleep. And stop making japchae for ghosts."

He laughed. "I'm going, I'm going."

~*~

Denise picked the same Thai place they always went to. Hole-in-the-wall spot in Cambridge, plastic chairs and the best pad see ew in the city.

She was already there when he arrived, waving from a corner booth.

"You look like shit," she said when he sat down.

"Thanks, D. Really feeling the love."

"Sympathy's not my strong suit. You know this." She pushed a menu toward him even though they both knew he'd order the same thing he always did. "So. Airport. How bad was it?"

"Scale of one to ten?"

"Sure."

"Like a seven. Maybe eight." He set down the menu. "Just—said goodbye. She told me not to wait for her."

"Ouch."

"I know."

The server came. They ordered. Denise waited until she was gone before leaning forward.

"Okay, real talk. What are you gonna do?"

"About what?"

"About the fact that you're clearly in love with your brother's girlfriend and everyone can see it."

His ears went hot. "I'm not—"

"Jere." She raised an eyebrow. "It's me."

Shit.

"Fine. Yeah. I'm—" He couldn't say it. Not out loud. "It doesn't matter. She's with Conrad. She's trying to make it work with him. And I'm not gonna be the guy who, who gets in the way of that."

"Even if it's making you miserable?"

"Even then." He shrugged. "It is what it is."

Denise sat back. Studied him. "You're a better person than me, Fisher."

"Or just a bigger idiot."

"Maybe both." She grabbed a spring roll when the appetizer arrived. "So what's the plan? Pining and stress-cooking?"

"I'm not—I'm not gonna pine."

"You're literally pining right now. You made japchae last night for a dinner she wasn't at."

How did she—

"Your mom texted me," Denise said, reading his face. "She's worried about you."

Great. Just great.

"I'm fine," he said. "Really. I've got—stuff. Spring semester. I'll figure out what I'm doing after graduation."

"Speaking of which." Denise set down her spring roll. "Have you thought more about culinary school?"

He looked away. "My dad would kill me."

"So?"

"So I'm supposed to work at Breaker. That's the plan."

"Whose plan?" She pointed her spring roll at him. "Because I've watched you cook, Jere. At Thanksgiving. At your mom's Wednesday dinners. You light up. Like actually light up. I've never seen you look that way talking about finance."

"Cooking's just a hobby."

"Bullshit. It's the only thing you actually give a shit about." She set down the spring roll. "I'm just saying. Think about it. Before you end up in a corner office hating your life because you were too scared to try."

"It's not that simple."

"Sure it is. You're just making it complicated because you're scared."

That landed wrong. She didn't get it—the weight of his dad's expectations, the way Conrad had always been the one who got to chase what he wanted while Jeremiah picked up the slack. But he didn't have the energy to explain.

"Maybe," he said. Then, because he was tired of being the project: "What about you? How's the startup stuff going?"

Something flickered across her face. "It's... slow."

"That's not an answer."

"Look who's learning." But she smiled. "We're still trying to get seed funding. Had two investor meetings last week, both passed. Steven's great at the vision stuff, but the pitch deck, the financials—" She shrugged. "Some days I wonder if we're kidding ourselves."

"You're not."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do. You're the smartest person I know."

"That's not the same as being good at this." She picked at her spring roll. "I'm still at Breaker, you know. Working for your dad during the day, building this thing at night. It's exhausting. And if we don't get funding soon..." She trailed off.

"You'll get it."

"Maybe." She didn't sound convinced. "Some days I fantasize about just quitting. Going all in. But that's terrifying when you don't have a safety net. And if your dad ever found out I was building something on the side..." She grimaced. "Non-compete clause. He'd bury me."

"He doesn't know?"

"God, no. Steven and I do everything on personal laptops, personal emails. It's exhausting." She took a sip of water. "Speaking of your dad—I may have told him off last week."

"You what?"

"He was going on about how you're 'wasting your potential' and I just—" She shrugged. "I told him his son feeds people every week because he actually gives a shit about them, and maybe that's more valuable than moving numbers around a spreadsheet."

"D. You're gonna get fired."

"He can't fire me for having opinions at a happy hour." She paused. "Probably."

"I can't believe you did that."

"Someone had to." She met his eyes. "You're not a disappointment, Jere. No matter what he thinks."

He shoved noodles in his mouth so he wouldn't have to respond right away.

"For what it's worth," he said, still chewing, "if he ever finds out about the startup and tries to come after you? I'll make you dinner every night until you get funded. Full menu. Appetizers, dessert, the works."

"Wow. Hazard pay in carbs. How romantic."

"I'll even wear a tie to your investor meetings. Very professional. Very supportive."

"Now you're just showing off." But she was smiling for real now.

She threw a napkin at him. "Shut up and eat your pad see ew."

They ate without talking for a minute. Then Denise sighed.

"Maybe I need to go to Paris too. Find some brooding French guy who doesn't know anything about startups or exes or any of this mess."

"I'll be your wingman. We can hit up all the tiny wine bars in the Marais, judge people's cheese selections."

"You speak French now?"

"I know how to say 'my friend is single and has excellent taste in spreadsheets.'"

"Wow. Irresistible." But she was smiling. "Rain check on the Paris wingman thing. After the startup either makes it or crashes and burns."

"Deal."

~*~

That night, he couldn't sleep.

He lay in bed scrolling through nothing. Instagram. Back to Instagram. The same posts he'd seen an hour ago.

Then, without really deciding to, he typed culinary schools Boston into the search bar.

Pages and pages of results. Le Cordon Bleu. Boston Culinary Institute. Cambridge School of Culinary Arts. Programs ranging from six months to two years. Tuition that made his stomach drop.

He clicked on one. Scrolled through the curriculum. Knife skills. Pastry fundamentals. Restaurant management. The photos showed students in white coats, bent over cutting boards, plating dishes that looked like art.

This is stupid. You're not actually going to do this.

But he bookmarked the page anyway.

His finger hovered over the screen. Then he created a folder. Named it Maybe.

Just in case.

~*~

Monday, January 20 – 4:47am

Jeremiah had been cooking for three hours.

The BEN kitchen looked like a restaurant mid-service. Four pans going. Two sheet trays in the oven. Pancakes stacked high on one counter. French toast on another. Bacon, sausage, hash browns, scrambled eggs. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. Biscuits cooling on a rack.

Enough breakfast food to feed thirty people.

At 5am.

On a Monday.

What the hell are you doing?

He didn't know. Just kept cooking. Cracking eggs. Flipping pancakes. Moving from station to station like he was on autopilot.

Couldn't sleep. Couldn't think. Couldn't stop seeing Belly at the airport, her face when she said don't wait for me.

So he cooked. Because at least that made sense. At least that was something he could control.

By 7am, guys started trickling downstairs. Stopped dead when they saw the spread.

"Holy shit," Marcus said. "Fisher, did you—"

"Help yourself. There's plenty."

"Plenty? Dude, there's enough food for the whole house."

Word spread fast. Within twenty minutes, the kitchen was packed—guys loading plates, joking around, someone turning on music. A Monday morning that suddenly felt like a celebration.

Marcus was trying to flip a pancake and failing spectacularly. Batter on the ceiling. On his face. Redbird recording the whole thing.

"Fisher, your boy is ruining your kitchen," Redbird called out.

"That's not flipping, that's assault," Jeremiah said, grabbing the spatula. "Watch. Wrist, not arm."

He demonstrated. Perfect flip. The guys cheered like he'd scored a touchdown.

"Do it again!"

"Okay, but someone's cleaning that ceiling."

For a few minutes, it was just—fun. Teaching Marcus how to flip without destroying the kitchen. Trash-talking. Laughing at Redbird's commentary. The kind of easy chaos that reminded him why he loved this.

Then it was over, and he was back at the sink. Washing dishes. Watching them eat.

He felt—nothing. Empty. Like he'd poured everything into the food and had nothing left.

"Yo, Fisher."

Redbird. Standing in the doorway with two cups of coffee.

"Come on," he said, jerking his head toward the back porch. "You look like shit."

Jeremiah caught his reflection in the window. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair a mess of curls he hadn't bothered to fix. Still wearing the same hoodie from yesterday.

Yeah. Fair.

The porch was freezing. January in Boston, breath visible, fingers going numb within seconds. Redbird handed him one of the coffees. They leaned against the railing.

"So," Redbird said. "You wanna tell me why you made enough breakfast to feed an army?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"Right. And that's got nothing to do with Belly leaving for Paris?"

Jeremiah stopped chewing. "What makes you say that?"

"Because you've been weird since she left." He paused. "Doesn't take a genius."

Jeremiah stared out at the yard. Dead grass. Bare trees. Everything gray and cold.

"She told me not to wait for her," he said finally. "At the airport."

"Ouch."

"Tell me about it."

"You gonna listen?"

"I don't know. Probably should." He took a sip of coffee. Let the heat burn his throat. "She's with Conrad. She's trying to make it work with him. And I'm just—"

"In love with her anyway."

Neither of them said anything for a second.

"Yeah," Jeremiah said finally. Quiet. "Yeah, I am."

Redbird was quiet for a minute. Then: "That's rough, man."

"Not your fault."

"Still sucks." He raised his coffee cup. "For what it's worth? The guys appreciate the feast. Even if it came from a place of emotional devastation."

Jeremiah snorted. "Glad my suffering could feed the masses."

"That's the spirit." Redbird grinned. Then: "But seriously. You good?"

"Ask me in six months."

"When she comes back?"

"Yeah."

"And then what?"

"Then—" Jeremiah stopped. "I don't know. Deal with it, I guess."

They stood there in the cold until the coffee was gone. Then went back inside, where the guys were still eating and the kitchen was warm and loud and alive.

Jeremiah grabbed a plate. Let Redbird pile it high.

Ate without tasting anything.

~*~

Tuesday, January 21 – 2:53am

Conrad's name lit up the screen.

Conrad: You awake?

Jeremiah stared at it. Conrad never texted this late.

Jere: yeah. you good?

Conrad: Can you call me?

He hit dial.

"Hey." Conrad sounded rough. Like he'd been up for hours. "Sorry. I know it's late."

"It's fine. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just—" Conrad exhaled. "I had a session today. With Dr. Okonkwo. My therapist."

"Yeah?"

"We talked about Belly. About me and Belly." A pause. "She asked when the last time was that I felt present with her. Like actually there, in the moment."

Jeremiah went still. "What'd you say?"

"I couldn't answer." Conrad got quieter. "I kept trying to think of a time, and I just—couldn't. Everything's either planning the next thing or worrying about the next rotation or thinking about Mom or—" He stopped. "I love her, Jere. I do. But I don't think I'm good for her right now."

Tell him. Tell him you love her too. Tell him—

"What are you saying?"

"I don't know. I'm just—thinking." Conrad hesitated. "Dr. Okonkwo pointed out that I keep... that when I talk about Belly, I'm—" He trailed off.

"You're what?"

"Using past tense. Like she's already gone."

"Are you?"

Conrad didn't answer right away.

"Maybe," Conrad said finally. "I don't know. I'm trying, Jere. I really am. But every time I try to be present, to actually show up, something pulls me away. The hospital, Dad, my own fucking brain." He laughed, bitter. "I'm exhausted. And I think she is too."

"Have you talked to her about this?"

"No."

"Con—"

"I know. I should. I will." A beat. "There's this girl. Agnes. The study partner I mentioned."

Jeremiah gripped the phone harder. "Okay."

"We've been spending a lot of time together. Study sessions, coffee after class." He paused. "Nothing's happened. I swear. But she's—I don't know how to explain it. It's just easier. We talk about her thesis and stupid shit like her cat and I don't feel like I'm... failing at something the whole time."

Jeremiah stared at the ceiling. Tried to keep his voice even. "That's good. That you have someone to talk to."

"Is it though?" Conrad's voice dropped. "Because I feel like an asshole. Belly's in Paris trying to make this work and I'm here thinking about how easy it is to be with someone else."

You should feel like an asshole.

The thought came fast. Mean. Jeremiah shoved it down.

"You're not an asshole for being honest about what you're feeling."

"Aren't I?" Conrad paused. "Can I ask you something?"

Shit. "Go ahead."

"Have you ever been with someone and realized you were with them because you thought you should be? Not because you actually wanted to be?"

Jeremiah's hand tightened on the phone. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—Belly and I, we make sense on paper. We always have." He stopped. "But lately I keep wondering if I'm holding on because I want to, or because letting go would mean I failed."

Say something. Just say something.

"I think sometimes people grow apart." He sounded like a Hallmark card. "Even when they love each other. It doesn't make you a failure."

"Doesn't it feel like one though?"

"Yeah. Probably does."

Conrad exhaled. "She asked if I could picture us in five years. Me and Belly."

Jeremiah closed his eyes. "And?"

"I couldn't see it. I tried, but I just—couldn't." His voice got quieter. "Is that fucked up? That I can't see a future with her?"

Tell him. Tell him you—

Fuck.

You can see it. You've thought about it a thousand times. Belly coming home. Making dinner. Her laugh.

He couldn't say any of that.

"I don't know what to tell you, man."

"Yeah." Conrad laughed, hollow. "I don't either."

They were both quiet. Jeremiah could hear Conrad breathing on the other end. Could picture him at his desk, medical textbooks stacked around him, looking as exhausted as he sounded.

"Jere?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think she's happy? Like really happy?"

The question sat weird. Like Conrad was asking about something else entirely.

"I don't know." Jeremiah picked his words. "You'd have to ask her."

"Right. Yeah." A pause. "I should let you sleep. Sorry for calling so late."

"It's fine. Really."

"Thanks for listening. I know this is—it's a lot."

"You're my brother, Connie. It's what we do."

"Yeah." Conrad sounded tired. "Get some sleep, Jere."

"You too."

"I'll try."

The line went dead.

Jeremiah sat there in the dark. Phone in one hand.

Nothing's happened. But it's easy with her.

That's how it happens. You don't notice until it's already over.

And here he was. Nodding along. Being the good brother. When what he really wanted—

What—wait around until Conrad fucked it up so he could make his move?

No secrets, remember?

That's what he and Belly used to say. Since they were kids. One of those traditions that meant something. And here he was, keeping the biggest secret of his life. From her. From Conrad. From everyone.

He put his phone on the nightstand. Lay back down.

Belly was asleep somewhere. Six hours ahead. Morning light coming through her window.

And he was here. Alone. Keeping secrets. Wanting something he couldn't have.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep didn't come.

~*~

Friday, January 24 – Paris

Belly's apartment was tiny.

Like, absurdly tiny. The bedroom was basically a closet with a twin bed shoved against a window that looked out onto a street so narrow she could practically reach across and touch the building opposite. The kitchen? Two burners and a mini fridge that hummed like it was personally offended by her presence. The bathroom had a shower she had to turn sideways to fit into, and the water pressure was a joke.

But God, the light.

It poured through the windows in the late afternoon, golden and thick like honey, and suddenly the tiny apartment felt like a painting. Like something out of one of those old movies her mom loved. She'd been in Paris for two weeks and she still wasn't used to it—the way everything looked at sunset, the way the bread from the bakery downstairs tasted like actual heaven, the way people sat in cafés for hours just reading and smoking and existing like they had nowhere else to be.

Outside, someone was playing piano—scales first, then something classical she didn't recognize. The smell of coffee and cigarettes drifted up from the street. A motorbike roared past, rattling the windows.

It was beautiful. Overwhelming. Lonely as hell.

She'd cried three times this week. Once because she couldn't figure out the laundry machine (the buttons were in French and the symbols made no sense and she'd accidentally shrunk her favorite sweater). Once because a song came on that reminded her of Cousins. Once for no reason at all—just standing in her tiny kitchen eating yogurt out of the container, tears streaming down her face like an absolute mess.

Get it together.

Her classes were intense—art history, French literature, a seminar on Impressionism in a building so old it still had gas lamps in the hallways. She liked her professors. Liked her classmates, mostly. But she didn't know anyone. Not really. Just surface-level "how was your weekend" conversations that went nowhere.

And Conrad—

She grabbed her phone. Scrolled to their messages.

Conrad (Yesterday, 11:34pm Paris time): Sorry I missed our call. Surgery ran long. How was your day?

Belly (Yesterday, 11:52pm): it's okay. day was good. went to the louvre.

Conrad: That's great. Happy for you.

Conrad: Sorry I'm short. exhausted. long day.

Belly: it's okay. get some sleep.

Conrad: love you

Belly: love you too

She stared at the screen. Love you too. When had that started feeling like a reflex instead of a truth?

The conversations were getting shorter every day. More like checking boxes than actually talking. Hi, I'm alive, are you alive, great, love you, bye.

This was supposed to fix things. The distance. The space. Six months to figure out who she was when she wasn't Conrad Fisher's girlfriend or the girl caught between two brothers or the one who always seemed to be missing the boat.

Instead she was just... here. Alone in a tiny apartment eating yogurt and crying about laundry.

Fantastic. Really nailing this whole "finding yourself" thing.

But underneath the loneliness, there was something else. Something she didn't want to look at too closely.

Relief.

For the first time since she was fifteen years old, she wasn't in the middle of anything. No one was looking at her like she was supposed to choose. No tension crackling across dinner tables. No feeling Conrad's eyes on her when she laughed at Jeremiah's jokes, no feeling Jeremiah pull away when Conrad walked into a room.

Just... silence. Space. Room to breathe without wondering who she was hurting by breathing.

It was lonely as hell. But it was also the first time in years she'd felt like her feelings belonged to her.

She let that thought sit there. Didn't push it away.

Her phone buzzed. Taylor.

Taylor: how's paris??

Belly: beautiful. lonely. the usual.

Taylor: you making friends?

Belly: working on it

Taylor: liar

Belly: okay fine. no. i'm eating lunch alone and going to museums alone and basically being a hermit

Taylor: belly! you have to actually talk to people

Belly: i know. it's just hard

Taylor: i know babe. but you can do this

Belly: how's boston?

Taylor: cold. steven's being annoying. jere made an entire breakfast feast for BEN the other morning

Something twisted in her stomach at his name.

Belly: what do you mean breakfast feast

Taylor: like at 5am. pancakes, french toast, bacon, eggs, the whole thing. fed the entire house. even redbird said it was unhinged

Belly: that's a lot of food

Taylor: your boy is spiraling

Your boy. Taylor didn't know. Couldn't know.

Belly: he's not my boy

Taylor: right. sure. keep telling yourself that

Belly: i'm with conrad

Taylor: are you though?

Belly stared at the message.

Was she? They were technically together. Officially. But the last two weeks had felt like nothing. Just checking boxes. Good morning texts. Brief calls that mostly consisted of "how was your day" and "I'm tired" and "talk soon."

Belly: i don't know tay

Belly: i really don't know

Taylor: then figure it out. you deserve better than maybe

She locked her phone. Pulled on a jacket.

The café down the street—Le Petit Marché—was her usual spot. Tiny corner place, all dark wood and copper fixtures, maybe six tables total. The barista knew her now. The American girl who ordered the same cappuccino every day and sat in the corner pretending to read.

Today there was someone in her usual spot.

A guy, mid-twenties, dark curly hair, black-framed glasses. Sketchbook open, charcoal all over his fingers, totally absorbed.

Belly grabbed a different table. Ordered her cappuccino. Pulled out her art history textbook.

"Excuse me?"

She looked up.

The guy from her usual table. Up close, he was handsome—sharp jawline, warm brown eyes, a small scar above his left eyebrow.

"Sorry," he said in accented English. Spanish. "I'm in your spot, yes? I see you here every day."

"Oh. No, it's—you're fine."

"You are a terrible liar." He smiled. "I am Benito. May I sit?"

"Um. Sure."

He pulled up a chair. Set his sketchbook on the table between them. "You are American?"

"Yeah. Belly."

"Belly." He tried the name. "This is unusual."

"It's a nickname. My real name is Isabel."

"Ah. Isabel. This is beautiful." He gestured at her textbook. "You study art?"

"Art history. Some psych. Study abroad program."

"Wonderful. And you like Paris?"

"I do. It's just—" She stopped. Why was she about to tell a complete stranger that she was lonely?

"Lonely," Benito finished. "Yes. I see this. You sit here every day, alone, pretending to read."

"I'm not pretending—"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, fine. I'm pretending."

He laughed. Warm, genuine. "Do not worry. I do the same. I am supposed to be working on my thesis. Instead I draw." He turned his sketchbook around. "See?"

The page was covered in quick gesture drawings of the café—the barista pulling shots, an old woman reading Le Monde, the light coming through the windows.

"These are beautiful," Belly said. And meant it.

"Thank you." He closed the book. "I study architecture. Very boring compared to art history."

"I doubt that."

"No, truly. It is all math and building codes." He waved his hand. "Tell me. Why are you lonely in the most beautiful city in the world?"

She should have deflected. Changed the subject. But he was easy to talk to—direct, warm—and before she knew it she was answering honestly.

"I'm trying to figure out who I am. What I want. But I'm doing it alone and that's—harder than I thought."

"Ah." He nodded. "Boy troubles, yes?"

Her face went hot. "How did you—"

"I am very good at reading people." He smiled. "Also, you have been staring at your phone for two weeks like it might explode."

He's good.

"It's complicated," she said.

"It always is." Benito stood. Extended his hand. "Come. I will show you the real Paris. Not the tourist Paris. The one where people actually live."

