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Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

Conrad Fisher was dreading the first day of classes. Stanford felt like a restart button he wasn't ready to press, and he'd already done the new kid, first day of school shuffle at Brown, but this time it stung more, probably because the summer had been... catastrophic.

He tried not to think about it, of course. Tried not to picture the beach house being nearly ripped away from them, his mom's memory dangling on the edge of a realtor's pen. He also tried not to remember the look on Jeremiah's face before he kissed the girl he loved, and it went without saying that he most certainly did not want to think about the look on Belly's face before she kissed him back, the scene of the crime none other than Conrad's own car. He told himself not to dwell, but the problem was, Conrad was a liar and a dweller, so dwell he did.

His first class was a 9 a.m. humanities elective, already a punishment in itself, but he hoped it would be easy, because the rest of his schedule was lined with pre-med horror stories. Unfortunately for him, God wasn't feeling particularly merciful that day.

Just as he slid into a seat somewhere in the middle of the lecture hall, he realized he was screwed. He had no pen, no pencil, his laptop was out of battery, and there was no outlet in sight to save him from his lack of preparation. He muttered a curse under his breath, trying to look less pathetic than he felt, and that's when a hand appeared in his peripheral vision, holding out not one pen, but a fan of them. Seven, maybe eight, all different colours like a rainbow had exploded in the girl's palm.

When he turned, he was greeted by a shock of blonde curls pinned up by a clip that looked like it was fighting for its life, a few strands rebelliously escaping around her face, and her smile was conspiratorial, as if she was about to share an inside joke he hadn't earned yet. A can of unopened Cherry Coke sat next to her on the table. 

"Pick your weapon," she told him.

Conrad blinked at the pens and then at her, thinking, who the hell carries this many pens. She didn't look like the type to hoard office supplies, but then again, he didn't look like the type to show up to class completely unarmed, and yet here he was. Appearances could be deceiving.

He reached for the plain black one to be safe, something neutral and boring, and she seemed to catch his intention immediately.

"Of course," she said, rolling her eyes like she'd expected it. "Classic male choice. No imagination."

The corner of his mouth tugged upward before he could stop it.

"And I hope you're a fast writer," she continued, "because Professor Wilson goes a mile a minute."

"How would you know?" he asked with a slight frown.

His seatmate shrugged. "Took a class with him last year and learned the hard way, unfortunately." Then she took out her laptop and flipped it open with the casual efficiency of someone who'd been through this rodeo before.

The rest of class blurred into chaos, and the girl hadn't been exaggerating. Professor Wilson was a tiny man with a bristling mustache and spectacles that made him look like a cartoon character, but his lecture felt like someone had hit fast-forward on a video with bad quality. His words were a bullet train, and his voice was garbled, which meant Conrad barely managed to keep up, scribbling half-finished sentences into his notebook, hoping they'd make sense later.

His wrist throbbed before the halfway mark, and by the time Wilson dismissed them, he was shaking out his hand like it had been through combat.

"Hand cramp?" the girl asked, looking at him with just enough pity to sting.

"Yeah."

"You'll learn soon enough. Most of what he says isn't super relevant if you just do the readings and copy the slides. He loves to hear himself talk."

Conrad tried to gather his things, fumbling a little. Then he held out the pen to her. "Oh, by the way, thanks for lending me your pen."

"Keep it. For good luck. May you never be out of stationery for the rest of your academic career."

That drew another half smile out of him, but before he could insist that she take it back, she glanced at her wrist watch and swore. "Shit! I'm late." She shoved her things into her backpack and joined the stream of students rushing out the door, curls bobbing, already gone.

Conrad sat there a beat longer, the black pen still in his hand, and only when the room had emptied around him did it hit him. He never asked for her name.

Something about her left him with a sense of déjà vu, like maybe he'd passed her once in a crowd or seen her laughing in the background of his life, but that couldn't have been true. She was the kind of pretty you remembered, not in any obvious, loud way, but in the way she seemed so certain of her own space in the world. If he had seen her before, he definitely would have remembered.