"I don't—I shouldn't—"

"You are reading a book you do not care about in a café where you sit alone every day." He raised an eyebrow. "What exactly are you afraid of?"

Good question.

She took his hand.

~*~

They walked for hours.

Benito showed her the real Paris—not the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower, but the markets where locals bought their vegetables, the bookshops tucked into alleys, the street where his favorite falafel place was hidden behind a door you'd never notice unless you knew to look.

The falafel was incredible—crispy outside, soft inside, wrapped in warm pita with pickled vegetables and a sauce that burned just enough. They ate standing up, shoulders pressed against the narrow wall while people squeezed past. The smell of cumin and hot oil hung in the cold January air.

"This is better, yes?" he asked as they walked along the Seine. The sun was setting, turning the water gold. A boat passed, accordion music drifting up from somewhere below deck.

"Yeah." She smiled. "Way better."

"Good." He grinned. "Now. Tell me about the boy."

"Which one?"

His eyebrows went up. "Ah. So there are two."

She hadn't meant to say that. But now it was out there.

"There's my boyfriend," she said slowly. "Conrad. He's in med school in California. We're trying long distance."

"Trying," Benito repeated. "Not succeeding?"

"I don't know. Maybe." She stopped walking. Leaned against the railing. The stone was cold through her jacket. "It's hard. He's always busy. I'm here. We're both trying but it feels like—"

"Like you are holding on to something already gone?"

"Yeah. Exactly like that."

"And the other one?"

There it was again—that pull she didn't want to name. "He's Conrad's brother."

"Ah. Complicated indeed."

"He's—" She didn't know how to explain Jeremiah. "He's my best friend. Or he was. Before things got confusing."

"Confusing how?"

"I have feelings for him. He has feelings for me. But I'm with Conrad and he's too loyal to do anything about it." She turned to Benito. "I told him not to wait for me. At the airport."

"Why?"

"Because it wasn't fair. To ask him to put his life on hold while I figure out mine."

"But you wanted him to wait anyway."

Not a question. A statement.

"Maybe." She looked at the water. "Is that terrible?"

Benito waved his hand. "We want what we want. Even when—" He shrugged. "You know."

They walked without talking for a bit. Then:

"Can I ask you something?" Belly said.

"Of course."

"Why are you being so nice to me? You don't even know me."

"Because you looked sad. And lonely. And I know what that feels like." He smiled. "Also, I have a boyfriend. Marc. So you do not have to worry I am trying to—how do you say—hit on you."

She laughed. First real laugh since she'd gotten to Paris.

"Thank you," she said. "For this. For today."

"You are welcome." He pulled out his phone. "Give me your number. Tomorrow I will show you where to get the best croissants in the city. And maybe we can work on your French. It is terrible."

"Hey!"

"I am teasing. Mostly." He grinned. "But seriously. You need friends here. I will be your friend. Yes?"

"Yes," she said. "I'd like that."

They exchanged numbers. Benito gave her directions to get back to her apartment.

"See you tomorrow, Isabel," he said.

"See you tomorrow."

She walked home through the Paris streets as the lights came on. Something had shifted. Maybe—maybe—this could work.

~*~

That night, she texted Jeremiah.

Belly (1AM Paris / 7PM Finch): made a friend today. met him at a café.

Jere: that's great bells. what's he like?

Belly: nice. spanish. has a boyfriend so don't get excited

Jere: wasn't gonna get excited

Belly: liar

Jere: okay maybe a little

She smiled at her phone like an idiot.

Belly: he showed me the real paris. the markets and the bookshops and this falafel place that's basically hidden

Jere: sounds amazing

Belly: it was. first time i've felt like myself since i got here

Jere: i'm glad, bells. you deserve that.

She stared at the message for a long time.

Belly: how are you? taylor said something about a breakfast feast?

Jere: oh god. she told you about that?

Belly: she said it was "unhinged"

Jere: it was a normal amount of food

Belly: jere. she said you made enough for 30 people. at 5am.

Jere: ...okay maybe it was a lot

Belly: are you okay?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Jere: yeah. just couldn't sleep. you know how it is.

She did know. That was the problem.

Belly: take care of yourself okay? actually sleep. don't stress-cook yourself into a coma.

Jere: i'll try

Belly: jeremiah.

Jere: fine. i'll try.

Belly: good.

Belly: night jere.

Jere: morning bells.

She set her phone down. Crawled into bed.

Thought about Jeremiah making pancakes at obscene hours because he couldn't stop thinking about her.

Your boy is spiraling.

He wasn't her boy. Couldn't be her boy.

But lying there in the dark, she kept thinking about the one Wednesday he had obsessed over dessert. Jeremiah had made this ridiculous dessert—some kind of chocolate lava cake that he'd been practicing for weeks. And when he'd set it in front of her, he'd been so nervous. Like her opinion was the only one that mattered.

"Tell me the truth," he'd said. "Even if it sucks."

It hadn't sucked. It had been perfect—rich and warm, the center molten, exactly the right amount of sweet. And when she'd told him that, when she'd watched his whole face light up like she'd given him something precious, she'd had to look away. Had to pretend to need more water. Had to do something with her hands so he wouldn't see whatever was happening on her face.

He was gentle. Thoughtful. Like her approval meant everything.

Like she had the power to make or break his whole day.

She'd pushed the thought away then. Was still pushing it away now.

But it kept coming back. In the quiet moments. In the dark.

Stop. You're with Conrad. You chose Conrad.

But had she? Or had she just... ended up there? Because it was easier? Because it was expected? Because everyone had always assumed it would be Conrad, and she'd gotten so used to the assumption that she'd stopped questioning it?

She didn't know anymore.

She pulled the covers up. Stared at the Paris ceiling.

Six months. She had six months to figure it out.

She just hoped that would be enough.

The next morning, she did something she'd been putting off for weeks. There was a figure drawing class at the Beaux-Arts—Tuesday evenings, open to students from any program. She'd seen the flyer her first week and thought maybe someday.

Someday was now.

She signed up before she could talk herself out of it. Paid the fee. Put it in her calendar.

It was small. Stupid, maybe. But it was hers—something she'd chosen for herself, not because it was expected or practical or what someone else wanted. Just because she wanted to try.

She walked to class that morning with her shoulders a little straighter.

~*~

Sunday, January 26 – Denise's Apartment

The startup brainstorm was exactly as chaotic as Jeremiah expected.

Denise's apartment in Allston—barely a one-bedroom, with a kitchen that was more of a hallway and a living room dominated by a massive whiteboard she'd installed on one wall.

Steven and Taylor were already there, both armed with laptops and strong opinions. Denise had ordered pizza—three large pies, pepperoni and mushroom and something with pineapple that only Jeremiah would eat.

"Fisher!" Denise waved him in. "Perfect timing. Nepo baby finally shows up. Steven was just explaining why his wireframes are genius and I was about to tell him they're trash."

"They're not trash," Steven protested.

"They're absolutely trash."

Jeremiah grabbed a slice and settled onto the couch next to Taylor while they bickered.

"Fisher, tell Steven his color scheme looks like a hospital waiting room," Denise said.

"It's clean. It's professional."

"It's depressing. Jeremiah, back me up."

He squinted at the screen. "I mean... it does kind of look like the DMV."

"Ha!" Denise pointed at Steven. "Two against one."

"Taylor?"

Taylor didn't look up from her phone. "I'm Switzerland."

"Traitor," Steven muttered.

The brainstorm went well—restaurant management software for small places, the ones that couldn't afford enterprise solutions. Jeremiah talked about potential kitchen chaos, scheduling nightmares, inventory disasters. Denise kept interrupting with questions. Steven kept sketching wireframes. Taylor occasionally looked up to roast both of them.

"What if the inventory system could predict waste?" Jeremiah said. "Like, based on weather and local events. Rainy Tuesday in January, you're not selling as many salads."

"That's actually genius," Denise said. "Write that down."

"I'm not your secretary."

"You are now. Congratulations."

By 9pm, the whiteboard was covered in diagrams and Jeremiah had eaten most of the pineapple pizza.

Taylor was curled into Steven's side on the couch now, scrolling through her phone while he argued with Denise about font choices. Casual. Easy. Like they'd been doing this for years instead of weeks.

"Babe, tell Denise that serif fonts are for boomers," Steven said.

"I'm not getting involved in your font war."

"You're supposed to be on my side."

"I'm on the side of not caring about fonts." But she was smiling, and when Steven dropped a kiss on her hair without even pausing his argument, she didn't pull away.

Jeremiah looked away. Happy for them. He was. Steven had been half in love with Taylor since high school, and Taylor—for all her sharp edges—had always softened around him. Even when she was pretending not to.

It just made the empty space next to him feel emptier.

"This is actually useful," Denise said, studying the board. "Fisher, you've got real insight here."

"I've just watched a lot of cooking shows and messed around."

"That's the point." She shrugged. "Would you be open to helping us out? Give us input when we need it, make sure we're not building something stupid?"

"I mean—yeah, sure."

"If we get funding, we could pay you a little for your time. Nothing huge, but something." She shrugged. "No pressure. Just think about it."

Around 10, Taylor and Steven left. Denise started cleaning up while Jeremiah helped load the dishwasher.

Steven came back in. "Taylor's gone. You need me to help clean up?"

"We're done." Denise grabbed her keys. "Actually, I'm gonna run to the corner store. Out of creamer for tomorrow." She looked at Jeremiah. "Stay. Keep Steven company. I'll be back in ten."

She was out the door before either of them could argue.

Steven settled onto the couch. Jeremiah sat across from him.

"So," Steven said. "How you doing?"

"Everyone keeps asking me that."

"Because you look like shit, dude."

"Thanks. Really feeling the love today."

Steven's mouth twitched. Then his face got serious again, like he'd been thinking about this for a while. "Can I ask you something?"

"Depends."

"When your mom was sick—the first time—what was that like? For you?"

Jeremiah went still.

Nobody asked him that. People asked about Susannah—how she was doing, whether she was okay. They didn't ask what it was like for him.

"Why?"

"Because I was there. Kind of. But I wasn't there there. And you never talk about it."

"There wasn't anything to talk about."

"Bullshit."

Jeremiah picked at a thread on the couch cushion. "It was—" He stopped. Tried again. "Dad was working. So it was just me."

"And?"

"And I cooked. Drove her to appointments. Held her hair when she—" His voice went flat. "When she threw up from the chemo. Watched her get smaller. Watched her pretend she was fine because she didn't want to scare me."

Steven didn't say anything.

"The worst part was the quiet," Jeremiah said. "The house was so fucking quiet. She'd be sleeping, and I'd just—wander. Make food she couldn't eat. Clean shit that wasn't dirty. Anything to not think about—" He stopped. "About what would happen if she didn't make it."

"Jere—"

"I used to sit outside her door. At night." He looked at Steven. "Just listening. Making sure she was still breathing. Because I was terrified I'd wake up and she'd be—" He couldn't finish.

"Where was Conrad during this?"

"Stanford. He'd call. Fly back when he could. But he didn't see it. The day-to-day. The bad days." Jeremiah rubbed his face. "He'd show up and she'd rally. Put on a good face. Then he'd leave and she'd just—collapse. And I'd be there. Picking up the pieces."

"That's fucked up."

"It's not his fault. He was in school."

"Still fucked up."

"Yeah." Jeremiah looked at him. "I never told anyone that. About sitting outside her door."

"I won't say anything."

"I know."

Neither of them said anything for a minute.

"Denise wants me to quit Breaker," Steven said. "Join her startup for real."

"Are you gonna do it?"

"I don't know. Your dad would never forgive me." He laughed, but it sounded hollow. "He's an asshole but he also gave me a shot when I needed one. It's complicated."

Jeremiah just nodded. His relationship with Adam was all sharp edges and disappointment. Steven's was messier—loyalty to a boss who gave him a chance, even when that boss was kind of a dick.

"Do what makes you happy," Jeremiah said. "That's what everyone keeps telling me. Might as well take our own advice."

Steven snorted.

Jeremiah rubbed his face. "I talked to Conrad last week. He said he thinks he's losing her. That he's been losing her for a while."

"Shit."

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing. What was I supposed to say?"

"Yeah. Nothing good."

Denise came back with creamer and a bag of chips. "Did I miss anything good?"

"Just two dudes talking about their feelings," Steven said. "Very manly."

"Gross." She tossed the chips at him. "Okay, Fisher. It's late. Go home. Get some actual sleep."

"Yes ma'am."

He grabbed his jacket. Headed for the door.

"Hey, Jere?"

He turned.

Steven was looking at him. Not joking for once.

"You're gonna be okay," he said. "You know that, right?"

"You sound pretty sure."

"I am." Steven shrugged. "You're the toughest person I know, Fisher. Even if you don't see it."

Jeremiah looked at his hands.

"Thanks." He didn't know what else to say. "For—you know."

"Anytime, man. That's what best bros are for."

He drove home through the dark Boston streets, thinking about cooking and culinary school and Belly in Paris and his mom painting light.

Thinking about what he wanted. What he actually wanted.

And somewhere between Allston and his apartment, he thought maybe he could figure it out.

~*~

Wednesday, January 29

The head chef at Saltline had sleeve tattoos and didn't smile when Jeremiah walked in. Mid-forties, arms crossed, the kind of presence that made you stand up straighter. When he talked about food, you paid attention. Jeremiah had walked in to pitch the startup's restaurant software and walked out with something else entirely.

"You know your shit," Nico said, after Jeremiah had spent twenty minutes explaining inventory tracking and waste reduction. "You build this app?"

"My friend's the developer. I just know the kitchen side."

"Where'd you train?"

"I didn't. Not formally. Just—cooked a lot. Staged at a few places. Mostly I cook for my fraternity."

"Huh." Nico sized him up—tall kid, broad shoulders, nervous energy like he wasn't sure he belonged here. But his eyes had lit up the whole time he was talking about food. That meant something. "What are you doing after graduation?"

"I—" The question caught him off guard. "I don't know yet. Figuring it out."

"You thought about culinary school?"

Why does everyone keep asking me that?

"Yeah. Maybe. My dad wants me to work at his hedge fund, but—"

"But you don't want that."

"No. I really don't."

Nico nodded. "Look. I can't commit to testing your app right now. But I could use help around here. Prep cook just quit. Three nights a week. You interested?"

Jeremiah blinked. "Seriously?"

"You know your stuff. You can talk about recipe management and waste reduction like you've actually thought about it. That's rare." Nico pulled out his phone. "Pay's not amazing but it's experience. The kind that looks good on culinary school applications."

"Yeah." He had to stop himself from saying it too fast. "I've got my lifeguard shifts at the natatorium, but I can work around them. Three nights—I can make that work."

"Thursday night. 5pm. Don't be late."

They shook hands. Jeremiah walked back to his Jeep in a daze.

A job. A real kitchen job. At a restaurant that actually mattered.

He sat in the driver's seat for a full minute before starting the engine. His hands were shaking. Hope, maybe. Or something close to it.

Holy shit.

His phone buzzed.

Denise: how'd the restaurant visits go?

Jere: got a job. prep cook at saltline. starts thursday.

Denise: DUDE. that's huge!!

Steven: saw denise's text. proud of you man.

He sat there for a minute. Let it land.

This was real. He was doing this.

His dad would lose his mind if he kept this going after graduation. But sitting in his Jeep outside a restaurant that just hired him, Jeremiah couldn't bring himself to care.

~*~

Thursday, January 30 – Stanford

Conrad sat in Dr. Okonkwo's office for the fourth time.

Same couch. Same window overlooking the quad. Same feeling of being completely exposed.

"You're using past tense again," Dr. Okonkwo said. "When you talk about Belly."

"Am I?"

"You said 'we were trying to make it work.' Not 'we're trying.' Were."

She was right.

"I don't mean to," he said.

"I know. But language reveals what we're actually thinking. Not what we want to think."

Conrad stared out the window. Students crossing the quad. Laughing, talking, living their lives without constant analysis.

"Let's try something," Dr. Okonkwo said. "Tell me about your parents' marriage."

He blinked. "What?"

"Your parents. What was their relationship like?"

"They separated about a year after Mom's trial worked. After she was in remission." He paused. "But they weren't really together for years before that."

"What do you remember?"

He thought about it. The big house that always felt empty. His mom painting in her studio. His dad on conference calls at all hours. Two people occupying the same space without actually being together.

"They were... parallel." He thought about it. "Like two trains on separate tracks. Going the same direction, maybe, but never actually meeting."

"And when your mother was sick?"

Conrad looked away. "He wasn't there. Not really. Threw himself into work. And then once she was okay—once the trial worked and she was actually going to be fine—" He stopped. Laughed, bitter. "That's when he left."

"That must have been confusing."

"Yeah." He rubbed his face. "I was twenty-one. Here at Stanford. Jere at Finch. And I kept thinking—he stayed through the cancer. He stayed when she might die. But he couldn't stay when she was going to live? What the fuck does that say about him?"

Dr. Okonkwo didn't answer. Just waited.

"I think he didn't know how to be married to her when she wasn't sick," Conrad said finally. "Like the crisis was the only thing holding them together. And once it was over..." He trailed off.

"That's a lot of responsibility for a child."

"Someone had to step up."

"Did they? Or did you decide that on your own?"

Conrad stared at the floor.

"I'm noticing a pattern," Dr. Okonkwo said. "You take on responsibility. You try to control outcomes. If you're busy enough, in control enough—nothing bad can happen."

Conrad's hand tightened on the arm of the couch. "What does this have to do with Belly?"

"You tell me."

Silence.

"I had coffee with Agnes yesterday," he said, changing the subject. Or trying to. "After our study session."

"How was that?"

"Easy." He heard himself say it. "We talked about neuroscience. About her thesis. About stupid stuff—her cat, my brother's stress-cooking." He paused. "I didn't check my phone once."

"And when you're with Belly?"

"I check it constantly. Waiting for pages from the hospital. Emails from Dad. Texts about Sofia's recovery." He ran a hand through his hair. "I can't be present with her. Even when I try."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because I'm exhausted. Because being with her feels like—" He stopped. Made himself say it. "Like work. And being with Agnes doesn't."

Dr. Okonkwo didn't react. Just waited.

"That's fucked up, right?" Conrad said. "I love Belly. But I'm sitting here telling you it's easier to be with someone else."

"Love and compatibility aren't always the same thing. Sometimes we hold onto relationships because of what they represent, not what they actually are."

"You mentioned your father left after your mother recovered—not during the crisis, but after. And you've built your identity around being the opposite—the one who shows up, who handles things, who doesn't leave." She paused. "What if the fear of being like him is keeping you in something that isn't good for either of you?"

That one hit hard.

"I'm not like him." But it came out rough.

"I didn't say you were. I said you're afraid of being like him. Those aren't the same thing." She leaned forward slightly. "Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is let go. That's not abandonment, Conrad. That's honesty."

"I think she already knows," he said finally. "I think she's known for a while. And I think—" He stopped. Made himself say it. "There's someone she lights up for in a way she doesn't light up for me anymore. My brother. My own fucking brother."

Dr. Okonkwo didn't react. Just waited.

"I saw it at Thanksgiving. The way they were in the kitchen together. The way she laughed at his jokes." Conrad's voice cracked. "I should hate him for it. Part of me does. But mostly I just—I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired of trying to hold onto something that's already gone."

"Conrad, I want to be careful here. Are you ending this relationship because it's not working? Or because you think she wants someone else?"

"Both. Neither." He rubbed his face. "Agnes isn't the reason. But she's... proof, I guess. Proof that it shouldn't be this hard." He paused. "If I thought we could fix it—if I thought we could get back what we had—I'd fight for it. But I don't think we can."

"I keep thinking about this surgery," he said. "Sofia Moreno. Eight years old, brainstem tumor. We saved her life. And those twelve hours in the OR—I knew exactly what I was doing. Exactly where I was supposed to be." He looked at Dr. Okonkwo. "I've never felt that way with Belly. Not once. Not even close."

Silence.

"So what do I do?" He looked at her. "Just... give up? After everything?"

"Is staying the same as fighting for something? Or is it just fear of letting go?"

He stared at his hands. The surgeon's hands. The hands that knew how to cut clean and precise, how to save lives. Why couldn't he figure out how to do this?

"I need to talk to her," he said finally. "I need to tell her that I love her. That I probably always will. But I can't do this anymore."

~*~

After the session, Conrad walked to the medical library. Found Agnes in their usual spot—corner table, surrounded by neuroscience journals and cold coffee.

She looked up when he sat down. Took one look at his face. "That fun, huh?"

"Hard."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Okay." She went back to her reading. Didn't push. That was the thing about Agnes—she gave him space. Didn't need him to perform.

They studied side by side for a while, not needing to talk. Then:

"Agnes?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you know when a relationship is over?"

She set down her pen. Turned to face him fully.

"You just know," she said. "It stops feeling like you're building something together. Starts feeling like you're each going through the motions. Like you're holding on because letting go is scarier than staying."

"Yeah," he said. Quiet. "That's exactly what it feels like."

"You're talking about Belly."

He nodded.

Agnes was quiet for a minute. "My sister—before she died—she used to say you have to let people go sometimes. Even if you love them. Especially if you love them."

Conrad looked at her. Agnes rarely talked about her sister. The one who'd had cancer. The reason she wanted to go into pediatric oncology.

"She sounds like she was wise."

"She was twelve." Agnes smiled, sad. "Kids understand things adults complicate."

Neither of them spoke. Then:

"I'm not going to tell you what to do," Agnes said. "But you seem exhausted. And not just from school. You seem like you're carrying something heavy and trying to pretend it isn't crushing you."

"I am."

"Then maybe you need to put it down. Not because it's easy. Because it's honest."

He looked at her. Really looked. She had kind eyes. Smart eyes. Eyes that had seen loss and come out the other side.

"I need to call her," he said. "Tomorrow. Have the conversation we've been avoiding."

"You probably do."

"It's going to suck."

"Yeah." Agnes reached across the table. Squeezed his hand once. Let go. "But you'll get through it. And so will she. Belly's stronger than you're giving her credit for."

"I know she is."

"Then trust that. Trust her to handle the truth."

He left the library as the sun was setting. Walked back to his apartment through the quiet campus, past students heading to dinner, past the fountain where he used to study before everything got so complicated.

It was 6pm in California. 3am in Paris. Too late to call.

But he knew. Finally knew.

This thing with Belly—it was over. Had been over for a while. Maybe since before Paris. Maybe since before the summer. He'd just been too afraid to see it.

Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is let go.

Tomorrow he'd call her. Tomorrow he'd be honest. Tomorrow he'd do the thing he'd been avoiding for months.

But tonight, he let himself grieve what they'd been. What they could have been. What they'd never quite managed to become.

His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs until they stopped.

Six thousand miles away, she was sleeping. And it was already over.

Chapter Text

Saturday, February 1

The call came at 7pm Paris time.

Belly was sitting on her tiny bed in her tiny apartment, laptop open to a paper she wasn't writing, when Conrad's name lit up her phone. Outside, the February dark had already settled over the city, streetlights glowing amber through the frost on her window. Someone was cooking dinner in the apartment below, garlic and onions, the kind of smell that usually made her hungry but tonight made her feel more alone.

She stared at the phone for three rings before answering.

"Hey."

"Hey." His voice sounded strange. Rehearsed. "Did I wake you?"

"It's 7pm here."

"Right. Time zones. I always forget."

She waited. Conrad didn't call to chat. Conrad didn't call at all, really—they'd been reduced to texts and missed connections, brief conversations that felt like reading from a script neither of them had written. The last time they'd talked and he'd been present—not going through the motions, not half-asleep, not checking his phone—she couldn't remember. Before she left? Maybe Christmas, those stilted ten minutes when she'd tried to tell him about her classes and he'd kept looking at his phone.

"Belly, I need to talk to you about something."

Her stomach dropped. She knew that tone. Had known this was coming, maybe, for longer than she wanted to admit.

"Okay."

"I've been in therapy." He said it fast, like he needed to get it out before he lost his nerve. "Since January. I've been trying to figure out why I can't—why I'm not—"

"Conrad."

"Let me finish. Please." A pause. She could hear him breathing. "I've been trying to figure out why I can't be present with you. Why every time we talk, I feel like I'm failing. Why I was relieved when you left for Paris."

The word hit her like a slap. Relieved.

"I love you," he continued. "I do. But I'm not in love with you anymore. And I think—" His voice cracked. "I think you know that."

The silence between them felt infinite.

"You were—" She stopped. Started over. "New Year's Eve. You were right there. On your phone at midnight and I just—I kept waiting for you to find me. And you didn't."

"Belly—"

"No, I—" She was crying already, which made her angry, which made her cry harder. "I need to say this. I've been—I've been so good, Conrad. I've been so understanding about everything and I never said anything because I didn't want to be that girlfriend, the needy one, the one who makes everything about her when you have so much going on—"

"You're not needy—"

"But I AM, apparently, because wanting my boyfriend to kiss me at midnight is—" She laughed, wet and broken. "God, that sounds so stupid. It's so stupid. It's just a kiss. It's just one moment. But you were texting. You were texting about some patient and I was standing RIGHT THERE and—"

She had to stop. Breathe. Her fingers were trembling against the phone.

"I'm sorry," she said automatically. Then: "No. Wait. I'm not sorry. Why am I apologizing? You just told me you're not in love with me and I'm apologizing. What is wrong with me?"

"Belly—"

"Christmas. You were on your phone the whole dinner. And I kept trying to get your attention and you kept saying 'one sec' and then one sec turned into twenty minutes and I just—I sat there. Like an idiot. Waiting for you to finish."

"I had patients—"

"You always have patients!" It came out louder than she meant. "There's always something. There's always a reason. And I keep telling myself it's fine, it's just this one time, he's stressed, he's tired, he's dealing with stuff—but it's not one time, Conrad. It's every time. It's been every time for months."

She was pacing now, phone pressed to her ear, tears streaming down her face. The apartment was so small she could only take four steps before she hit the wall, had to turn around, pace back the other way.

"And the worst part is I can't even be mad at you properly because you're—you're struggling. Your mom was dealing with things. Med school is hard. I get it. I GET it. But I'm struggling too and you never—you didn't—"

She stopped. Tried to organize her thoughts. Failed.

"When's my birthday?"

"What? June 25th. Why—"

"And what did you do for it last year?"

Silence.

"You called me for seven minutes. Between shifts. You said you'd sent a gift but it got lost in the mail and you'd figure it out. You never figured it out." She wiped her face. "And I said it was fine. Because that's what I do. I say it's fine. Everything's always fine. I'm always fine."

"I know I've been—"

"And New Year's, when I was crying on the porch because you couldn't even—" She stopped. Backtracked. "Your brother. Your brother came to check on me. Not you. Jeremiah. Because you were inside doing whatever and I was falling apart and he was the one who—"

She couldn't finish that sentence. Didn't know how to finish it without making it worse.

"I know," Conrad said.

"You KNOW? That's—" She laughed again, that same broken sound. "You know. Great. Cool. So you knew I was miserable and you just... what? Hoped it would fix itself?"

"I didn't know how to fix it. I didn't know how to be what you needed."

"I needed you to TRY." Her voice cracked. "I just needed you to try. To ask me how I was doing. To put down your phone for five minutes. To act like being with me wasn't some—some obligation you had to get through."

"It wasn't—"

"It felt like it was. It felt like I was just another thing on your list. Check in with Belly. Send Belly a text. Make sure Isabel's not mad." She wiped her face with her sleeve. "I kept waiting for you to want to talk to me. Not because you had to. Because you wanted to. And you never—you just—"

She was crying too hard to talk now. Ugly crying, the kind she hated, the kind that made her feel like a mess.

"I'm sorry," she managed. "I don't—I don't know why I'm—I should be—you're the one ending things, I should be—"

"Belly. Stop apologizing."

"I can't help it. It's like—it's automatic. I don't even know I'm doing it half the time." She took a shaky breath. "God. I'm such a mess. This is—I'm not saying any of this right."

"You're saying it fine."

"I'm not. I had all these things I wanted to say if this ever happened and now I can't remember any of them and I'm just—crying and rambling and—"

"Belly." Quieter now. Sad. "You deserved better than what I gave you. I know that."

"Then why didn't you—" She stopped. "Sorry. I keep interrupting. You were saying something. Before. About therapy."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does. I want to know. I want to understand why you—why we—"

"Because I was broken," he said. "I've been broken since Mom got sick the second time. Maybe before that. And I didn't know how to tell you. I thought if I just kept going through the motions, eventually I'd feel it again. But I didn't. And the more you tried, the worse I felt, and I just—I shut down."

She was quiet for a while. Crying still, but quieter now. Outside, someone was playing music: French pop, something with a heavy beat that felt completely wrong for this moment.

"I wish you'd told me," she said finally. "I wish you'd just—said something. Instead of letting me think I was crazy for feeling like something was wrong."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I kept asking you if we were okay. And you kept saying yes. And I believed you because I wanted to believe you."

"I know."

"I'm really angry at you." The words came out small. Almost surprised, like she was just now realizing it. "I'm really, really angry. And I feel bad for being angry because you've had so much to deal with and I should be understanding but I'm just—I'm so mad, Conrad. I'm so mad and I don't know what to do with it."

"You're allowed to be mad."

"I'm sorry. I just—I don't do mad. I do sad. I do understanding. Mad is—" She wiped her face again. "This feels like losing a limb and being told to just walk it off."

"Stop apologizing."

"I can't. It's like a reflex." She laughed weakly. "You'd think after four years you'd have fixed that."

"I didn't want to fix you. You weren't broken."

"Weren't I?" She said it quietly. "Sometimes I feel like I don't even know who I am anymore. Like I've been so busy being your girlfriend that I forgot to be anything else."

Neither of them said anything. Six thousand miles between them.

"I'm glad you're in therapy," she said finally. "I mean that. I just wish—I wish you'd done it when we were still us."

"Me too."

"And I don't—" She took a breath. "I don't hate you. I want you to know that. I'm mad. I'm really mad. But I don't hate you."

"I don't hate you either. I couldn't."

"Okay." She didn't know what else to say. "Okay. I think I need to go. I need to—I don't know. Process this. Or something."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Be good to yourself, Conrad. Actually be good to yourself. Not just—going through the motions."

"You too, Belly."

She hung up. Set the phone face-down on the bed. Stared at the ceiling—at the way the streetlight outside cast shadows through her window, amber shapes that shifted every time a car passed.

Then she curled into a ball and cried.

But somewhere underneath the mess of it all—the anger and the grief and the embarrassment at how badly she'd handled that call—something else. Something lighter. A pressure she'd been carrying for so long she'd forgotten it wasn't supposed to be there.

She'd said it. Not perfectly. Not even close to perfectly. But she'd said something. Finally. After years of swallowing everything and pretending she was fine.

On her nightstand, the brass recipe card holder Jeremiah had given her sat empty, waiting. "For when you start collecting your own," he'd said. "Recipes, I mean. From all the places you go."

Maybe she'd start tomorrow. Find a recipe worth keeping.

Her knee ached. It always did when she cried hard, something about the tension she held in her body. She reached for the resistance band she kept by the bed, started the exercises her PT had drilled into her before she left. Quad sets, leg lifts, the boring maintenance work that kept everything stable.

At least this still works, she thought, watching her leg move through the familiar motions. At least I can still do this.

She kept going until her muscles burned. Then she kept going a little longer.

~*~

Sunday, February 2, 3:17am EST

Jeremiah's phone buzzed him awake.

He fumbled for it in the dark, heart slamming against his ribs before his eyes even focused on the screen. Conrad. Three in the morning.

Mom. Something happened to Mom.

The scan had been clear—six weeks ago now, the relief still fresh enough to taste—but his brain always went there first. Always would, probably. The fear had carved grooves into him during those weeks of waiting, paths his thoughts would follow automatically for the rest of his life.

"Hello? Con, what's wrong? Is Mom—"

"She's fine. Everyone's fine." Conrad's voice sounded strange. Hollow. "I just—I needed to tell you something."

Jeremiah sat up, reaching for the lamp. The room flooded with light: his small bedroom at the BEN house, clothes on the floor, textbooks he wasn't reading stacked on his desk. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the sleep fog loose.

"What's going on?"

"I broke up with Belly."

The words didn't register at first. Jeremiah sat there, phone pressed to his ear, brain struggling to catch up. Outside, a car passed, headlights briefly sweeping across his ceiling before disappearing.

"What?"

"Yesterday. Called her in Paris. It's over."

"I—what?" Something jittery in his chest. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Yeah."

"What happened?"

"You know I've been in therapy. Trying to figure out my shit." Conrad laughed—a short, humorless sound. "Turns out I have a lot of it."

"No kidding."

"She took it well. Better than I expected." A pause. "She said some things I needed to hear. Things I probably should have heard a long time ago."

Jeremiah didn't ask what things. Didn't want to know, not yet. His mind was racing, thoughts crashing into each other like waves—Belly, single. Belly, free. Belly, crying alone in Paris while his brother—

No. Stop.

Three weeks ago, he'd stood at the airport curb and watched her walk away. She'd said don't wait for me and he'd said then we'll figure it out and neither of them had said the thing they meant.

"If when I come back, and things are different, and we're both—if we're both free—"

"Then we'll figure it out."

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw stars.

Don't be that guy.

"I'm not calling to give you permission," Conrad said, like he could hear what Jeremiah was thinking. Like he'd always been able to read his brother better than Jeremiah wanted to admit. "I'm not—this isn't about you. Or her. It's about me finally being honest about something I should have faced years ago."

"I know."

"I just—you're my brother. And I needed to tell you."

And now Conrad was handing him this. This information. This opening.

He could say it. I have feelings for her. I've had feelings for her for years. Maybe my whole life. Conrad was giving him the space. Conrad probably already knew.

But that would make this about him. About his feelings. And Conrad was hurting—Jeremiah could hear it in the three-in-the-morning crack of his voice, the way he'd called instead of texted, the admission that he felt like shit. This was Conrad reaching out. Conrad being vulnerable.

Jeremiah couldn't make that about himself. Couldn't pile his own mess onto his brother's confession.

So he swallowed it. Like he always did. Tucked the truth somewhere deep where it couldn't hurt anyone but him.

"Are you really okay?" he asked instead.

"I don't know." Conrad's voice cracked slightly. "I feel like shit. And also... relieved? Which makes me feel like more shit."

"Yeah. That tracks."

"What do I do now?"

"I don't know, man." Jeremiah leaned back against the headboard, the wood cold against his bare shoulders. "Keep going to therapy, I guess. Figure your stuff out."

"That's helpful."

"I'm not exactly an expert on healthy coping mechanisms." He tried to make it land like a joke, but his voice didn't cooperate.

Conrad almost laughed. "Right."

They sat in silence for a moment. Jeremiah could hear his brother breathing on the other end—three thousand miles away, probably in his cramped Stanford apartment, staring at the same dark ceiling. For a second, it felt like they were kids again, sharing a room at Cousins, lying in their bunk beds and talking about nothing until their mom told them to go to sleep.

"Con?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for telling me."

"Yeah." A pause. "I'll talk to you later."

"Later."

The line went dead.

Jeremiah sat there for a long time, phone in his hand, staring at nothing. The streetlight outside his window cast a thin stripe of orange across his floor. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked. Someone getting up to use the bathroom.

Belly was single.

The thought kept circling back, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. Belly was single. After four years with Conrad. After everything.

"This isn't nothing. Not for me."

The words she'd said the night before she left. The words that had been sitting in his chest ever since, waiting for permission to mean something.

No secrets, remember?

The phrase surfaced from somewhere deep. Something they used to say to each other, when it was just the two of them.

He set the phone down. Lay back on the bed. Stared at the ceiling until his eyes burned.

She was an ocean away. She'd gotten out of a relationship with his brother. The last thing she needed was him making things complicated.

He was going to focus on his own shit. The restaurant. The job that made him feel like he was building something instead of treading water. Wednesday dinners with his mom—still happening, still sacred, emptier now without Belly curled up in the corner of the couch stealing bites off his plate.

He was going to be her friend. That was it. That was all he could be right now.

His phone buzzed. A text this time.

Belly: Can't sleep. Conrad and I broke up.

He stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

I know, he typed. Deleted it. Too cold.

I'm so sorry. Deleted. Too distant.

I've been thinking about you all night. Deleted immediately. Jesus. Get a grip.

I just heard. He stared at it. Added: Are you okay?

Three dots. Then:

Belly: I don't know. I think so? It's strange.

Jeremiah: Yeah. That's one word for it.

Belly: I'm sorry if this makes things awkward. With you and him.

Jeremiah: It won't. We're good. Brothers, you know?

Belly: Yeah.

A pause. Then:

Belly: I'm glad I can talk to you. Even from here.

He could almost hear her voice saying it. That soft, uncertain tone she got when she was being honest about something vulnerable. The way she used to look at him, before things got complicated, when they were just them.

He typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:

Jeremiah: Get some sleep, Bells. We'll talk soon.

Belly: Okay. Goodnight, Jere.

Jeremiah: Goodnight.

He put the phone on the nightstand and rolled over. Didn't sleep for another two hours.

~*~

Tuesday, February 4

The bag got stolen on a Tuesday.

Belly had been in Paris for three weeks. Long enough to find a favorite bakery on the corner, a decent laundromat two blocks over, a café where the barista remembered her order and sometimes gave her an extra shot of espresso without charging. Long enough to almost feel like she belonged.

Then some asshole on a motorbike grabbed her purse right off her shoulder.

She stood on the sidewalk for a full minute, frozen, brain refusing to process what had happened. Her wallet was in there. Her ID. Her phone. Thank God she'd been holding her phone, scrolling through Instagram like an idiot when it happened.

She didn't think. She ran.

Her knee screamed at her—the old injury flaring with the sudden sprint—but adrenaline drowned it out. The motorbike had slowed at the corner, stuck behind a delivery truck. She was gaining on them.

You're being stupid. You're being so stupid. Stop.

She didn't stop.

The guy in back—the one holding her bag—turned and saw her coming. His eyes went wide. He said something to the driver, who gunned the engine, but the truck was still blocking them.

Belly didn't know what she was going to do until she did it.

She grabbed the bag strap with one hand and drove her knee up—hard—into the guy's side. Not a real drop kick, not like in the movies, but enough to knock him off balance. He yelped, let go, and suddenly she was stumbling backward with her bag clutched to her chest as the motorbike finally cleared the truck and sped away.

She stood there, panting, pulse loud in her ears. Her knee was throbbing. Adrenaline buzzed through her like static. A woman across the street was staring at her with her mouth open.

What the fuck did I just do?

Then she started laughing. Hysterical, breathless laughter that made the woman across the street look even more concerned.

She'd chased down a thief. She'd kicked him. She'd gotten her bag back.

"You're the main character, Belly. Not her."

Jeremiah had said that to her once. Years ago, during a driving lesson when she'd been complaining about Taylor. She'd been so startled. Nobody had ever said that to her before. Like it was obvious. Like she should have known.

Maybe she was finally starting to believe it.

~*~

She found the café on accident.

Her knee was killing her—she'd definitely pushed it too far—and she needed to sit down, needed to process what had happened. The first place she saw was a small bar tucked into a side street, warm light spilling through the windows, a chalkboard sign advertising vin chaud and coffee.

She pushed through the door. Collapsed into a chair by the window.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

British accent. A woman, maybe mid-twenties, with dark skin and box braids pulled back from her face. She was sitting at the next table with a sketchbook open in front of her, charcoal smudged on her fingers.

"Someone stole my bag," Belly said. "I got it back."

"You got it back?" The woman raised an eyebrow. "How?"

"I chased them down and kicked the guy until he let go."

She stared at Belly for a long moment. Then she burst out laughing.

"That's either very brave or very reckless."

"Probably both."

"I like you." She flagged down the bartender. "Two glasses of whatever red you have open. She needs it."

The bartender, French, with short dark hair and a silver nose ring, glanced at Belly with cool assessment. She didn't smile.

"You're the one causing a scene outside?"

"I wasn't—there wasn't a scene—"

"My friend saw you from the window. Said you mauled a man on a motorbike."

"I didn't maul—it was more of a knee—"

"Celine, leave her alone," the woman with the sketchbook said. "She just got robbed."

Celine set two glasses of wine on the table. Still not smiling, but the edge in her voice had softened. "On the house. For the entertainment."

"Thanks," Belly managed.

"I'm Gemma." The woman slid one glass toward her. "That's Celine—she manages this place."

"I work here," Celine corrected flatly. "There's a difference." She looked at Belly. "What's your name?"

"Belly."

"That a nickname?"

"Yeah. My real name is Isabel, but—"

"Isabel?"

She turned. And there, pushing through the door with a look of alarm, was Benito.

"Isabel!" He crossed the bar in three strides, taking in the scene—the bag clutched in her hands, her wild expression, the wine Gemma had ordered. "Are you okay? Someone outside said an American girl chased down thieves on Rue Oberkampf—" His eyes went wide. "Dios mío, that was YOU?"

"Small world," Belly managed.

"Small world? You tracked down your stolen bag and mauled a man." He made a kicking motion. "Isabel. That is either very brave or very insane."

"That's what I said," Gemma cut in. "Pack it in, Benny. You two know each other?"

"We met at my usual café." Benito slid into the chair next to Belly, still looking at her like she'd grown a second head. "Last week. She was sad and pretending to read. I showed her where to get good falafel. Marc says I adopt strays." He grinned. "I told him she had potential."

"I wasn't a stray. Until about ten minutes ago."

More people filtered in over the next hour—Max, Gemma's girlfriend, with paint-stained fingers and a quiet intensity. She didn't say much, but when she did, it landed. "Didn't you think that was dangerous, though?" she asked, studying Belly. "Going after them alone?"

"I didn't think at all," Belly admitted. "I just... did it."

Max nodded slowly, like that answer meant something to her.

Word had spread about the crazy American, and everyone wanted to hear the story. Belly told it three times, each version a little more dramatic than the last. By the third telling, Gemma was adding sound effects and Benito was doing a dramatic reenactment of the thief's face when Belly's knee connected.

Celine watched from behind the bar, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But when Belly caught her eye, she gave a small nod. Almost like approval.

"You're lucky," Celine said when Belly went up to pay (Gemma had insisted, but Belly wanted to leave a tip). "Paris eats girls like you for breakfast. The ones who think being brave is the same as being smart."