Unfortunately, his thoughts always had a way of circling back to the same abyss, pulled under by the undertow he could never quite fight, and soon the unnamed girl drifted out of his mind.

Since his mother's death, the darkness had been a constant, sometimes a murmur, other times a roar. Today it returned in full force. Being at Stanford only made the grief sharper. He should've been able to call her, to hear her voice on the other end, soft but sure, telling him she was proud, asking about his classes, chuckling when he admitted he'd already overslept. Instead, there was a silence so cavernous it echoed inside his ribcage.

This was only the beginning, and she had already missed so much. She hadn't been there to cheer at the acceptance, and she wouldn't be there at graduation. And after that? How many more milestones would pass with her absent, a ghost in the margins? How many times would he look for her in a crowd only to remember that she'd never be there?

The realization that always made his lungs seize was that one day, the years he had lived with her would be fewer than the years he lived without her. One day, she would belong more to the past than the present.

Conrad dragged in a reluctant breath, forcing his hand through his hair and forcing himself to move. Even the professor had left by now, and he had only the bland walls and abandoned seats for company as he pulled up his schedule, praying he wasn't already late for whatever came next. He had to keep moving because if he let himself stay still too long, the darkness would eat him whole.

Three days later, he saw the pen girl again as he was cutting across campus, his mind preoccupied with labs and assignments and the suffocating feeling of always being behind. She was coming out of the athletic center with a group of girls, a gym bag slung over her shoulder, and her hair shoved back with a headband this time. She was clad in the signature scarlet and white of the school's soccer team.

So the stationery hoarder was also apparently a Division I athlete. Conrad filed that information away like he always did when something piqued his interest, but he wasn't ready to admit it outright.

His chest tightened uncomfortably, which it often did when something felt too much like living, but he told himself he wasn't staring, and that he wasn't already halfway across the quad before he had even decided to move.

He repeated the excuse in his head as he closed the distance. He only wanted her name because he couldn't very well go couldn't go around calling her the pen girl forever, and if proximity jogged his memory about where he'd seen her before, even better. He was determined to figure out what it was about her that tugged at him like a half-remembered song, something he should know the words to but couldn't place.

She hadn't seen him yet, too busy snickering at something her teammate said, the sound bright and unburdened, and it made Conrad feel—though he'd never admit it—like he was walking toward sunlight after months of rain.

He pushed the thought down hard, snuffing out the match before the flame could take hold. He didn't dare think about the last time someone's laughter had felt like a summer's day, warm and dangerous because it promised more. He didn't dare think about the utter devastation of being known and then measured against someone else—his own brother, no less—and found lacking. No, he would not do that again.

After the summer, his heart had locked itself away in an underground bunker of sorts, post-apocalyptic and airless. It was safer than risking the mortifying ordeal of being known and then discovered disappointing. Especially when the things that disappointed were beyond his control. His spirals, his silences, the way his grief hollowed him out. It wasn't like he could control any of it.

It wasn't as if he wanted to lie in bed with the blinds drawn all day, suffocated by the knowledge that the world outside was indifferent to the fact that it no longer contained his mother. It wasn't as if he wanted to think of his little brother, whom he had always sworn to protect, stealing the one fragile thing he'd dared to call his own, the girl whose smile had been a lifeline in an ocean of torment. Losing them both was a betrayal, and his father had never been his in the first place, which meant that in one cruel sweep of misfortune, he had managed to lose his entire family. Now he lived in self-imposed exile at the other edge of the country, feeling like shit and feeling sorry for himself like some idiot. 

It wasn't as if he wanted any of it. The nights curled on the cold floor of his dorm, his cheek pressed to the linoleum as if the grounding chill might keep him from spiralling into places he wasn't sure he could claw his way back from. But want had nothing to do with it. Sorrow was a thief that took and took, whether he invited it in or not, and so Conrad Fisher learned to seal every flicker of light away before it could tempt him with the promise of something better.