"I know." Belly met her eyes. "But I'm tired of being the girl who sits still and waits for things to happen to her."

Celine studied her for a long moment. The corner of her mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close.

"Maybe you'll survive here after all," she said. "We'll see."

~*~

The café was small and warm, tucked into a side street near Celine's bar. They'd migrated there around 2am, when Celine's shift ended and the bar got too crowded.

Belly sat in the corner booth, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that had long gone cold, and finished her story.

"—so yeah. Four years together. And then he called from California and told me he wasn't in love with me anymore. And I—" She laughed, a little hysterical. "I told him off. Finally. Said things I'd been swallowing for years. Didn't even recognize my own voice."

The table was quiet.

"And then I got my bag stolen," she added. "So. Great week."

"What about the volleyball thing?" Max asked. She'd been listening intently the whole time, barely touching her wine. "You mentioned surgery."

"ACL tear. Last August." Belly touched her knee automatically—she did that sometimes, checking it was still there, still holding together. "I was supposed to be team captain this year. Had a real shot at playing professionally, maybe. And then one bad landing and—" She shrugged. "Now I do physical therapy three times a week and hope I can play at all next season."

"You came to Paris mid-recovery?" Gemma's eyebrows went up. "That takes nerve."

"My PT cleared me before I left. I have exercises I do every day. And there's a sports medicine clinic near my apartment that I can go to if anything feels wrong." She'd done her research—hours of it, making sure she wouldn't destroy her recovery by spending a semester abroad. "But yeah. Maybe a little reckless."

"I like reckless," Benito said. "Interesante."

"Can I say something?" He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "As your friend? Because we're friends now, you don't get a choice. Marc says I adopt strays—you're officially adopted."

"Go ahead."

"You made yourself small so he could take up all the space. And it sounds like nobody ever asked you to. You did it automatically."

It landed like a punch. Because he was right. She'd been doing it for years—not just with Conrad, but with everyone. Being the easy one. The accommodating one. The girl who said "whatever you want" because figuring out what she wanted felt like too much work.

The apology hovered, automatic. She caught it.

Swallowed it.

Not today.

"I don't know when I stopped having opinions," she said.

Celine set down her phone. She'd been texting someone, probably closing out bar business, but now she looked directly at Belly.

"You're not stuck, American girl. Not yet. You have time. You have choices. Don't waste them waiting for someone else to tell you what to do with your life."

Belly felt tears prick at her eyes.

"Thank you," she said. "For—I don't know. Everything."

"Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen me at 6am when someone's vomited on the bar." But Celine was almost smiling now. "We'll see if you're still grateful then."

"Good." Benito stood, pulling on his jacket. "Now. It's 3am, you've had a very long night, and I'm walking you home. No arguments."

"I can—"

"No arguments," Gemma echoed. "He lives near you anyway. And you got your bag stolen, so."

"Let people help, Isabel," Max added quietly.

Belly looked at Benito. He shrugged.

"I'm a gentleman. Marc will vouch for me."

"Tell him I say hi." Belly took his arm. "Lead the way, gentleman."

"See? This is why we adopted you." He steered her toward the door. "Come on, bag girl. Let's get you home."

~*~

Saturday, February 8

Denise slid the brochure across the table like she was dealing cards.

"What's this?" Jeremiah asked, even though he could see perfectly well what it was. Boston Culinary Institute in gold lettering. A photo of someone plating an elaborate dish.

"Your future." Denise flagged down the waiter. "Two coffees, black. And whatever muffin looks the least stale. Thanks."

They were at their usual spot: a cheap Thai place near campus that did terrible pad thai but amazing coffee. It had become their thing since Belly left, these Wednesday lunches where Denise told him he was being an idiot about various aspects of his life and he pretended not to listen.

"I'm not going to culinary school."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm getting a business degree. I have one semester left. My dad would—"

"Your dad would what? Disown you?" Denise's eyebrow went up. "He basically already has. When's the last time he actually showed up for anything?"

Jeremiah didn't answer. The coffee arrived and he wrapped his hands around the mug, grateful for the distraction.

"Look," Denise said, her voice softening. "Steven told me about the bread thing."

"What bread thing?"

"You made croissants last week. From scratch. Laminated dough, forty-seven layers, the whole deal."

"It's just a hobby."

"Bullshit." She leaned forward. "I've watched you at those Wednesday dinners. I've seen your face when you're cooking. That's not a hobby. That's—that's the thing, Jere. The thing you're supposed to be doing."

He looked at the brochure. Thought about the restaurant—Saltline, where he'd been picking up shifts since last month. The way the kitchen felt like a living thing, everyone moving in sync, the sizzle of pans and the shout of orders and the exhaustion that settled into his muscles and somehow felt earned.

"Just look at it," Denise said. "That's all I'm asking. They have an open house next month. Go. See how it feels."

"And if it feels like a pipe dream?"

"Then you'll know." She shrugged. "But I don't think it will."

He tucked the brochure into his jacket. Didn't promise anything.

But he didn't throw it away, either.

~*~

Friday, February 14

Belly woke up alone in her tiny apartment and felt... nothing. Not sad. Not relieved. Just empty in a way that wasn't unpleasant.

The first Valentine's Day single since she was seventeen.

She'd been dreading it for days, bracing for impact. But now that it was here, it felt anticlimactic. Just another Friday.

Benito texted early: Marc and I are doing dinner. You should come. Third wheel is a respected position in our relationship.

She smiled. Typed back: Thank you but I think I need the alone time. Rain check?

Always. Text if you change your mind.

She went to class instead. Her morning seminar on Impressionist influence, the one taught by Professor Moreau, a severe woman in her sixties who intimidated everyone and had somehow taken an interest in Belly's work.

"Your analysis of the Morisot pieces was excellent," Professor Moreau said after class, stopping Belly as she was packing up her notebook. "You have an eye for the subtleties most students miss."

"Thank you." Belly felt her face flush. "I just—I love her work. The way she captures intimacy."

"Have you considered graduate studies? There's a program at the Sorbonne. Art history with a focus on women in Impressionism. I could put you in touch with the director if you're interested."

Belly blinked. "I—I hadn't thought about it."

"Think about it." Professor Moreau nodded once, then swept out of the room.

Belly stood there for a moment, notebook clutched to her chest. Graduate school. In Paris. It had never occurred to her as an option—she'd always assumed she'd go back after this semester, finish her degree at Finch, figure out the next step later.

But what if the next step was already here?

She let the idea sit there. Nobody had ever looked at her work and seen a future in it—not her advisor at Finch, not Conrad, not even her mom. Professor Moreau had said it like it was obvious.

~*~

The restaurant was too nice for Jeremiah's comfort level: cloth napkins, wine list longer than the menu, prices without dollar signs.

Not that he was paying—Taylor had picked it, Steven was covering the bill, and Jeremiah had been informed rather than invited that he was coming. "You can't spend Valentine's Day alone being sad," Taylor had texted. "That's pathetic. We're going to be pathetic together, as a group."

So here he was. Fifth wheel at a four-top. Steven and Taylor on one side, Denise and her date, some guy from her coding bootcamp named Kevin, on the other. Jeremiah sat at the head of the table like the world's most uncomfortable chaperone.

Kevin was explaining blockchain for the third time. Jeremiah watched Denise's smile go tight at the corners—the same way it used to when Steven would talk about fantasy football stats for too long. Her hand wasn't anywhere near Kevin's on the table. She kept angling her body toward the group instead of toward him.

This won't last the month, Jeremiah thought. He didn't say anything. Wasn't his place.

"You're staring at the breadbasket like it owes you money," Denise said.

"I'm critiquing the butter pats. They're uneven."

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

His phone buzzed. He glanced at it automatically, expecting nothing.

Belly: Happy Valentine's Day. Miss you.

His face must have done something, because Steven looked up from his menu.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Dude." Steven's expression shifted. "Is that Belly?"

"It's nothing. Just—she said happy Valentine's Day."

Taylor leaned over. "Awww. That's cute."

"It's not cute. It's a text."

"It's cute that you're blushing about a text."

"I'm not blushing."

"You're so blushing," Denise said. "You're like a tomato. A lovesick tomato."

"I hate all of you."

But he was smiling as he typed back:

Jeremiah: Happy Valentine's Day, Bells. Miss you too.

He hit send before he could overthink it. Then immediately overthought it. Miss you too was fine. Normal. Friends said that. It didn't mean anything.

Belly: How's Boston?

Jeremiah: Cold. Depressing. Currently trapped at dinner with two couples and Denise's terrible date.

Belly: Lol. Kevin?

Jeremiah: He keeps talking about cryptocurrency.

Belly: Run.

Jeremiah: Can't. Steven's paying. I'm trapped.

Belly: A noble sacrifice.

He was grinning at his phone like a dumbass when he looked up and found the entire table watching him.

"What?"

"You're so fucked, man," Steven said.

"Yeah." Jeremiah pocketed his phone, tried to stop smiling, failed. "I know."

~*~

Saturday, February 22

The community college classroom smelled like industrial cleaner and old onions.

Denise's brochure was still sitting on his desk at home: culinary school, the real thing, two years and more money than he had. But she'd also sent him a link to this: an eight-week fundamentals course at the community college. Start small, she'd texted. See if you hate it.

He didn't hate it.

The schedule was brutal, but somehow it was working. Natatorium shifts Monday through Thursday—the hours kept him grounded; he'd swim after closing sometimes, just him and the empty pool and the echo of water against tile, letting the laps quiet whatever was buzzing in his head. Fridays and Saturdays at Saltline, where Dante ran the kitchen like a general—sharp, funny, zero tolerance for bullshit. "You're not chopping onions, Fisher, you're murdering them. Respect the ingredient." Jeremiah was learning more in two months of prep work than he had in years of cooking at home. Even the frat stuff had gotten easier—Redbird had stepped up as social chair, texting Jeremiah updates on end-of-year events with increasingly unhinged enthusiasm. (JERE. FOAM PARTY CONFIRMED. I MIGHT CRY.)

And then there were his classes. Still grinding through the business degree—one semester left until he could finally be done. The material was dry as dust and he'd never love it, but he'd finish. His mom wanted him to have the degree. So he'd have the degree.

Jeremiah stood at his assigned station, a small metal counter with a worn cutting board and a knife that had seen better days, and tried not to feel like he was too old for this. Most of the other students were his age or older, people looking for a hobby or a career change, but it still felt strange. Like he was admitting something he hadn't been ready to say out loud.

I want this.

The instructor was a short woman named Chef Rosario with silver hair and forearms like a longshoreman. She'd been cooking professionally for forty years and had the scars to prove it.

"Knife skills first," she announced. "You can't build a house without a foundation. Same with cooking."

She demonstrated the basic cuts: brunoise, julienne, chiffonade. Her hands moved so fast Jeremiah could barely track them. Then she set them loose on their own ingredients.

Jeremiah picked up his knife. It wasn't as nice as the ones at home, wasn't as nice as the blade his grandmother—Halmoni—had given him, but it would do. He started on the onion, falling into the rhythm automatically. Tuck the fingers. Let the knife rock. Consistent thickness.

Halfway through, he realized Chef Rosario was watching him.

"You've done this before," she said.

"My mom taught me. And my—my grandmother."

"They taught you well." She picked up one of his onion slices, examined it. "Your technique is solid. Natural. How long have you been cooking?"

"Since I was a kid. My mom was sick for a while, and I just—someone had to make sure she ate."

A memory surfaced: two in the morning, his mom shuffling into the kitchen in her robe, looking frail and pale but awake. Hungry, she'd said, surprised by it herself. He'd made cheeseburgers. The most elaborate ones he could manage at fourteen, caramelized onions and special sauce and cheese melted just right. She'd eaten the whole thing. Laughed at something he said. For twenty minutes, she wasn't sick. She was just his mom, eating a burger her son made her.

That was when he got it. What food could do. What he could do.

Rosario's expression shifted—recognition, maybe. "And now?"

"Now I work at a restaurant. Prep mostly. But I want to learn more."

"Why?"

The question caught him off guard. He thought about it—really thought about it, maybe for the first time out loud.

"Because when I'm cooking, everything else goes quiet. All the noise in my head. It's just—me and the food and the moment. And at the end, there's something real. Something I made. Something that matters, even if it's just for an hour."

Rosario studied him. Then she nodded, once.

"You're a natural," she said. "Don't waste it."

She moved on to the next student. Jeremiah stood there, knife in hand, a feeling rising in him that he didn't have a name for yet.

You're a natural.

Second person to say it. Maybe it was time to start listening.

~*~

Wednesday, February 26

The Fisher house was quiet when Jeremiah arrived.

Nine weeks since the scan came back clear. Nine weeks since the fear that had been choking him finally let go. His mom looked good. Really good, not just performing-good. She was painting again, teaching her Saturday classes, making plans for spring like she believed she'd be there to see it.

Susannah was in the kitchen when he walked in, wearing her old painting smock, hair pulled back with a silk scarf. There was a streak of blue across her cheek that she'd clearly missed when washing up.

"You have paint on your face."

"Do I?" She touched her cheek, smiled. "I was trying a new technique this morning. Palette knife instead of brushes. Very aggressive."

"Did it work?"

"Ask me next week." She pulled him into a hug—the way she always did, like she meant it. Like she was storing it up. "What are we making tonight?"

Wednesday dinners. Their thing. Even when Belly had been here—stealing bites, falling asleep on his shoulder—it had always been about him and his mom first. The cooking. The talking. The way she saw right through his bullshit and loved him anyway.

It was strange, being here without Belly. The kitchen felt too big. The chair where she used to sit—feet tucked under her, critiquing his knife work—seemed deliberately empty.

"I thought I'd try something new," he said, pushing past it. "That seafood stew Dante taught me. If you're up for it."

"Always."

He started pulling ingredients from the bag he'd brought—mussels, clams, shrimp. A good piece of halibut. Saffron, which had cost more than he wanted to think about.

As he passed his mom to reach the cutting board, his hand found her shoulder automatically. Squeezed once. He didn't even think about it—the way he moved through space, always reaching for the people he loved, always needing that physical confirmation that they were real and solid and here.

"Can I tell you something?" he said, not looking at her. "Something I've never said out loud?"

"Of course, baby."

"I used to think—" He stopped. Started the saffron blooming in warm water, buying himself time. "When I was a kid, I thought if I could just be good enough at one thing, people would see me. Not as Conrad's brother. Just as me."

Susannah was quiet. Waiting.

"And I tried everything. Swimming, football, being funny, being easy to be around. But Conrad was always—" He shrugged. "Better. Smarter. More interesting. The one everyone paid attention to."

"Jere—"

"I'm not saying this for sympathy. I'm saying it because—" He finally looked at her. "Cooking is the first thing that's ever felt like mine. Not something I'm doing to compete or to be noticed. Just something I love. And I think I've been scared to take it seriously because what if I'm not actually good? What if it's just another thing I'm mediocre at?"

Susannah crossed the kitchen. Took his face in her hands the way she used to when he was small and scraped his knee or lost a game.

"You listen to me," she said. "You have never been mediocre at anything. You have been invisible, which is different. Because you made yourself that way. You decided a long time ago that being easy was safer than being seen."

He had to swallow twice before he could breathe.

"But you're not invisible, Jeremiah. You never were. Not to me. And not to anyone who's been paying attention."

He didn't trust himself to speak. Just nodded. Let her pull him into a hug.

When she let go, she was smiling. "Now. Teach me how to make this stew. And don't go easy on me—I want the full chef experience."

He laughed, surprised. "You sure about that?"

"I've survived cancer twice. I can handle a little kitchen criticism."

They worked together in easy silence for a while. Susannah picked up a mussel, examining it. "You know, when you were little, you used to pretend the kitchen was your restaurant. Made me and your father sit at the table and order from a menu you'd drawn in crayon."

"I don't remember that."

"You were four. Conrad used to be your 'customer complaint' because he'd always send things back. 'Make it again.' You'd get so frustrated."

He could almost see it—all four of them together in a kitchen, before everything went wrong. Before the diagnosis and the treatment and the long silences. Before Belly. Before the wedding that wasn't. Just a four-year-old with crayons and a big brother who always wanted things to be perfect.

He had to look away for a second.

"The community class instructor said I was a natural," he said. Tried to sound casual about it. Failed.

"Of course you are." She cupped his cheek the way she used to when he was small. "My darling boy. That's all I've ever wanted for you—to find something that makes you happy."

"Denise gave me a brochure. For culinary school."

"And?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Then maybe." She squeezed his arm. "This is your life, Jere. Your decision. The business degree will still be there. Your father doesn't get a vote."

The words wouldn't come. So he didn't say anything—fell into the rhythm of the work.

By the time the stew was ready, the kitchen smelled like the ocean and garlic and something almost like peace.

"She's doing okay, by the way," Susannah said eventually. "Isabel. In case you were wondering."

Jeremiah's fork stilled.

"Conrad told me about the breakup. I called her—we talked for almost an hour." Susannah's eyes were soft. "She sounded different. Lighter, maybe. Sad, but lighter."

Jeremiah kept his eyes on his plate.

"I'm not pushing. I know it's complicated. But whatever happens, I just want you both to be happy."

"Mom—"

"I'm not saying anything else. Just that." She reached over, squeezed his hand. "Now tell me more about this Dante person. He sounds like a character."

He let her change the subject. Let himself fall into the easy rhythm of describing the kitchen at Saltline—the organized mayhem, the way everyone had their role, the strange family you became with people you worked alongside in that kind of pressure.

But underneath it all, he was thinking about Belly. Six thousand miles away, learning to take up space again.

He hoped she was okay. He hoped she was more than okay.

He hoped—

But that was a thought he didn't let himself finish.

~*~

Tuesday, March 4

Belly stood in front of her easel in figure drawing class, charcoal in hand, and finally felt like she was getting somewhere.

Three hours every Tuesday night. She'd signed up on impulse back in January—seen a flyer at the Beaux-Arts and forced herself to go before she could talk herself out of it. Six weeks later, it had become the anchor of her week. Gemma had started coming with her after the third session, claiming she needed "something that wasn't architecture," but Belly suspected she liked the free wine afterward. The model tonight was an older woman with silver hair and remarkable bone structure, and Belly was trying to capture the way the light fell across her collarbone.

Her knee was stiff from sitting so long. It always got that way when she didn't move enough. But the sports medicine clinic had cleared her for light volleyball drills last week. She'd found a rec league that practiced Sunday mornings, nothing competitive, people who wanted to hit a ball around. It wasn't the same as playing for Finch, wasn't the same as being team captain, but it was something. A way back.

"Good," the instructor said, pausing behind her. "You're not thinking so much anymore. You're seeing."

Belly wasn't sure what that meant, but it felt like progress.

After class, she walked home through the Marais, past the galleries and the cafés and the couples walking hand in hand. Valentine's Day was two weeks gone but Paris was still Paris—aggressively romantic, relentlessly beautiful, the kind of city that made you feel things whether you wanted to or not.

She'd been here almost two months now. Long enough that it was starting to feel like home. Long enough that she'd stopped thinking of herself as a visitor and started thinking of herself as someone who lived here, at least for now.

Her phone buzzed. A voice memo this time, not a text. Jeremiah had started sending them after she'd mentioned missing the sound of familiar voices. Thirty seconds of him rambling while he prepped for his shift, background clatter of the kitchen behind him.

"Hey Bells. Just wanted to say hope class went well. Dante let me plate a dish for actual service tonight. Like, for real customers. I think I blacked out a little. Anyway. Talk later. Miss you."

She played it twice. The second time to hear the way he said miss you—casual, thrown in at the end like it was nothing, except she knew him well enough to know it wasn't nothing.

She started to type a response. Deleted it. Started again.

I miss you too. More than I should probably admit.

Her thumb hovered over send. Then she deleted the whole thing and typed something safer instead:

Belly: Real customers?? Jere that's huge. Proud of you.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Jeremiah: How was class?

They texted every day now. Nothing deep. Small things. How was your shift, how was your day, the mundane back-and-forth of people trying to stay connected across an ocean. She kept reaching for her phone automatically, wanting to tell him things before she told anyone else.

The strange part was how seen she felt. Conrad had known her since she was a kid, but Jeremiah—Jeremiah remembered things. The way she liked her coffee. The face she made when she was pretending to be fine. The difference between her real laugh and her polite one. He'd noticed her when she thought she was invisible, paid attention when she thought no one was watching.

They used to play at reading each other's minds when they were kids—she'd been convinced it was real, some psychic connection between them. Later she learned he'd been paying attention. Learning her face. It stopped mattering which one it was.

He didn't just know the girl I used to be, she thought. He knows the right-now me.

She let that sit. Didn't poke at it. Just let it be true.

She snapped a photo of her charcoal-covered hands and sent it.

Belly: Productive. My hands look like I've been mining coal.

Jeremiah: Very sexy.

Belly: You're ridiculous.

Jeremiah: You love it.

She did. That was the problem.

She tucked the phone away and kept walking. Passed a bakery that was closing, the smell of fresh bread wafting out. On impulse, she stopped.

"Excusez-moi—do you have any recipes? For the bread?"

The baker—a middle-aged woman with flour in her hair—looked amused. "The bread is simple. Flour, water, salt, time. The recipe is patience."

"Can I watch you make it sometime?"

The woman studied her. The smell of yeast and warm dough hung thick in the air between them. Whatever she saw in Belly's face made her nod.