He had almost reached the girl when it hit him—what the hell was he doing? The closer he got, the more ridiculous the idea seemed, and he wondered if he could still turn around, vanish back into the flow of students streaming past the athletic center.

But she'd already caught sight of him before he could abort the mission, giving her friends a quick wave before peeling away from the group and walking up to him.

Conrad's throat felt dry, and when he finally managed a greeting, it came out a little breathless, as if he were still making up his mind about whether to speak at all. "Hey."

The girl arched an eyebrow. "Oh, hey, it's the pen boy. Glad to see you survived. Hope the rest of your classes are treating you well?"

Conrad nodded, shifting his bag strap higher on his shoulder and trying not to look like he'd spent three days replaying their last encounter in his head. "Yeah, uh, they're fine."

"Fine?" she repeated, her smile widening with mischief. "That sounds convincing."

He gave a faint shrug, then barreled on before he could stop himself, "I realized I never got your name."

Her grin sharpened, and with mock solemnity she extended her hand as if this were a business meeting instead of two students standing outside a gym. "Devon. Devon Watson. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Conrad chuckled in surprise, taking her hand and muttering, "Watson, huh? Like Sherlock's sidekick."

Devon's eyes lit up at the reference. "Watson was actually the brains that kept Sherlock alive long enough to look brilliant. Without him, Sherlock would've been face-first in a gutter two chapters in."

He raised an eyebrow, playing along despite himself. "Pretty sure Sherlock was the genius."

"Yeah, genius with the social skills of a brick wall. Watson was the glue. The charm. The one people actually liked. Tell me again who the real hero was?"

Conrad smirked faintly, still holding her name in his head and tasting it. Devon Watson. It suited her. "So," he remarked, tilting his head, "do you fancy yourself a crime-solving detective then?"

"Alas, not much crime to solve around here. Unless you count me trying to figure out who keeps stealing the desserts I leave in the common room fridge."

"Dessert theft? That's the great mystery?"

"You say that like it's not a tragedy," Devon retorted, narrowing her eyes. "Do you know how upsetting it is to open the fridge after an eight-hour day only to find your cheesecake has vanished? It's a most grievous crime."

Conrad shook his head with amusement. "What, no murders to solve then?"

"God, no." She made a face. "I don't want our campus to be a crime scene. Can you imagine how much harder it would be to trudge to class without using shortcuts? Everyone knows those alleyways are exactly where the murders happen."

"So you're saying you frequent these potential murder hotspots?"

"Sure. And soon so will you, if you value those five extra minutes of sleep on mornings you have a 9 am lecture. Shortcuts save lives."

"Unless they're the reason you're dead," he pointed out. "But hey, at least we'd have our resident Watson to solve the crime."

Devno crossed her arms over her soccer jersey, a spark of mirth flickering in her eyes. " I'd be no help as a counterfeit Watson. No medical degree. Not even a pre-med student. I couldn't patch anyone up."

Conrad's mouth twitched as he tried to suppress his umpteenth smile. "So you're saying if I get stabbed in one of those alleys—which you recommended I take, by the way—on my way to class, I'm on my own?"

"Completely," she said, far too cheerfully. 

"Lucky for me that I'm pre-med, then."

"Ah, so you're the Watson." She snapped her fingers. "We've been wrongly named this whole time."

Conrad finally laughed for real. "Guess so."

"Look at us, living a lie. I've been walking around campus oblivious that the real Watson was right under my nose. Tragic, really. Sherlock would be appalled."

"Pretty sure he'd be too busy to care."

"Wrong. He would absolutely be the sort to submit a twenty-page complaint about false advertising, no matter how busy he was." Devon glanced up at him, her expression amused but probing, like she was filing him away in her mental cabinet of observations. "Which, speaking of... I don't have your name either."

Conrad hesitated. It wasn't that he was secretive on purpose, but giving her his name felt weighted, like currency he wasn't sure he wanted to spend. In the end, her expectant look left him no way out. "Conrad Fisher."

Devon extended her hand again, this time less formal and more genuine. "Well then, Conrad Fisher, pleasure to finally put a name to the pen boy."