"Come back Tuesday. Six in the morning. I'll show you."

Belly walked home smiling. Pulled out the brass recipe card holder Jeremiah had given her. Picked up a pen.

French bakery bread, she wrote. Flour, water, salt, time.

She paused. Looked at the empty space on the card. Then added:

Recipe is patience.

The ink was still wet when she set it in the holder. First card. First recipe. First thing that was just hers.

~*~

Jeremiah couldn't sleep.

He'd crashed at Steven's apartment after his shift at Saltline ran late. Easier than driving back to the BEN house at midnight. Jeremiah had the couch, a blanket that was too short, and a brain that wouldn't shut up.

Around 1:30, he gave up. Padded to the kitchen to raid the fridge.

Steven was already there, laptop open on the counter, rubbing his eyes.

"Hey." Jeremiah grabbed a beer. "Thought you'd be asleep."

"Can't." Steven gestured at the screen. "Denise sent over the new pitch deck. We've got a meeting with a seed investor next week and I keep finding shit that's wrong."

"The restaurant software thing?"

"Yeah." Steven closed the laptop, grabbed a beer of his own. "I'm juggling your dad's stuff during the day, this at night. Eventually I gotta pick one."

"What does Denise think?"

"Denise thinks I should quit Breaker tomorrow and go all in." He popped the cap. "Easy for her to say. She's not the one who'd have to look Adam Fisher in the eye and tell him I'm leaving to build something that might fail."

Jeremiah leaned against the counter. "For what it's worth, I think the app's good. Dante's been letting me test some of the inventory features. He says it's 'not terrible,' which from him is a glowing endorsement."

Steven snorted. "I'll take it."

"I'm serious. The kitchen stuff makes sense. And you and Denise are smart. If anyone can make it work—"

"Yeah, well. 'If' is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence." Steven took a long drink. Then, quieter: "Heard about Conrad and Belly."

Jeremiah's hand tightened on his beer. "Yeah."

"How's she doing?"

"Okay, I think. We've been texting."

Steven was quiet for a moment. Jeremiah could see him working through something—the weird position of being Conrad's best friend and Belly's brother, of having watched this whole mess unfold from multiple angles.

"She's in Paris," Steven said finally. "Figuring her shit out. And you're here, figuring yours out. That's probably how it should be right now."

It wasn't a warning, exactly. But it wasn't not one either.

"I know." Jeremiah set down his beer. "I'm not gonna—I'm not that guy, Steven. She just got hurt by my brother. The last thing she needs is me making it complicated."

"I know you're not." Steven met his eyes. "That's why I'm not worried. Just—she's my little sister, you know? I watched her shrink herself for Conrad. For years. Adjusting, accommodating, making herself smaller so he could take up space." He shook his head. "I love the guy. He's my best friend. But he wasn't good to her at the end, and she deserves time to figure out who she is without a Fisher brother in the picture."

The phrase landed. Another Fisher brother.

"Neither do I," Jeremiah said. "Want to watch her do that again. With anyone."

Steven's shoulders dropped a little. Respect, maybe. Or relief.

"So what's your plan?"

"Wait," Jeremiah said. "Focus on my own shit. See what happens. If anything."

Steven looked at him.

"That's... actually mature."

"Why does everyone keep saying that like it's a miracle?"

"Because it is." But Steven was almost smiling. "Look at us. Two guys with complicated shit, drinking beer at 2am, pretending we have our lives together."

"We're crushing it."

"Absolutely nailing adulthood." Steven raised his bottle. "To figuring it out. Eventually."

Jeremiah clinked his beer against Steven's. "Eventually."

They drank in silence for a minute. Then Steven closed his laptop fully, like he was putting something away.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I think you should go for the culinary thing. Properly. Not just Saltline—school, the whole deal."

"That's a big leap."

"So's quitting Breaker to build an app." Steven shrugged. "Maybe we're both idiots. But at least we'd be idiots doing something we actually give a shit about."

Jeremiah thought about that. About Dante letting him plate for real customers. About Chef Rosario saying you're a natural. About his mom's face when he told her he wanted to take cooking seriously.

"Maybe," he said.

"Think about it." Steven stood, stretched. "I'm gonna try to sleep. You good on the couch?"

"Yeah. Thanks for letting me crash."

"Anytime." Steven paused in the doorway. "It's gonna be okay, Jere. All of it. The girl stuff, the career stuff. Eventually it all shakes out."

"You sound pretty sure."

"I'm not. But saying it out loud helps." He grinned. "Night, Fisher."

"Night, Steve-o."

Steven headed back to his room. Jeremiah sat there for a while, staring at his beer, thinking about leaps and timing and all the ways life could go sideways or right.

Eventually, he went back to the couch. Stared at Steven's ceiling until sleep finally came.

~*~

Stanford

"You're deflecting again."

Conrad's shoulders stiffened. "I'm not deflecting. I'm answering your question."

"You're answering a different question." Dr. Okonkwo's expression didn't change—it never did. "I asked how you felt about ending the relationship. You told me about her study abroad program."

He stood up. Paced to the window. The quad was empty. March break, most students gone.

"I did the right thing," he said. "I was honest with her. That's what you wanted, right? For me to stop going through the motions?"

"Who are you angry at right now?"

"I'm not angry."

"Your hands are shaking."

He looked down. She was right. He shoved them in his pockets.

"I'm angry at—" He stopped. Started again. "At myself. For being like this. For watching my mom almost die twice and learning nothing except how to shut down." His voice cracked. "At my father. For teaching me that running was an option. And at Belly. Which I know isn't fair. But she wanted things I couldn't give her."

Dr. Okonkwo nodded slowly. "That's the most honest thing you've said in six sessions."

He looked down at his lap. At the hands that were supposed to be steady. That would need to be steady, if he was going to cut people open for a living.

"You want to know something terrible?" he said. "I don't know what her favorite meal is anymore. Belly. We've been together four years and I couldn't tell you what she orders at restaurants, what she cooks when she's sad, what she'd want for her birthday dinner." He laughed, but it came out wrong. "Jeremiah would know. He'd probably know what she ate for breakfast this morning. What that says about me—" He stopped. "I don't want to finish that sentence."

Dr. Okonkwo was quiet. Letting it land.

"That's not who I wanted to be," he said. "But it's who I became."

"What would it take to become someone different?"

"I don't know." He looked up at her. "Maybe that's why I'm here."

~*~

He left the session feeling scraped raw. Walked back to his apartment in the gray March afternoon, past the empty dorms and the coffee shop where he and Agnes studied.

Spring break started Friday. Most of his classmates were planning trips: Cabo, skiing, anywhere that wasn't here. Agnes had invited him to visit her family in Seattle, but he'd said no. Too soon.

He texted his mom instead.

Conrad: Spring break starts Friday. Would it be okay if I came home?

The response came almost immediately.

Mom: Baby. You never have to ask. Of course you can come home.

Mom: Is everything okay?

He looked at the screen. Typed and deleted three different responses.

Conrad: I just miss you. Is that okay?

Mom: That's more than okay. I'll make up your room.

Mom: I love you, Conrad.

Conrad: Love you too, Mom.

He set the phone down. Stared at the ceiling.

Not relief, exactly. Permission, maybe.

~*~

Friday, March 7

Susannah heard the car pull up and was at the door before Conrad even made it to the porch.

"Baby." She pulled him into a hug—the kind that lasted too long, the kind he usually pulled away from. This time, he didn't. Just stood there, face pressed into her shoulder, breathing in the familiar smell of turpentine and lavender.

"Hi, Mom."

"You look exhausted."

"Thanks. Very maternal."

"I'm your mother. I'm allowed to say you look like you haven't slept in a week." She pulled back, studied his face. "Have you slept in a week?"

"Define 'slept.'"

"Conrad."

"I'm fine. I'm just—" He exhaled. "Tired. Really tired."

She took his bag from him, led him inside. The house was warm, smelled like something baking. Bread, maybe. Probably Jeremiah's influence; he'd been teaching her.

"Jere's at work," Susannah said. "He'll be home for dinner. I thought we could order from that Italian place you like."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." She set his bag at the base of the stairs. "Come sit with me. Tell me what's going on."

"Mom—"

"I know about Belly. Jeremiah told me." She reached for his hand. "I'm not asking because I don't know. I'm asking because I want to hear it from you."

Conrad stood in the hallway, suddenly feeling like he was sixteen again—caught between wanting to pretend everything was fine and desperately needing someone to tell him it would be okay.

"I ended it," he said. "A month ago. And I know it was the right thing. But I feel like—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I feel like I broke something. Not just us. Something in me."

Susannah crossed to him. Put her hands on his face, the way she used to when he was small.

"You didn't break anything," she said. "You're just finally letting yourself feel the things you've been running from."

"Is that what this is?"

"I think so." She smiled, soft and sad. "Come on. I made tea. Let's talk."

~*~

They sat in the living room, Susannah curled in her favorite chair, Conrad on the couch with a mug of tea he wasn't really drinking. Outside, the March wind rattled the windows, winter not quite ready to let go.

"I've been in therapy," he said. "Since January."

"I know. Jeremiah mentioned."

"Does everyone talk about me when I'm not here?"

"We talk about you because we love you." She tilted her head. "Is it helping? The therapy?"

"I don't know. Maybe." He stared into his tea. "Dr. Okonkwo keeps asking me about patterns. Why I shut down when things get hard. Why I run instead of staying."

"And what do you tell her?"

"That I learned it from Dad."

She didn't respond right away. Susannah's expression didn't change, but her eyes went soft.

"That's probably true," she said. "Adam was never good at staying. With hard things. With feelings." She paused. "With us."

"I didn't mean—"

"It's okay. You're allowed to say it." She set down her tea. "Conrad, I spent years trying to protect you boys from the truth about your father. About our marriage. I thought if I just held everything together, you wouldn't notice the cracks."

"We noticed."

"I know. I know that now." She reached over, squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry. For all of it. For not being honest sooner. For letting you think that shutting down was normal."

"Mom, you don't have to apologize—"

"I do. Because I watch you now—struggling to be present, struggling to let people in—and I see exactly where you learned it." Her voice cracked. "And I'm so proud of you for trying to unlearn it. That takes more courage than anything."

Conrad looked away. "I don't feel courageous. I feel like I'm falling apart."

"That's what growth feels like, baby. You have to break before you can rebuild." She smiled. "You came home. You asked for help. That's not falling apart. That's putting yourself back together."

Words failed him. He sat there, holding his mother's hand, letting the tears come.

~*~

Saturday, March 8

The scan was early. Eight in the morning, same hospital, same waiting room where they'd sat in December. But this time felt different. Less terrified, more routine. Still scary, but manageable.

Conrad had insisted on coming. "I'm here anyway. And I want to be there. For real this time. Not just going through the motions."

Jeremiah had looked at him, something complicated crossing his face. Then he'd nodded. "Okay. Yeah. Okay."

So they sat together in the waiting room—Jeremiah on one side, Conrad on the other, Susannah between them with a hand on each of their knees. Like when they were kids. Like nothing and everything had changed.

"Results should be quick," Susannah said. "Dr. Hayes said the imaging looked good."

"That's what she said last time too," Jeremiah muttered. "Right before—"

"It was benign," Conrad said. "That's what matters."

"I know. I just—" Jeremiah rubbed the back of his neck. "I hate this. The waiting. I hate that we have to keep doing this."

"Every three months," Susannah said. "For the first year. Then every six months. That's the protocol."

"The deal sucks."

"It does." She squeezed his knee. "But I'm still here. That's what matters."

Still here. The words should have been comforting. Instead they hit him somewhere deep—because "still" meant "for now." "Still" meant "but maybe not tomorrow." He'd learned that lesson already, hadn't he? That people left. That nothing stayed. That you could hold onto something with both hands and still watch it slip away.

He swallowed hard. Focused on the waiting room art—some generic watercolor of flowers that was probably supposed to be calming and made him want to punch something.

The nurse called her name. Susannah stood, looked at both her sons.

"Come with me?"

They went.

~*~

"All clear."

Dr. Hayes smiled—the real kind, not the professional kind. "Everything looks great, Susannah. No changes from December. You're doing beautifully."

Jeremiah's exhale was loud enough to echo off the walls. Conrad felt something loosen in his chest that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding.

"Thank you," Susannah said. She was crying—happy tears, the kind she didn't try to hide. "Thank you so much."

In the hallway after, they stood in a small cluster—the three of them, holding onto each other, not caring about the nurses walking past or the other patients in the waiting area.

"I love you," Susannah said. "Both of you. So much."

"Love you too, Mom," Jeremiah said, voice rough.

"Love you," Conrad echoed.

They stayed like that for a long moment. Just breathing. Just being.

~*~

"So," Jeremiah said, sliding into the booth across from Conrad. "We're doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Us. Talking. On purpose. Without Mom there to mediate." He flagged down the waitress, ordered two beers. "When's the last time we did this?"

Conrad thought about it. "I don't know. Before med school? Maybe that summer after your freshman year?"

"The time we got drunk and you told me I was wasting my potential?"

"I didn't say wasting—"

"You absolutely said wasting. And then you listed all the things I should be doing instead of lifeguarding and making pancakes."

Conrad winced. "I was an asshole."

"Yeah. You were."

The beers arrived. Jeremiah took a long sip, not meeting his brother's eyes.

"I'm sorry," Conrad said. "Not just for that. For—all of it. Being gone. Being checked out. Being the brother who shows up for the big stuff but disappears for everything else."

Jeremiah looked up. "Where's this coming from?"

"Therapy. Mom. You." He shrugged. "I've been thinking about patterns. About all the ways I learned to run instead of stay. And you—you've been here. This whole time. Taking care of Mom, holding everything together, and I just—I left. Let you carry it."

"Someone had to."

"But it shouldn't have been just you."

Jeremiah was quiet for a moment. Then: "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"Have an actual conversation with you. About real things. We don't—we've never—" He gestured vaguely. "We compete. We avoid. We don't talk."

"I know." Conrad took a drink. "I want to change that. If you're willing."

"Why now?"

"Because I spent four years with Belly pretending everything was fine when it wasn't. And then I spent months in therapy figuring out why I do that. And the answer is—" He stopped. "The answer is that I learned it growing up. Watching Dad leave. Watching Mom pretend she was okay. Learning that feelings were inconvenient, so better to just not have them."

Jeremiah's hand tightened on his knee. "I learned the same thing."

"I know. We all did." Conrad leaned forward. "But you figured out how to feel things anyway. How to cook for people and show up and be present. I don't know how you did that."

"I didn't figure anything out. I just—" Jeremiah laughed, no humor in it. "I just turned into the person everyone needed me to be. The fun one. The uncomplicated one. The one who doesn't make waves."

"That's not nothing."

"It's not everything either." He met Conrad's eyes. "I'm tired, Con. Of being the golden retriever. Of making everyone else feel comfortable while I—" He stopped. Shook his head.

"While you what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Jere."

The nickname—the one only family used—cracked something open.

"While I disappear," Jeremiah said. "That's what Denise said once. That I make myself disappear into what other people need. And she's right. I don't even know what I want half the time because I'm so busy figuring out what everyone else wants."

They sat with that for a moment. Two brothers who'd grown up in the same house, learned the same survival skills, and turned into completely different versions of broken.

"Culinary school," Conrad said finally.

"What?"

"That's what you want. Right? I heard you talking to Mom about it. The classes. The restaurant."

Jeremiah's face did something complicated. "It's just—it's probably stupid. I'm one semester from a business degree. Dad would—"

"Fuck Dad." Conrad said it flatly. "Seriously. When's the last time he showed up for anything? He doesn't get a vote."

A memory surfaced. Eight years old, standing in the Cousins kitchen, Conrad telling him that eating sandwich crusts made your hair curly. How he'd believed it instantly. How he'd pushed his crusts to Conrad's plate for years after, trying to keep his hair straight, trying to be different, trying to be better. Conrad had eaten them without ever correcting the lie.

It was such a small thing. Stupid, really. But sometimes the small things were the shape of everything that came after.

"That's what Mom said," Jeremiah managed.

"She's right. She usually is." Conrad took a breath. "Do the culinary school thing. Apply. See what happens."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

Jeremiah didn't answer. Just studied his beer, jaw tight.

Conrad waited. Didn't push. Something he was learning in therapy—that sometimes silence was more useful than words.

"Because if I try and it doesn't work out," Jeremiah said finally, "then I don't have an excuse anymore. For being stuck. For not having my shit together. I can keep saying 'maybe someday' forever. But if I go for it and fail—"

"Then at least you tried."

"Easy for you to say. You've never failed at anything."

"I failed at the most important relationship of my life." Conrad said it quietly. "Four years with someone who loved me, and I couldn't figure out how to show up. That's a pretty spectacular failure."

Jeremiah looked at him. Not the golden boy, not the one who had everything figured out. Just his brother, sitting across from him, admitting he'd fucked up too.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess it is."

"So maybe we're both just different kinds of fucked up."

"Maybe."

They clinked their bottles together. Drank in silence.

"For what it's worth," Jeremiah said eventually, "I'm glad you came home. And I'm glad—this. That we're talking."

"Me too."

"Okay, don't make it a thing."

"I'm not making it a thing."

"You're looking at me like you're about to hug me. That's a thing."

"Would you prefer I go back to being a distant asshole?"

Jeremiah considered. "Maybe a little distant. For familiarity."

The corner of Conrad's mouth quirked up—that smirk he'd had since they were kids, the one that used to drive everyone crazy, the one that made you want to either punch him or admit he was right. "I'll work on it."

"You do that, Connie."

~*~

Wednesday, March 12

Laurel didn't plan to stop by the restaurant.

She'd been in Boston for a meeting, her publisher's office, and ended up walking through the neighborhood with twenty minutes to kill before her train. The sign caught her eye: SALTLINE. Beck had mentioned it. Jeremiah's working at a real restaurant now. You should see him, Laurel. He's different.

Through the window, she could see the kitchen—controlled chaos, white jackets moving with purpose. And there, at one of the stations, was Jeremiah Fisher. His cheeks were flushed pink from the heat—they always went that way when he was working hard, same rosy color as when he was a kid chasing the others around Cousins Beach.

She almost walked away. It felt intrusive, watching him like this, inserting herself into his world without permission. But something made her stay.

He was plating something—she couldn't tell what from here—and his whole body had changed. The shoulders that used to curl inward, the constant scanning for what everyone else needed, the way he'd always been bracing for impact—all of it was gone. In its place was someone solid. Certain. His hands moved with confidence, and when the head chef said something to him, he laughed—really laughed, the kind that came from somewhere real.

This is who he is, she thought. When nobody's watching. When he's not being Conrad's brother or Susannah's caretaker or the fun one who makes everyone comfortable.

She'd known Jeremiah his whole life, but she wasn't sure she'd ever seen him. He'd always been in the background—the sunny Fisher boy, the one who went along, the one you didn't have to worry about. She'd been so focused on Belly, on her own daughter's choices, that she'd missed the boy who was always there, always steady, always picking up whatever pieces everyone else dropped.

You were so focused on Belly, she thought. On your own daughter. But he was there the whole time. Holding things together.

A memory surfaced: Thanksgiving, years ago, when Beck had been in the middle of treatment and too sick to cook. Jeremiah had been sixteen, maybe seventeen. He'd made the entire meal by himself—turkey, stuffing, three kinds of pie—and served it like it was nothing. Like feeding a dozen people while his mother slept upstairs was just what you did.

She'd thanked Beck for the meal. She'd barely said a word to Jeremiah.

The guilt of that landed hard.

Inside, Jeremiah was wiping down his station, still laughing at something. The head chef clapped him on the shoulder—the kind of gesture that meant good work—and Jeremiah's posture straightened. Not performing. Not deflecting. Just... being.

Laurel pulled out her phone. Typed a text to Beck:

I'm in Boston. Walked past Saltline. I can see Jere through the window.

The response came quickly: Did you go in?

No. Didn't want to interrupt. But Beck—he looks happy. Really happy.

I know. A pause. Then: It's about time, isn't it?

Yeah. It really is.

She put her phone away. Took one last look at Jeremiah through the window—this boy she'd known forever, finally becoming himself—and walked toward the train station.

Some things you didn't need to say out loud. Sometimes witnessing was enough.

~*~

Saturday, March 15

The gallery was small, tucked into a side street in the Marais, the kind of place you'd walk past a hundred times without noticing. But Gemma knew the artist, a friend from her architecture program, and had insisted they all come.

"It's good to support struggling artists," she'd said. "Also, there's free wine."

Belly stood in front of a piece near the back—an abstract thing, all blues and grays, something about the ocean. Or maybe about loneliness. She wasn't sure. That was the thing about art—sometimes you didn't need to understand it to feel it.

"Buenas noches, reina." Benito appeared beside her with two glasses of wine. "You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The staring-at-art-like-it-holds-the-secrets-of-the-universe thing." He handed her a glass. "It's very intellectual. Very sexy."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious! Marc does the same thing with food. Stares at a plate like it's going to reveal the meaning of life." He grinned. "You two would get along. He's coming next week, by the way. You should meet him properly."

"I'd like that."

They stood in comfortable silence, looking at the painting.

"How are you?" Benito asked eventually. "Really?"

Belly thought about it. The breakup was six weeks ago now. The anger had dulled—not gone, but she could carry it now without choking. She'd started enjoying her classes instead of showing up. Her French was improving. Her knee was stronger every day. She had friends—real ones, not people she knew from volleyball or Taylor's orbit.

And last Saturday—last Saturday she'd done something crazy.

There was a pickup volleyball game in Parc de Bercy every Saturday. She'd walked past it for weeks, watching from the sidelines, telling herself her knee wasn't ready, that it was too soon, that she'd embarrass herself. The clinic had cleared her two weeks ago. She'd run out of excuses.

Last week, she'd finally joined.

Her form was rusty. Her timing was off. She'd shanked three passes in a row and apologized so much the French players started teasing her about it. But when the ball came to her on set—muscle memory kicked in. Her hands found the right position. The ball arced perfectly to the outside hitter. He crushed it.

"Pas mal!" someone had yelled. Not bad.

She'd cried in the bathroom after. Not sad crying—something else. Something closer to relief. Like a part of herself she'd thought was gone forever had proven it was still there.

"I'm good," she said to Benito. "Actually good. Not pretending-good."

"Interesante." He studied her face. "That's progress."

"It is." She took a sip of wine. "I talked to Jeremiah yesterday. His mom's scan came back clear again."

"That's great news."

"Yeah. He sounded—relieved. Happy. He's been taking culinary classes, apparently. Thinking about applying to actual culinary school."

Benito raised an eyebrow. "And how did that make you feel? Him being happy?"

"Don't therapist me."

"I'm not. I'm friend-ing you. There's a difference." He bumped her shoulder. "Marc says I'm too nosy. I say I'm thorough."

She laughed. "It made me feel—I don't know. Hopeful? Like everyone's figuring their stuff out. Even if it's messy."

"Messy is fine. Messy is normal." He clinked his glass against hers. "To messy figuring out."

"To messy figuring out."

Across the room, Gemma waved them over. "Isabel! Benny! Come here—Max found a piece she absolutely loathes and I need witnesses for this rant."

Max was standing in front of a large canvas covered in aggressive red slashes, arms crossed, paint-stained fingers tapping against her elbow. "It's derivative. It's lazy. It's literally just anger without any actual investigation of why."

"Pack it in, luv, the artist might hear you," Gemma said, but she was grinning.

"Good. Someone should tell him."

Celine rolled her eyes from across the circle. "This is why I don't go to gallery openings."

"You came for the free wine," Belly pointed out.

"Exactement." Celine raised her glass. "At least the Côtes du Rhône is decent."

Belly smiled. Followed her friends through the crowd.

She didn't know what came next—with school, with Jeremiah, with any of it. But for once, that uncertainty felt exciting instead of terrifying.

~*~

Jeremiah was closing up at Saltline when his phone buzzed.

A photo from Belly. Her standing in front of some abstract painting, wine glass in hand, making a face like she was trying to look intellectual. The caption said: Pretending to understand art. Gemma says I'm doing great.

He grinned. Typed back: Very cultured. Very sophisticated. Would be more impressed if you weren't holding wine like a barbarian.

Belly: It's called EUROPEAN STYLE

Jeremiah: It's called "I never learned to hold a wine glass properly"

Belly: Rude. I'm hanging up on you.

Jeremiah: We're not on the phone.

Belly: I'm EMOTIONALLY hanging up on you.

He laughed out loud. The sous chef glanced over, eyebrows raised.

"Nothing," Jeremiah said. "Just—nothing."

But he was still smiling when he finished cleaning his station. Still smiling when he walked home in the cold March air. Still smiling when he climbed into bed, exhausted in the best way.

His phone buzzed one more time.

Belly: I'm glad your mom's scan was good. And I'm glad about the culinary thing. You should do it.

Belly: You deserve to do the thing that makes you happy.

He stared at the screen. Thought about all the things he wanted to say. I think about you all the time. I'm trying to be patient. I don't know what we are but I know what I want us to be.

He typed: Thanks, Bells. You too.

Belly: Goodnight, Jere.

Jeremiah: Night, Bells.

He set the phone on the nightstand and closed his eyes.

~*~

In Paris, Belly walked to the window, fingertips leaving smudges on the cold glass.

The city was still humming—a mop bucket rattling on the sidewalk below, headlights cutting through rain, the smell of wet stone and yeast drifting up from the boulangerie that never seemed to close. Somewhere below, a couple was arguing in rapid French—not angry, loud, the way people are when they've been together long enough to fight about nothing. Then one of them laughed, and the other did too, and a door clicked shut.

For once, she wasn't rehearsing the next step or replaying the last one. She wasn't a memory in someone else's story, or an echo in a boyfriend's apartment. She was a fact—right here, in her own skin, in a city that didn't care who she'd been.

She pressed her forehead to the glass. A laugh bubbled up—strange and sudden and bright. Not because anything was funny, not because she felt better, but because it was her, alive, alone, making her own noise in the dark.

And for that one long moment, it was enough.

Chapter Text

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18

The day after St. Patrick's Day, Jeremiah made colcannon for Wednesday dinner—not the sad American version with green food coloring, but the real thing. Buttery mashed potatoes folded with cabbage and leeks, a well of melted butter pooling in the center. Laurel's recipe, originally—she'd picked it up from some Irish boyfriend in college and passed it to Susannah years ago.

"You're quiet tonight," Susannah said, watching him mash the potatoes with more force than strictly necessary.

"Just tired. Long week."

"Mmm." She didn't push. She always knew when to wait.

The kitchen was warm, steam rising from the pot, radio playing soft. These Wednesday nights had become sacred—a rhythm they'd built during her first round of treatment and never stopped. Even when she was in remission. Even when he was busy with school. Some things you didn't let go of.

"Conrad called," she said, pulling plates from the cabinet. "He laughed at one of my jokes. Laughed, like he meant it, not that polite thing he does."

"Yeah?"

"He's been seeing that therapist regularly. And he mentioned a girl—Agnes? From his study group." She paused, that knowing look crossing her face. "He seems like he's actually dealing with things. Finally."

Jeremiah kept his eyes on the potatoes.

"Have you talked to her lately? Belly?"

"We text. She sends me pictures of bread."

"Bread."

"She's into French bakeries."

Susannah smiled, setting the plates on the counter. "That sounds like Belly. Finding joy in small things." She paused. "She's changed since Paris. Grown into herself. I see it in the photos Laurel sends. The breakup was hard, but I think it was right. For both of them."

"Yeah. Paris is good for her."

"Is it?" His mom tilted her head. "Or is distance good for her? Sometimes people need space to figure out what they actually want. Without everyone else's expectations crowding in."

Jeremiah kept mashing, slower now. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing, sweetheart." She kissed his cheek, stealing a fingerful of potato. "Just thinking out loud."

"I'm old enough to know when things are changing." She met his eyes. "And they are. I can feel it."

He didn't ask what she meant. Wasn't sure he wanted to know.

They ate at the kitchen table—colcannon and soda bread and the good butter Susannah saved for special occasions. She told him about her latest painting, a seascape that wasn't working how she wanted. He told her about Dante's new tasting menu, about the scallop dish he was perfecting.

"You light up when you talk about cooking," she said. "You know that? You absolutely light up."

"It's just food."

"It's not just anything. It's who you are." She reached across the table, squeezed his hand. "Your father's expectations, what you thought you should want—that was never you. This is."

He didn't know what to say. So he just squeezed her hand back.

"Are we still talking about cooking?"

She smiled. That smile that said she knew more than she was saying. "We're talking about everything, baby. We're always talking about everything."

After dinner, he cleaned up while she sketched at the table—quick charcoal strokes of the colcannon pot, the empty plates, his hands in the dishwater. She did that sometimes. Captured moments before they slipped away.

"Same time next week?" he asked, drying his hands.

"Same time next week." She stood, hugged him tight. "I love you, Jeremiah. Even when you mash potatoes like they owe you money."

"Love you too, Mom."

He drove back to campus with the radio off, thinking about what she'd said. About shifting. About wanting things.

His phone buzzed at a red light.

Belly: What are you up to? Celine made me try this wine that's supposedly life-changing and now I'm tipsy on a Wednesday.

He smiled. Typed back:

Jere: Sounds dangerous. Wednesday drinking is a slippery slope.

Belly: Don't judge me. What did you make for your mom tonight?

Jere: Colcannon. Irish comfort food.

Belly: I don't know what that is but I'm jealous.

Jere: Mashed potatoes with cabbage. Butter. Lots of butter.

Belly: That sounds amazing. Make it for me sometime?

Jere: Deal.

He put his phone down. The light turned green.

Make it for me sometime.

He thought about his mom's words. About wanting things. About trusting himself.

Two more days until Denise's terrible date would change everything.

~*~

FRIDAY, MARCH 20

The dinner rush at Saltline was winding down when Denise pushed through the front door, laptop bag over her shoulder and murder in her eyes.

"Kevin's running late," she announced, sliding onto a barstool. "Shocker."

Jeremiah looked up from the glass he was polishing. "The coding bootcamp guy?"

"The coding bootcamp guy." She dropped her bag on the bar with more force than necessary. "He texted 'be there in 20' forty minutes ago. Oh my God. I should just leave."

"Why don't you?"

"Because I told myself I'd give dating another shot. Because Taylor said I was being too picky. Because apparently I have terrible judgment." She pulled out her laptop. "Can I get a drink while I wait for my dignity to arrive? Seriously, who texts 'be there in 20' and then just... doesn't show up for an hour? That's sociopathic."

"What do you want?"

"Something strong."

Jeremiah reached for the bourbon. "You know you don't have to do this. The whole dating thing. If it's making you miserable."

"I'm not miserable. I'm realistic." She opened her laptop, pulling up a spreadsheet covered in color-coded tabs. "Steven's happy with Taylor. You're hung up on someone in Paris. Everyone's moving forward except me."

"You're building a company."

"Which is not the same as having a life." She looked up at him. "Don't give me that face."

"What face?"

"The 'I'm worried about Denise' face. I'm fine. I just need to find someone who doesn't bore me to tears within twenty minutes."

"High bar."

"You'd think."

Jeremiah set the bourbon in front of her—neat, two fingers, the good stuff. She raised an eyebrow.

"On the house," he said. "For suffering through another bad date."

"It's not a bad date yet. I'm being optimistic."

"You're running pivot tables while you wait for him to show up."

"Multitasking is a virtue."

The kitchen door swung open and Dante emerged, wiping his hands on a towel. Compact and intense, dark hair pulled back, sleeve tattoos visible below rolled cuffs. Twenty years in professional kitchens showed in the burns and scars on his forearms. His eyes swept the dining room before landing on Denise.

"Fisher. Who's this?"

"Denise. She's waiting for someone."

Dante's gaze dropped to her laptop. To the spreadsheet. His eyes narrowed.

"You're the app person."

Denise looked up. "Excuse me?"

"The one who keeps texting him questions during service." Dante crossed his arms. "Inventory management. Ticket timing. Waste tracking. That's you, right?"

"I—" Denise glanced at Jeremiah, who was suddenly very interested in polishing glasses. "I might have asked a few questions."

"A few." Dante made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "He showed me your mockups. The interface is clunky and you've got your cost calculations backwards."

"My cost calculations are not—"

"Your food cost percentage formula is dividing by the wrong variable. Basic mistake. Surprised someone building 'restaurant software' doesn't know that."

Denise's eyes went sharp. "I know my formula is correct because I spent three months interviewing actual restaurant operators about their—"

"Operators aren't line cooks. Operators don't see where the real waste happens. You want accurate data, you talk to the people actually touching the food."

"Which is why I'm here. Talking to Jeremiah. Who actually touches the food."

"Fisher's prep. Prep doesn't see the full picture either." Dante grabbed a water glass, filled it, set it in front of her. "Drink that. You're going to need it if you're trying to argue cost formulas with me."

"I'm not trying to argue anything. I'm waiting for my date."

"The guy who's—" Dante checked his watch. "Fifty minutes late?"

"He's in finance. They run late."

"Finance." Dante's lip curled. "Let me guess. Crypto?"

Denise's silence was answer enough.

"Christ." He shook his head. "Fisher, your friend has terrible taste."

"Hey—"

"In dates," Dante clarified. "Your app idea's not bad. The execution needs work, but the concept's solid. Restaurants need better inventory systems. The stuff we use now is garbage from 2003."

Denise blinked. "That's... actually what I've been saying."

"I know. I read the pitch deck you emailed Fisher."

"He showed you my pitch deck?"

Jeremiah held up his hands. "He asked what I was reading. I didn't think—"

"Your TAM estimates are too conservative," Dante continued, ignoring them both. "And you're underselling the labor angle. Restaurants don't just lose money on food waste. They lose it on inefficient scheduling, overtime, people standing around because nobody's tracking actual prep time versus projected prep time."

"I have a whole section on labor optimization—"

"It's buried on slide fourteen. Should be slide three. Lead with the money."

Denise stared at him. "Who are you?"

"Dante Reyes. I run the kitchen." He refilled her water glass. "And I've been in this industry long enough to know when someone's cost formula is backwards."

"You don't know me well enough to say anything with love."

"Point taken." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I say it with professional respect for someone who's clearly smart but talking to the wrong people."

The front door opened. A guy walked in—tall, blonde, suit screaming money. He spotted Denise and smiled, all teeth.

"Babe! Sorry I'm late. Traffic was insane."

Dante's expression went flat.

"Kevin." Denise closed her laptop. "You're an hour late."

"I know, I know. But I got us a table at this place with a Michelin star, so—" He looked around. "Wait. This place?"

"This place has a Michelin star, yes."

Kevin slid onto the barstool next to her, too close. "Didn't expect it to be so... casual."

Dante's jaw tightened.

"It's meant to be approachable," Jeremiah said.

Kevin flagged down Jeremiah with two fingers. "Can we get a table? Somewhere quieter?"

"We're fully committed tonight."

Kevin laughed, glancing at Denise. "I thought you said you knew someone here."

"I do. He's standing right in front of you."

"Oh." Kevin looked at Jeremiah—the kind of interest that wasn't really interest. "You work here? Cooking or just...?"

"I'm training in the kitchen. Prep mostly."

Kevin pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "So babe, I was thinking we could hit that new club in Back Bay after—"

"Kevin. I've been here for an hour. I was hoping we could actually have dinner."

"We will, we will. But this place closes early, right?"

"She said she wants to have dinner."

Kevin turned. Dante was still standing there, arms crossed.

"Sorry, who are you?"

"The guy who runs this kitchen. The one you just called casual." Dante checked his watch. "You showed up an hour late, you haven't asked her how she is, and now you're trying to drag her somewhere else. That's not a date. That's a hostage situation."

Jeremiah coughed to cover a laugh.

"You know what? Forget this." Kevin stood. "Denise, I'll call you later."

"Don't bother."

He blinked. "What?"

"You were an hour late, you insulted my friend's job, you insulted the restaurant, and now you want to leave before we've even eaten." She looked at him directly. "I was being polite."

Kevin stared at her. Then he walked out.

Silence.

Dante exhaled. "Well. That was satisfying."

Denise stared at him. "Did you just kick out my date?"

"I kicked out someone wasting your time." He shrugged. "Not the same."

"I could've handled it."

"You were being polite." He said it the way she had—pointed. "Polite wasn't working."

"So you decided to—what? Rescue me?"

"I decided to tell an asshole to leave." Dante grabbed a clean towel, started wiping down the bar. "If that's rescuing, you need to raise your standards."

Jeremiah watched them face off—Denise with her laptop and her spreadsheets, Dante with his towel and his stubborn jaw. Neither of them backing down. Neither of them looking away.

"Your cost formula is still wrong," Dante said.

"My cost formula is not—" Denise stopped. Laughed, sharp and surprised. "Oh my God. You're impossible."

"I've been told." He flipped the towel over his shoulder. "You hungry?"

"What?"

"Hungry. It's a state of being where your body wants food. Happens to most people around dinner time."

"I know what hungry means—"

"Then answer the question."

She studied him—the scarred forearms, the tired eyes, the stubborn set of his shoulders. He'd just eviscerated her terrible date without breaking a sweat.

"Yeah, fine. I could eat."

"Good. I'll make you something." He was already moving toward the kitchen. "Fisher, you're on bar. Don't let anyone else sit at her spot."

"Copy that."

The kitchen door swung shut behind him. Denise turned to Jeremiah, eyes wide.

"What just happened?"

"I think you just got a dinner date with my boss."

"That wasn't—he didn't ask me out. He just said he'd make me food."

Jeremiah smiled. "Denise. In restaurant language, that's basically a proposal."

~*~

An hour later, Denise was on her fourth course and her second glass of wine, and Jeremiah was pretending not to watch.

The restaurant had emptied out around them. Soft clatter of closing crew in the back, the dishwasher's hum, that late-night quiet after service. Candles blown out, chairs stacked, but the bar stayed lit like a warm island in the dim room.

Dante had emerged from the kitchen three times. Once with a crostini topped with whipped ricotta and honey, once with a pasta dish that made Denise actually moan out loud (she'd gone red afterward; Dante had grinned), and once with a pork chop so perfectly cooked it should've been illegal.

Each time, he'd lingered. Explained the dish. Asked what she thought. Listened—actually listened—when she gave feedback. Not how some chefs listened, already formulating their defense. Like someone who genuinely wanted to know.

"The pasta's good but the salt level's slightly off," she'd said. "Or maybe that's just me."

"No, you're right." He'd taken the plate back, tasted it himself. "Slightly. I'll fix it."

And he had. Brought her a fresh portion five minutes later.

"Better?"

"Perfect."

"Good."

Jeremiah had seen Dante cook for critics, for investors, for the restaurant group executives who showed up quarterly to justify their stake. He'd never seen him cook like this—like it mattered what one person thought. Like getting it right for her was the only metric that counted.

Now Dante was sitting across from her at the bar, the dinner rush fully over, most of the staff gone home. They were arguing about inventory systems again, but it had shifted—less combative, more collaborative. Denise was sketching something on a napkin while Dante pointed out flaws, their heads bent close together over the small square of paper. His hand moved to point at something and his fingers brushed hers—neither of them pulled away.

"If you add a predictive element here," he said, "you could anticipate prep needs based on historical data. Weekends versus weekdays. Seasonal variations."

"That would require machine learning integration. Expensive."

"Worth it if it works." He tapped the napkin. "Restaurants don't fail because the food's bad. They fail because the margins are too thin to survive inefficiency. You solve that, you've got something."

Denise looked at him. "Why do you care so much about my app?"

"Because it's a good idea." He held her gaze. "And because I'm tired of watching smart people build software they don't understand for industries they've never worked in. You're actually trying to learn. That's rare."

"Fisher's been helping me."

"Fisher's a prep cook. He knows what he knows." Dante shrugged. "But if you want to build something that really works, you need input from someone who's run the whole operation. Front and back."

"And that's you?"

"That's me." He stood, stretching. "I should close out the kitchen. You staying?"

"I should go. It's late."

"It's eleven."

"That's late for people who have day jobs."

He smiled—the first real one she'd seen from him. Younger, less guarded. "Can't argue with that." He reached for her plate, empty now except for a smear of sauce. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why'd you come out with that guy? You're way too smart for someone like that."

Denise looked down at the napkin, covered in her handwriting and his. "Because I told myself I'd stop being so picky. Because everyone else is pairing off and I'm still—" She stopped. "I don't know. Stuck."

"You're not stuck." Dante said it simply, like it was obvious. "You're building something. That takes time. That takes focus." He paused. "The right person will get that. Will want to be part of it, not compete with it."

"And what—you're the expert on relationships?"

"God, no. I'm terrible at them." He laughed. "I just know what I see. And I see someone who settled for a guy who couldn't even be bothered to show up on time." He met her eyes. "You shouldn't have to settle."

Denise's wine glass stopped halfway to her lips.

"Thanks for dinner," she said at last.

"Anytime." He picked up her plates, headed for the kitchen. "And fix your cost formula. It's still driving me crazy."

"It's not wrong!"

"It's definitely wrong. I'll prove it to you."

"How?"

He paused at the kitchen door, looking back at her. "Come back tomorrow. I'll show you the actual numbers. From our system. Then you'll see."

"Is this a ploy to get me to come back?"

"Maybe." That smile again. "Is it working?"

Denise felt her face go warm. "I'll think about it."

"Good enough." He pushed through the door. "Night, Denise."

"Night."

The kitchen door swung shut. Denise sat there for a moment, napkin still in her hand, face flushed.

Jeremiah appeared beside her, clearing the last of the glasses.

"So," he said. "That happened."

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face is saying plenty." She grabbed her laptop bag, shoved the napkin inside. "Look, I'm leaving."

"You're coming back tomorrow."

"I am not—" She stopped. "Maybe."

"Uh huh."

"I just want to see the actual numbers. For research."

"Sure. Research." Jeremiah grinned. "I'll let Dante know you're coming."

"Don't you dare."

"Too late. I'm already texting him."

"You're the worst." But she was fighting a smile.

"Night, Denise." He held the door open for her.

She punched his shoulder on the way out.

~*~

Jeremiah finished closing down the bar at midnight. The restaurant was dark except for the kitchen light, where Dante was doing final cleanup.

"She's coming back tomorrow," Dante said when Jeremiah pushed through the door.

"I know. She told me."

"Good." Dante scraped down the flattop, movements efficient and familiar. "What's her deal? She mentioned some guy named Steven but it sounded past tense."

"Ex-boyfriend. They broke up a few months ago. He's with someone else now."

"Amicable?"

"Surprisingly. They're still friends. Working on the app together."

Dante nodded, processing. "And you two—?"

"Just friends." Jeremiah grabbed a broom, started sweeping. "She's been one of my people since Thanksgiving. Helped me through some stuff."

"Good people to have."

"Yeah."

They worked in silence for a few minutes. The kitchen had its own rhythm at night—quieter, more intimate. Just the hum of the walk-in and the scratch of the broom.

"Her app's actually good," Dante said eventually. "The concept, anyway. Execution needs work, but she's got the right instincts."

"She's smart."

"No shit." Dante rinsed his towel, hung it to dry. "Smart and stubborn. Dangerous combination."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Depends on what you're trying to do." He leaned against the counter, watching Jeremiah sweep. "She reminds me of someone."

"Who?"

"Me. When I was starting out. All fire, no direction. Someone gave me a chance, pointed me the right way. Changed everything."

"You thinking about doing the same for her?"

Dante shrugged. "I'm thinking she's interesting. And that her date was a fucking idiot. And that she deserves better."

"She does."

"So do you, Fisher." Dante didn't look up from the flattop. "That girl in Paris. The one you don't talk about but think about constantly."

Jeremiah's broom stilled. "I don't—"

"You check your phone every time it buzzes. Your face does a thing when you're reading her texts. You burn shit when you're distracted by her. I've noticed."

"There's nothing to—we're just friends."

"Sure." Dante pushed off the counter. "But friends don't make you look like that. And friends don't send voice memos that make you smile like you just won something."

Jeremiah went back to sweeping.

"I'm not judging." Dante headed for the office. "Just saying. Life's short. You know that better than most. Don't wait so long you miss the window."

"What window?"

"The one where it's still possible." Dante paused at the door. "Night, Fisher. Good work tonight."

"Night."

The office door closed. Jeremiah stood in the quiet kitchen, broom in hand, thinking about windows and timing and the girl in Paris who kept sending him photos of bread.

His phone buzzed.

Belly: You'll never believe what Max said about French butter. She's VERY passionate.

He smiled. Typed back.

Jere: Tell me everything.

~*~

SATURDAY, MARCH 21

Denise came back the next night. And the night after that.

By the third visit, she and Dante had filled two legal pads with notes, revised her cost formula (she'd been right about half of it; he'd been right about the other half), and consumed enough espresso to kill a small horse.

"They're not even subtle," Steven said when Jeremiah told him about it. They were at Steven's apartment, pizza boxes spread across the coffee table, app mockups on Steven's laptop. "Dude, Denise sent me a text at two AM asking if I thought 'creative differences' was a euphemism."

"For what?"

"Sexual tension, apparently." Steven grinned. "I'm archiving it for her wedding slideshow."

"They've known each other four days."

"And?" He grabbed another slice. "Speaking of—you talk to Belly lately?"

"Yeah. We FaceTime sometimes. She sends pictures of stuff she finds."

"Stuff."

"Street art. Bakeries. Whatever." Jeremiah shrugged. "She's doing good."

Steven was quiet for a moment. Peeling the label off his beer bottle in strips.

"She seems better," he said. "Happier. Mom says she sounds like herself again."

"Paris is good for her."

"Yeah." Steven looked at him. "Just—don't rush it. Whatever this is."

Jeremiah set down his pizza. "I'm not rushing anything."

"Good." Steven took a drink. "She's had enough complicated for a while."

Neither of them said anything for a minute.

"Noted," Jeremiah said finally.

Steven grabbed another slice. "Now help me fix this fucking mockup. Denise says the user flow is 'aggressively confusing.'"

"She's not wrong."

"I know she's not wrong. That's why I need help."

They worked on the app until midnight. Jeremiah didn't check his phone once.

(Okay. Twice. But only because Belly sent a video of a street musician playing something she thought he'd like. He watched it four times.)

~*~

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 25

The Saltline kitchen was quiet after close. Most of the staff had gone home, but Denise was still there, perched on a prep table with her laptop, arguing with Dante about scheduling algorithms while Jeremiah cleaned his station.

They'd been at this for five days now—Denise showing up after service, Dante pretending he found it annoying, the two of them filling legal pads with notes until midnight. Jeremiah had stopped pretending he wasn't watching it happen.

"The problem isn't the algorithm," Dante was saying. "The problem is you're trying to predict human behavior with a spreadsheet."

"Human behavior IS predictable. That's the whole point of data science."

"Tell that to my sous chef who called in sick three Saturdays in a row because his girlfriend kept dumping him."

"That's an outlier."

"Restaurants are nothing but outliers. That's what I'm trying to tell you."

Jeremiah tuned them out, scrubbing down the flattop with more force than necessary. He was tired. The good kind—work and learning wearing him down in the best way. But underneath it, restless. That familiar itch.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

Buzzed again.

He'd been talking to Belly almost every day since the breakup. Texts mostly, sometimes voice memos when she found something she had to share immediately. They'd FaceTimed twice—once when she was crying about Conrad, once when she was excited about a gallery opening. Both times he'd stayed on the phone until she fell asleep.

Seven weeks since Conrad called him. Seven weeks of being her friend, her person, the one she reached out to when she needed to feel less alone.

He was careful about it. Kept things light when they threatened to turn heavy. Changed the subject when she said things that made him want to say things back. Reminded himself, constantly, that she was healing. That she needed a friend, not another guy with feelings she'd have to manage.

Some days it was easier than others.

"You gonna get that?" Dante asked.

"It can wait."

"Your face says it can't."

"My face doesn't say anything."

"Your face is an open book." Denise didn't look up from her laptop. "Check your phone, Fisher. We'll still be here when you're done."

He wiped his hands on his apron and pulled out the phone.

Belly: Are you done with work yet?

Belly: I have GOSSIP

Belly: Also I miss your cooking

Belly: Also I found the best bread in Paris and I need to tell you about it

Belly: Also

Belly: I just miss you

I just miss you.

He typed back before he could think about it.

Jere: Just finishing up. Give me 20 minutes?

Belly: I'll be here. Celine found some natural wine she's obsessed with

Belly: I think she's overselling it

Jere: Everything Celine does is dramatic

Belly: You've never even met her

Jere: I've heard enough

Three dots appeared. Then:

Belly: Maybe someday you will. Meet her I mean.

He stared at the screen. His thumb hovered. Typed nothing.

"Jeremiah." Dante's voice cut through. "You're smiling at your phone like it's proposing to you. Either call her or help me finish closing."

"I'll call her after—"

"Call her now." Denise had closed her laptop. "We're leaving anyway."

"You don't have to—"

"We're leaving." She hopped off the prep table, gathering her things. "Dante's walking me to my car. Very chivalrous."

"I'm making sure you don't get mugged. Not the same."

"Same result." She paused by Jeremiah, squeezing his shoulder. "You look exhausted. Go home after this. Get some sleep."

"Yes, mom."

"I'm serious. You've been running on fumes all week." She grabbed her bag. "Night, Fisher."

"Night."

She and Dante disappeared out the back door, still bickering about something. Jeremiah stood in the empty kitchen, phone in hand.

He should call her. She'd asked him to. It wasn't weird—they talked all the time now. Since the breakup, since she'd started sending him voice memos about bakeries and texting him photos of street art she thought he'd like.

Except none of it felt like just anything. And that was the problem.

He thought about what Steven had said. She's had enough complicated for a while. About Denise, telling him once that the worst thing you could do was rush someone who was still healing. About his brother, calling him that night to say it was over, his voice tired and relieved and sad all at once.

Conrad had trusted him to be her friend. Not to be the guy waiting in the wings.

He opened FaceTime. Hovered over her name.

Just call her. It's not a big deal. Friends call friends.

He pressed call.

~*~

She answered on the second ring, face filling the screen, flushed and smiling. Behind her, the warm glow of a wine bar: exposed brick, candles, Celine's distinctive laugh in the background. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders, and she'd done something with her eyes. Darker, smokier. He noticed. Looked away.

"Jere!" She broke into a grin. "You called! I thought you were just texting tonight."

They'd fallen into a rhythm since the breakup. Texts during the day, voice memos when something couldn't wait, FaceTime once or twice a week when they both had time. Easy. Natural. Constant contact that probably meant something neither of them was ready to name.

"Yeah. You said you had gossip."

"I do. So much gossip." She was already moving, shouldering through a door into the night air. Paris spread out behind her: cobblestone street, glowing windows, that particular blue of European twilight. "Okay, wait, let me get somewhere quieter."

"You don't have to leave your friends—"

"I want to." She found a bench, sat down, pulled her jacket tighter. "There. Better. Now I can actually hear you."

He leaned against the prep table, phone propped against a stand of tickets. "So. Gossip."

"Okay so—Celine's been writing a romance novel. And it's getting PUBLISHED!"

"Wait, what?"

"I know right? She showed us the contract tonight. We had NO idea." She was glowing, hands moving. "Like, she's been so weird lately? On her phone all the time, staying late—we thought it was a guy but it was her BOOK. Enemies-to-lovers, set in a restaurant. Gemma thinks it's about someone real but Celine won't say."

"That's wild."

"Right? And she was actually blushing. I didn't know Celine could blush!"

Jeremiah laughed. "Sounds like you're having fun."

"I am." Her smile softened. "I really am. This city is—" She stopped. "I don't know. I feel like myself here. Like I'm not trying to be anyone." Pause. "Does that make sense?"

"Yeah." He meant it. "It does."

"Yeah." She tilted her head, studying him through the screen. "What about you? You look tired. But like, good tired. Not bad tired."

"Good tired. We did a hundred and forty covers tonight. Dante let me plate the scallop dish for actual service."

"The one you've been practicing? With the brown butter?"

"Yeah." He felt his ears going warm. "It went well. I think."

"Can I see?"

"What?"

"The plate. If there's one left. I want to see what you made."

He looked around the kitchen. There was one plate in the window—the staff meal he'd set aside for himself, the scallop dish he'd been perfecting for weeks. Hadn't eaten it yet.

"Hold on."

He grabbed the plate, brought it back to where his phone was propped. Angled the camera down.

"Okay. This is—it's just the staff version, so it's not as fancy as service, but—"

"Jere." Her voice had gone soft. "That's beautiful."

"It's just scallops."

"It's not just scallops and you know it." She leaned closer to the screen, like she could taste it through the phone. "The sear on those—and is that citrus? I can see the zest."

"Yeah. Brown butter, sage, and a blood orange gastrique. I've been working on the balance for like a month."

"It looks perfect."

"It's getting there."

"Oh!" She sat up straighter. "I told Halmoni about the culinary school applications. She got very intense about it. You might be getting an email."

"Intense how?"

"She used the word 'destiny.' And also 'hedge fund nonsense.'" Belly grinned. "So. You know. Classic Halmoni."

She was quiet for a moment, just looking at the plate. At him. Her expression had softened in a way that made him look away.

"I miss watching you cook," she said. "Wednesday dinners. How you'd explain what you were doing while you did it. Like it was the most natural thing in the world."

"You can still watch." He didn't know where the words came from. "If you want. I could FaceTime you while I cook. Walk you through stuff. It's not the same as being there, but—"

"I'd love that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She smiled, and it was the smile she used to give him across the kitchen at his mom's house. The one that made him feel seen. "Can you do it now? Make me something?"

"Bells, it's like—" He checked the time. "One in the morning there."

"I'm not tired. And Celine's wine was actually life-changing, so I'm kind of wired." She pulled her knees up on the bench, getting comfortable. "Please? I want to watch you work."

He should say no. Should tell her to go home, get some sleep, stop doing whatever this was that felt like more than friendship.

"Okay," he said instead. "What do you want me to make?"

"Surprise me."

So he did.

The kitchen felt different at night. Quieter. More his. During service it belonged to Dante, to the line cooks, to the relentless rhythm of tickets and timers. But after close, when the stainless steel was wiped down and the only light came from the hood vents, it became something else. A space for experimenting. For playing.

He pulled ingredients from the walk-in—garlic, a lemon, parmesan, the good olive oil Dante kept on the top shelf for staff meals. Simple stuff. Midnight pantry cooking.

Belly watched through the phone, propped against the ticket rail. Her face glowed blue in the Paris darkness, city lights visible over her shoulder. She'd tucked herself into a corner of the bench, jacket pulled tight, and seeing her there—so far away, so present—made his hands steadier instead of more nervous.

He started narrating without thinking about it. How his mom used to when she let him help in the kitchen as a kid. How he'd learned to do at Wednesday dinners, talking Susannah through each step so she'd feel like part of it even when she was too tired to stand.

For the next hour, she asked questions and he answered them. Sometimes she'd interrupt with a story about her day—Benito's latest architectural obsession, the old woman at the bakery who'd taught her to shape baguettes, how Paris smelled different in spring. And he'd listen, hands moving through familiar motions, letting her voice fill the empty kitchen.

It felt easy. Natural. Like no time had passed at all. Like they were back at his mom's house, Belly perched on the counter while he cooked, both of them pretending they weren't exactly where they wanted to be.

"Okay," she said, stifling a yawn. "I should let you go. It's late there too."

"Yeah." He didn't want to hang up. "Thanks for keeping me company."

"Thanks for the cooking show." She smiled, soft and tired. "Same time next week?"

"Deal."

She was about to end the call—he could see her thumb moving toward the button—when she stopped. Bit her lip the way she did when she was deciding something. He knew that tell. Had trained himself to ignore it years ago. Wasn't ignoring it now.

"Jere?"

"Yeah?"

"I—" She shook her head. "Never mind. It's dumb."

"Tell me."

"It's just—" She made a frustrated sound. Wrapped her arms around herself. "I've been trying not to say this. Because—Conrad. Because it's complicated. Because I'm supposed to be—"

She stopped. He waited.

"I can't stop thinking about you."

The words came out in a rush, like she'd been holding them back and they'd finally escaped. She blinked, surprised at herself.

His hands stilled on the pan.

"Constantly." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "I'll see something and think 'Jere would love this.' I'll taste something and wonder how you'd make it."

She pulled her jacket tighter, and he thought about how cold Paris must be—how warm she'd feel tucked against him if she were here instead of a continent away.

"You're just there. All the time. Like—like you're part of Paris now. Part of everything good here." She bit her lip. "Friends don't feel like this. Do they?"

She looked at the camera. Open. Unguarded. And fuck, that was harder to look at than anything.

"I don't know what that means. For us."

He didn't either. She was in his head too—had been there for years, longer than he wanted to admit. These past seven weeks of talking every day had only made it worse. Or better. He couldn't tell anymore.

But he'd been so careful. So determined not to be the guy who made this harder for her.

"Bells—"

"You don't have to say anything. I just needed to—"

"I—" He set down the pan. "I think about you too."

The words came out before he could stop them. Before he could think about all the reasons he shouldn't say them.

"You do?"

"All the time." He made himself look at her through the screen. "I've been trying not to. Because—Conrad. Because you just got out of something. I didn't want to make things harder for you."

"You're not making things harder."

"I might be. That's the problem." He gripped the edge of the prep table. "I don't know how to do this, Bells. I don't know what the right amount of space is, or when it's okay to say things, or if I'm being a good friend or just waiting for something I shouldn't be waiting for."

"What are you waiting for?"

He didn't answer. Couldn't.

"Jere." She bit her lip. "Do you ever think about what happens when I come back?"

His hands were shaking. He set down the pan so she wouldn't see.

"Sometimes," he said. "Do you?"

"All the time."

They sat with that for a moment. Three thousand miles between them. Not ready to close it yet.

"I should go," she said. "Celine's texting me increasingly threatening emojis."

"Okay."

"But Jere?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for calling me. For showing me the pasta. For—" She stopped. "For being you."

"Anytime, Bells."

"I know." She smiled. "That's what makes it so—" Another pause. "Goodnight, Jere."

"Night, Bells."

The call ended. He stood in the empty kitchen, pasta cooling in the pan, not quite sure what had just happened.

They'd said things. Real things. Things you couldn't unsay.

He put down his phone. Ate his pasta cold, standing at the prep table in the dark kitchen. It tasted like relief.

~*~

THURSDAY, MARCH 26 - MORNING

Jeremiah woke up to seventeen text notifications.

Most were from Denise, a running commentary on her walk home with Dante that had apparently turned into a two-hour conversation on her doorstep.

Denise: He's insufferable.

Denise: And right about the algorithm. I hate that.

Denise: He asked if I wanted to get coffee this weekend. I said yes. Is that stupid?

Denise: It's probably stupid.

Denise: Whatever. I'm doing it anyway.

Denise: HOW WAS YOUR FACETIME WITH BELLY

Denise: Fisher I know you're awake

Denise: Your instagram says active 2 min ago

Denise: FISHER

He smiled, typing back:

Jere: Stalker.

Denise: Answer the question.

Jere: It was good. We talked.

Denise: That's it? You TALKED?

Jere: We talked about stuff. Real stuff.

Denise: Real stuff meaning...?

Jere: Meaning I'm not giving you details so you can screenshot them for a wedding slideshow.

Denise: Valid. Steven already told me that's his move.

Denise: But you're okay?

Jere: Yeah. I think so.

Denise: Good. Don't overthink it.

Jere: Too late.

Denise: Then stop. Just be her friend. The rest will figure itself out.

She was right, probably. The rest would figure itself out. Or it wouldn't. Either way, overthinking wasn't going to help.

He switched to his conversation with Belly. There were three new messages.

Belly: Did I say too much last night? I have a vague memory of being too honest.

Belly: Please tell me I didn't make things weird.

Belly: Okay your silence is making me nervous.

He stared at the screen. She'd sent the last one twenty minutes ago.

He typed back:

Jere: You didn't make things weird. You were honest. I was honest back. That's not weird.

Belly: Okay but we said THINGS. Real things.

Jere: Yeah.

Belly: And now what? Is that weird?

He didn't know how to answer that. He had no idea. Last night had changed something between them. Made it real in a way it hadn't been before.

But she was still in Paris. Still figuring herself out. Still healing from four years of being someone's girlfriend.

And he was still here. Still his brother's brother. Still trying to be the good guy.

Jere: Now we keep being honest, I guess. When we're ready.

Belly: When we're ready.

Jere: Yeah.

A long pause. Then:

Belly: I don't regret saying it. For the record.

Jere: Me neither.

Belly: Okay. Good.

Belly: I have class. Talk later?

Jere: Always.

He put his phone down. Smiled at the ceiling like an idiot.

~*~

FRIDAY, MARCH 27

The BEN house was loud as always—bass thumping upstairs, twenty-something guys pretending they had their lives together.

Jeremiah hadn't been back in a few weeks. Between Saltline and his cooking classes and Wednesday dinners with his mom, the frat felt like something he was outgrowing. Not in a bad way. Just different.

"FISHER!"

Redbird appeared from nowhere, beer in hand. "Dude, where have you been?"

"Work. Classes. You know."

"The cooking thing." Redbird nodded. "I heard. Dante's place, right? That shit's legit."

They found a corner away from the speakers.

"How's Blake?" Jeremiah asked.

"Good. Great, actually." Redbird's expression softened. "We're like... official official now. Met his parents last weekend."

"Seriously?"

"I know. Me. Committed." He laughed. "But he's different. He doesn't want me to be anyone except who I am. And he calls me on my shit, which apparently I need." He paused. "He almost transferred back home last semester, you know? Thought the distance thing was too hard. But then he decided—you can't build something real by running from it. You gotta actually show up." Redbird shrugged. "I don't know. Made sense when he said it."

"Yeah," Jeremiah said. "It does."

"Speaking of which—" He leaned in, conspiratorial. "I'm switching majors. Construction management. My uncle does carpentry—custom stuff, restaurant buildouts, high-end residential. I've been helping him on weekends and I'm actually good at it." He held up his hands, showing the calluses. "Man, who knew I was a hands-on guy?"

"That's amazing."

"Right? Hey, if you ever open that restaurant, I'll build it for you. Frat discount."

Jeremiah laughed. "Deal."

"You better come to the foam party in April. You're graduating—you don't get to skip it."

"I'll try."

Redbird spotted someone across the room. "Gotta go. But don't be a stranger, okay?"

"Never."

~*~

SATURDAY, MARCH 28

Steven quit Breaker on a Saturday.

He'd been planning it for weeks—rehearsing the speech, running numbers with Denise, making sure the app was far enough along that he could point to something real. But in the end, it was simpler than he'd expected.

He walked into Adam Fisher's office—corner of the building, all glass and chrome and calculated intimidation—and said the words.

"I'm leaving. I'm building something of my own."

Adam had stared at him for a long moment. Belly's ex-boyfriend's dad. Jeremiah's dad. The guy who'd hired him because Belly asked. The whole thing was a mess if you thought about it too hard.

Then Adam laughed.

"The app thing?"

"Denise. She put in her notice last week." Steven kept his voice steady. "And she's my business partner."

"Business partner." Adam shook his head. "Steven, you don't have a business. You have a PowerPoint presentation and a dream."

"We have early-stage funding. Investors interested. Dante Reyes signed on as an advisor."

Adam's eyebrows went up slightly. He knew the name—anyone in the food industry knew Dante's reputation.

"And you think that's enough? To walk away from a real job, a real career?"

"I think it's more than most people have when they start." Steven held his gaze. "You took a risk once. Let me take mine."

Adam didn't respond. His fingers drummed once on the desk—that restless energy the Fisher boys had inherited.

"You fail at this," Adam said after a beat, "don't come back here expecting your old job."

"I won't need to."

"We'll see."

Steven stood, ready to leave. Hand on the door.

"Steven."

He turned. Adam was looking out the window, not at him. His posture had changed—less CEO, more tired.

"How are they?" Adam asked. "My sons."

Steven blinked. "What?"

"Conrad and Jeremiah." Adam still wasn't looking at him. "How are they doing?"

"I—" Steven didn't know what to do with this. Adam Fisher, asking about his sons through his employee. His former employee. "They're good. Conrad's killing it at Stanford. Jere's... figuring things out. Why don't you ask them yourself?"

Adam's expression tightened. "It's complicated."

"They're your sons."

"I'm aware." Adam looked at him, expression shuttered. "Just—tell them I asked. If it comes up."

It wouldn't come up. Steven knew that. Adam knew that. But he nodded anyway.

"Sure."

"Good luck with your app." Adam turned back to the window. Conversation over.

Steven walked out, more confused than when he'd walked in. In all the months he'd worked at Breaker, Adam had never once mentioned his sons. Never asked how they were, never brought up the family connection. It was like they existed in separate universes—Adam's work life and Adam's former family life, never touching.

And now, the day Steven quit, he finally asked.

Weird. The whole thing was weird.

He called Jeremiah from the parking lot.

"I did it."

"How'd it go?"

"He thinks I'm an idiot." Steven laughed. "But I fucking did it."

"Proud of you, man."

"Thanks." A pause. "Denise is meeting me at the office in an hour. We're going to celebrate. You should come."

"I've got a shift—"

"After. Come after. We'll be there late."

Jeremiah hesitated. "Okay. Yeah. I'll be there."

"Good." Steven's voice went softer. "And Jere? Thanks. For believing in this. In us."

"Always."

He hung up. Sat in the parking lot for a minute, processing. His phone buzzed again. Dad.

"Steven." His dad's voice was calm. "Your mom said today was the day."

"Yeah. I did it." He laughed, a little manic. "I'm unemployed now. So that's fun."

"Good."

"Good? Dad, I'm about to lose my apartment. The app might totally tank. I could be—"

"Steven." His dad cut him off. "You've been miserable. Don't think we couldn't tell."

"I wasn't—" He stopped. "Okay, maybe a little."

"More than a little." A pause. "I'm proud of you. For taking the leap."

Steven leaned against his car. Didn't know what to say to that. "Thanks, Dad."

"Come for dinner Sunday. Bring Taylor. Your mother has questions."

"She always has questions."

"She's your mother. That's the job."

Steven laughed—real this time. "Yeah. Okay. I'll be there."

He hung up. Sat in the parking lot a minute longer, thinking about Adam Fisher. About how the guy had asked about his own sons through an employee. Through Steven. Like they were a quarterly report he'd forgotten to check.

Some people got lucky with their dads. Steven was starting to realize he was one of them.

~*~

The "office" was a coworking space in Cambridge—one room with two desks, a whiteboard covered in mockups, and a mini-fridge stocked with energy drinks. Where startups went to die or, occasionally, to become something real.

Jeremiah found Denise and Steven there at midnight, surrounded by takeout containers and a bottle of champagne that had cost more than either of them should've spent. Taylor was there too, curled up on the tiny couch in the corner, scrolling through her phone with intense focus—avoiding homework.

The room smelled like cold lo mein and ambition. Post-it notes covered every surface—yellow for features, pink for bugs, blue for "ask Dante." Someone had written WE'RE DOING THIS on the whiteboard in red marker and underlined it three times.

"Fisher!" Denise waved him in. "We saved you the good lo mein."

"Thanks." He grabbed a container, settled into the only chair that wasn't covered in papers. "So. You're really doing this."

"Dude, we're actually doing this." Steven's arm was around Taylor, easy and comfortable, but his eyes had that tightness—the look of someone who'd jumped off a cliff and was still waiting to land. "No more Breaker. No more Adam Fisher breathing down my neck. Just us and this ridiculous idea."

"It's not ridiculous," Denise said. "It's visionary."

"It's both." Taylor set down her phone. "And we're all very proud of you."

She glanced at Steven. He gave her a small nod—silent communication that came from months of being together, of learning each other's rhythms.

"Speaking of doing things," Taylor said, "I should probably mention—I'm not renewing my lease."

Denise's head snapped up. "Wait, what?"

"My lease is up in June. Right after graduation." Taylor shrugged, but she was picking at her nail polish—how she always did when she'd rehearsed something. "Didn't make sense to sign another year when I don't know where I'll be working yet."

"So where are you gonna live?"

Taylor looked at Steven. Steven looked at the ceiling.

"Dude, we're, um." He cleared his throat. "We're talking about getting a place together."

The room went quiet. Denise's eyebrows shot up, then she broke into a grin she was clearly trying to suppress.

"You're moving in together."

"We're talking about it," Steven said quickly. "It's not definite. We're just—exploring the option."

"Exploring the option." Denise's grin broke through. "You sound like a real estate brochure."

"Shut up."

"This is huge! This is like—adult huge. This is IKEA furniture and shared Netflix passwords and fighting about whose turn it is to buy toilet paper."

"We already fight about that," Taylor said. "He never buys the good kind."

"Because the expensive toilet paper is a scam, Taylor. It's literally paper you throw away."

"It's about quality of life, Steven."

"Dude, I used to steal toilet paper from the country club. We are not luxury toilet paper people." He rubbed his face. "I'm about to be unemployed and you want the eight-dollar stuff?"

"You stole toilet paper?"

"It was really good toilet paper, okay? Don't judge me."

Taylor's expression softened. "We'll be fine."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." She took his hand. "And I know we'll figure it out. Even if it means buying the shitty toilet paper for a while."

He smiled. "Literally shitty."

"Literally."

They bickered. Jeremiah smiled without realizing it. This was what it looked like when people figured it out. When they stopped circling and started building.

Steven caught his eye, and some of the bravado dropped away. Underneath was raw hope mixed with terror.

"I quit my job today," Steven said, quieter now. "My apartment's through Breaker's corporate housing program. Which means I've got sixty days to find somewhere else to live."

"Jesus." Jeremiah hadn't thought about that. "So you're not just quitting. You're—"

"Burning it all down. Yeah." Steven laughed, but it came out thin. "Man. What the freak am I doing? If the app doesn't work, I'm unemployed AND homeless. So that's fun."

"It's going to work," Denise said. Not cheerful—certain. The voice of someone who'd run the numbers and believed them.

"And if it doesn't," Taylor added, squeezing his hand, "we already covered that."

Steven looked at her. His shoulders dropped.

Jeremiah thought about Belly in Paris. FaceTime calls and voice memos and the three thousand miles between them.

"You two are gonna be fine," he said. "Both of you."

"Yeah?" Steven's voice cracked slightly. "How do you know?"

"Because you're terrified. And you're doing it anyway." Jeremiah shrugged. "That's usually how the good stuff works."

~*~

They stayed until two in the morning, eating cold lo mein and talking about futures. Steven and Taylor's apartment hunt. Denise and Steven's app roadmap. The fact that Denise had been spending every evening at Saltline, arguing with Dante about algorithms until midnight.

"It's purely professional," she said when Taylor raised an eyebrow.

"Uh huh."

"It IS. He's helping with the restaurant-specific features. He has expertise."

"And nice forearms," Taylor added.

"I hadn't noticed."

"You mentioned them twice last week."

Denise threw a fortune cookie at her. Taylor caught it, grinning.

Around 1am, Jeremiah mentioned the culinary school applications. Casually. Like it wasn't a big deal.

"Wait, you're applying?" Denise grabbed his arm. "You're actually applying?"

"I, uh—yeah. Sent the applications yesterday. Boston Culinary, CIA, Johnson & Wales."

"JEREMIAH FISHER."

"It's just applications. Doesn't mean anything."

"You'll get in." She said it like it was already done. "You'll get in and you'll be amazing and then you'll open your restaurant and hire Redbird to build it and I'll handle your inventory system and Steven will do your books and—"

"That's a lot of steps ahead."

"Someone has to plan for your future. You're too busy making pasta at midnight for girls in Paris."

Steven snorted. Taylor's head snapped up.

"Wait." Her eyes narrowed. "Oh my God. Belly?"

"Long story," Steven said, giving Jeremiah a look.

"It's not that long." Taylor set down her phone, studying Jeremiah with the intensity of someone who'd been Belly's best friend for fifteen years. "You two have been texting constantly. She mentions you in like every conversation we have."

"We're friends."

"Uh huh." Taylor didn't look convinced. "She also told me about the FaceTime cooking thing. Which—oh my God, I'm not saying I ship it, but I'm also not NOT saying that."

"It's just—we talk. That's all."

"Sure. Just two friends. One of whom cooks her midnight pasta from across an ocean while she watches." Taylor's look said everything. "Very normal friendship behavior."

"Taylor—"

"Look." She set down her phone, which meant this was serious. "She's been through it. Like, really through it. And she's good now—actually good, not pretending-to-be-good good. So whatever this is—" She gestured vaguely at him. "Don't be the reason she's not good anymore. I will make your life hell. I have the time."

"I wouldn't—"

"I know. That's why I'm only giving you a medium-level shovel talk instead of the full version." She picked up her phone again. "I told her the same thing, by the way. Get your shit together, stop making moon eyes at each other over FaceTime, either do something or don't. The pining is exhausting for everyone."

"We're not pining."

"Jeremiah. I have eyes."

Denise raised her champagne glass. "She has a point. You're very obvious."

"I hate both of you."

"You love us." Taylor was already scrolling again, conversation apparently over. "Just—figure it out before I have to stage an intervention. I don't have time for that. I'm very busy."

"Oh—" Jeremiah said, grateful for a subject change. "I told Marco about the app. He's in my cooking class. Runs a food truck. He's interested in the inventory side."

Denise perked up. "Marco? The guy you said makes the good tacos?"

"Yeah. I can introduce you sometime if you want to pick his brain."

"Set it up." She grabbed her phone, already making notes. "I need more food truck operators in our user research."

Steven caught Jeremiah's eye, raised an eyebrow. Jeremiah shrugged. It was just a connection. Nothing more.

Around 2am, Taylor and Denise left together—Taylor had an early class, Denise had a "breakfast meeting" at Saltline that was definitely not just about algorithms. Steven walked them to the door, then came back and sat down across from Jeremiah.

"Hey. Weird thing."

"What?"

"When I quit today. Your dad asked about you."

Jeremiah went still. "He what?"

"Asked how you and Conrad were doing. Out of nowhere." Steven shook his head. "It was bizarre. Like he actually wanted to know but couldn't just... call you himself."

Jeremiah didn't say anything. Just picked at the label on his beer bottle.

"You okay?"

"Why would he ask you?" His voice came out flatter than he meant it to. "He hasn't called me in months. Hasn't called Conrad either, far as I know. And now he's asking my friend how we're doing?"

"I don't know, man. It was weird."

"It's bullshit is what it is." Jeremiah peeled another strip of label. "He doesn't get to do that. Check in through other people like we're some quarterly report."

Steven was quiet for a moment. "What did you tell him?" Jeremiah asked.

"That you guys were good. That he should ask you himself." Steven paused. "He said it was complicated."

"Of course he did." Jeremiah almost laughed. "Everything's complicated with him. Work's complicated. The divorce was complicated. Having a relationship with his own kids is complicated." He shook his head. "At some point it's just an excuse."

Silence. Steven knew something about that, too—his parents' divorce had been rough, though they'd gotten weirdly close again lately.

"For what it's worth," Steven said carefully, "I think he actually does care. He just—"

"Then he should act like it." Jeremiah finished his beer, set the bottle down harder than necessary. "Sorry. I don't want to talk about him."

"Yeah. Okay."

They sat with that for a minute. Then Steven changed the subject to Taylor's apartment search, and Jeremiah let him.

Later, closing down the bar at Saltline, he was still thinking about it. His dad asking. His dad caring enough to ask, even if he couldn't pick up the phone himself. It pissed him off more than it should have. Or maybe exactly as much as it should have. He didn't know anymore.

~*~

SUNDAY, MARCH 29 - PARIS

Belly's Sunday started at 6am.

The gym was in the 12th arrondissement, a converted warehouse with high ceilings and scuffed hardwood floors. Nothing fancy—just nets and lines and the particular smell of gym floors that was the same in every country. She'd found it through a flyer at a café, signed up before she could talk herself out of it.

Rec league volleyball. Nothing competitive, just people who wanted to hit a ball around before brunch. Her PT had cleared her months ago, but actually playing had taken longer. She'd been afraid her knee would give out, that her body would betray her, that everything she'd lost would come flooding back.

The first serve came toward her and her body moved before she could think. Knees bent, arms together, platform solid. The ball arced up—not perfect, but clean. Playable.

Her knee held. She waited for the ache, the give, the betrayal—but it didn't come.

Her first dig was rusty. Her second was better. By the end of the hour, she was moving without thinking, her body remembering what her brain had tried to forget. The rhythm of it. How a good pass felt in your forearms. The satisfaction of a set that landed exactly where your hitter needed it.

"Pas mal!" someone called after a particularly good play. Not bad.

She was crying in the bathroom afterward—not sad, just overwhelmed. Relief. Joy. Tears that came from realizing you'd been holding your breath for months and finally letting it out. She thought about texting Jere immediately—he'd want to know, he'd been asking about it—and then laughed at herself. Of course she was thinking about him. She was always thinking about him.

She'd thought volleyball was over. Another thing the injury had taken from her, along with her scholarship and her understanding of who she was supposed to be. But here, in a converted warehouse in Paris with a bunch of strangers who didn't know anything about her past, it was just a game again. Just movement and sweat and the simple pleasure of doing something she loved.

A text from Jere:

Jere: How was volleyball?

She sent back a photo of herself, sweaty and grinning, giving a thumbs up.

Belly: I'm back.

Jere: Never doubted it.

The rest of her Sunday was quieter. Figure drawing with Gemma at the studio near Bastille—she was terrible at it, all her proportions wrong, but it felt meditative. Coffee with Benito at their usual spot, where he stressed about a project deadline while she listened and offered unhelpful suggestions about load-bearing walls.

Then a long walk through the Marais, alone. Just her and the cobblestones and the early spring light filtering through the plane trees. Paris was starting to feel like hers now. Not a place she was visiting, but a place she was living. The difference mattered more than she'd expected.

She passed the bakery on the corner—the one where she'd learned to shape baguettes. The bookshop where she'd found a water-damaged copy of a Colette novel for three euros. The corner where she'd cried on her second week here, homesick and lost and sure she'd made a terrible mistake.

That corner looked different now.

She thought about Jeremiah. About their FaceTime call. About the words she'd said—I can't stop thinking about you—and how he'd looked when she said them.

She didn't know what happened next. But she knew she wanted to be part of it.

At a small café near her apartment, she pulled out her phone and texted:

Belly: What are you doing next Wednesday?

Jere: Dinner with my mom. Why?

Belly: FaceTime me after? I want to see what you make.

Jere: You got it.

Belly: And Jere?

Jere: Yeah?

Belly: Thanks. For being honest with me. Even when it's scary.

A pause. Then:

Jere: Same to you, Bells.

She smiled at her phone. The waiter gave her a knowing look.

"L'amour?" he asked.

"Je ne sais pas," she said. I don't know.

And for once, she was okay with not knowing.

~*~

MONDAY, MARCH 30 - STANFORD

Conrad found Agnes in their usual coffee shop, the one near the medical library where they'd been studying together for two years.

She looked up when he sat down. Took one look at his face and set down her pencil.

"You ended it," she said.

"Yeah."

"How do you feel?"

He started to say fine out of habit—then stopped. She was watching him with that steady gaze. Not expectant. Not worried. Just waiting.

"I don't know," he said finally. "Relieved? Guilty? Both?"

"Both is allowed."

She went back to her notes. Didn't push. Didn't need him to elaborate or reassure her he was okay. Just let him sit with it.

He felt his shoulders drop an inch. Took a sip of coffee. Let the silence stretch.

Two years. Had it really been that long? Two years of sitting across from her at this same table, sharing notes and complaints and the exhaustion of medical school. Two years of her knowing him better than almost anyone—and never once making him perform being fine.

"On a scale of one to ten," she said without looking up, "how relieved are you?"

"Agnes."

"Just humor me." She kicked his foot under the table. "One to ten."

He sighed. "Seven. Maybe eight."

"See? That wasn't hard." She set down her pencil. "And on a scale of one to ten, how guilty do you feel about being relieved?"

"You're impossible."

"Uh-uh. Answer the question."

He looked at his coffee. "Six."

"So you're more relieved than guilty." She tilted her head. "That's not nothing, Conrad."

"Dr. Okonkwo says I should try being honest more often." He attempted a smile. "Apparently I've spent twenty-four years avoiding it."

"She's not wrong."

"I know."

Agnes pulled her hair back like she was going to put it up, then let it fall again. Working up to something.

"Can I ask you one more thing?"

"You're going to anyway."

"When you called me that night—" She paused.

Conrad went still.

"You could've called your brother. Your mom. Anyone." She met his eyes. "Why did you call me first?"

He thought about it. About that night, sitting in his apartment, feeling hollowed out and relieved and terrified all at once. His thumb had hovered over Jeremiah's name. Then his mom's. Then, without thinking, he'd pressed Agnes's.

"Because you don't need me to be okay."

He looked at his coffee.

"Everyone else—Jere, my mom—they need to know I'm fine. That I have it handled."

Pause.

"You just let me not be fine."

Her expression flickered. Just for a second. Then she looked down at her notes.

"Is that all?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—" She tapped her pencil against the table. Twice. "I've been sitting across from you at this table for two years. I know when you're deflecting." She looked up. "Am I right?"

His shoulders tensed.

"Agnes—"

"Don't." She held up a hand. "Don't ask me something you're not ready to hear the answer to."

He looked away. Because she was right—there was a question he'd been circling for months. Maybe longer. And he wasn't ready.

"I just got out of a four-year relationship," he said. "With someone I thought I'd marry."

"I know."

"And I don't know if I can be what you need. I don't know if—"

"To what?" She raised an eyebrow. "Feel better? Fill a void?" She shook her head. "I'm not worried about that. I know who I am."

"So what do you want?"

She was quiet for a moment. Fidgeting with her pencil, the eraser end wearing down.

"I want you to figure out what you want," she said. "Not because I'm—" She stopped. Started again. "I'm not trying to be next in line. That's not what this is."

"I know that."

"Do you?" She looked at him directly. "Because I need you to actually know it. Not just say it."

"And then?"

"Then maybe ask me to coffee. When you're—" She stopped. "When you're actually asking." She started gathering her books. "Instead of whatever this is."

She walked out, leaving him alone at the table. Conrad sat there, coffee going cold, turning the conversation over in his head.

Earn it.

He'd never had to earn anything with Belly. They'd fallen into each other like gravity—inevitable, unstoppable, exhausting. He'd never had to fight for it because it had always just been there.

But Agnes was different. Agnes required intention. Required showing up.

His phone buzzed. A text from Jeremiah.

Jere: How are you doing? Haven't heard from you in a while.

He thought about deflecting. About typing fine and leaving it at that.

Instead:

Conrad: I had coffee with Agnes. She basically told me to get my shit together before asking her out.

Jere: Smart woman.

Conrad: Yeah. I just don't know how.

Jere: You're already doing it. Therapy, being honest, actually trying. That's how.

Conrad: That simple, huh?

Jere: You'll know when you're ready. Just keep showing up.

Conrad: Thanks, Jere. For checking in.

Jere: Anytime, Con.

~*~

MONDAY, MARCH 30 - EVENING

Jeremiah's phone pinged while he was finishing up his applications. An email.

From: [email protected] Subject: Cooking school

Halmoni's email address. Belly's grandmother. He'd gotten exactly three emails from her in his entire life—one congratulating him on graduating high school, one telling him to stop posting shirtless photos online ("It is not dignified"), and one asking if he knew how to fix a printer.

This one was different.

Jere-yah,

Belly tells me you are applying to cooking school. Good. You have talent. Don't waste it on hedge fund nonsense like your father.

When you get in (not if—when), remember this: cooking is not about showing off. It is about feeding people. Making them feel at home. Your mother understands this. So do you.

Use the knives I gave you well.

Also stop posting shirtless photos online. It is still not dignified.

Halmoni

He read it three times. Then once more.

Your mother understands this. So do you.

He thought about Wednesday dinners. About learning to cook so his mom would eat during chemo. About the way food could say the things words couldn't—I love you, I'm here, you matter.

He thought about the restaurant. The one he'd been sketching in notebooks for years. The menu he was building in his head.

He thought about Belly in Paris, asking him to make her pasta. How she'd looked at that scallop plate like it was something precious.

Cooking is not about showing off. It is about feeding people.

He knew that. Had always known it.

But hearing it from Halmoni—Belly's grandmother, who never said anything she didn't mean—made it real in a way it hadn't been before.

He closed his laptop and went to bed. Slept better than he had in weeks.