He shook her hand, her palm warm against his as his eyes lingered on the glossy cherry red of her nails. "You don't have to keep calling me that."

"Oh, I absolutely do. Nicknames are sacred, and you earned yours by showing up to Wilson's class without a single writing utensil. That's an immortal kind of humiliation."

Conrad laughed again, shaking his head. "You're not going to let that go, are you?"

"Not a chance." She pulled her hand away to tighten the strap of her gym bag. "But don't worry, Fisher, you'll grow into it."

Conrad found himself returning her expression, a flicker of warmth creeping in despite every effort to banish it. Before he could say anything else to prolong the conversation, a whistle cut through the air. Devon glanced over her shoulder, and two girls in matching uniforms jogged toward her, waving.

"Ah, curse the call of duty," she lamented, turning back to him with a half-smile. "See you around. Take care not to be late to class, or get mauled in an alleyway."

"I'll try not to get eaten by anything worse than Wilson's lecture notes."

"I assure you, there's nothing worse than those." 

Then she was gone to meet her teammates, leaving Conrad standing there all by himself, and he realized absurdly that he was actually looking forward to Wilson's next lecture, and certainly not because of the bespectacled professor. 

Over the next few weeks, Mondays—once synonymous with dread, groggy irritation, and the relentless pull of too-early alarms—took on a new quality. He looked forward to them because Devon's presence turned the gray routine of morning lectures unpredictable and irresistibly alive.

He told himself that staying near her was practical self-preservation at best. She was the only familiar face in the crowded lecture hall, the rest of the students already part of groups somewhere in the vast Stanford social network he had yet to decipher. Devon was the constant yet unknowable variable he could latch onto.

During the ten-minute break Wilson grudgingly allowed halfway through the lecture, they shared jokes—sarcastic exchanges about the absurdity of the professor's tangents and the overly dramatic emphasis on minor historical footnotes. During this time, Conrad found himself laughing more freely than he had in weeks, letting the humour wash over the tension that usually knotted his shoulders by 9:50 a.m.

After the lecture, she would always ask about his hand, even after he'd long abandoned paper and pen for his laptop. He never managed to convince her to take back the pen she had lent him the first day, so it stayed tucked in his backpack, a reminder of those minutes of lightness in the otherwise numbing monotony of university life.

As contradictory as it sounded, he began to consider Mondays the highlight of his week. On the weeks when he didn't have a lab immediately following their class, he and Devon had an hour free. One day, when she was feeling particularly generous, she offered him a student version of the campus tour, leading him down hidden paths and less dubious shortcuts between his dorm and lecture rooms, telling him which benches caught the best sunlight, where the coffee in the student center wasn't worth the hype, and which paths were best avoided when it rained. 

The next week, it was his turn, and he took her to a small cafe nearby, a gesture he told himself was purely out of responsibility—he owed her, after all—but in truth it was for the simple pleasure of watching her reaction. She wrinkled her nose at the way he took his coffee, mock disgust in her eyes as she pretended to recoil. 

Over time, he learned to return her jokes more freely. He learned her humour, appreciating the way she could undercut an absurd premise with a single arch of her brow, and he discovered he liked being on the receiving end of her playful scrutiny. 

He began to learn her interests, too. Her favourite movies spanned an impossible range, from horror films he would never have imagined her watching to melodramatic comedies she insisted were the best thing ever. Of course, each recommendation came with a critique longer than the movie itself—improper handling of female characters and implausible character dynamics. 

They never touched on family, letting it remain a wall neither of them dared breach. Mondays existed as a separate reality where they could be themselves without dragging the weight of past grief, fractured homes, or personal failure. Outside of that bubble, the world was heavy and complicated; inside it, they could exist on a simpler plane of existence. There were no missed calls, no letters unsent, no waiting rooms full of mourning and ruined funerals on Mondays. Only conversation and the intricate little rituals, making it the lightest day of Conrad's week. 

But as always, the time was finite. Devon had a life beyond him, one that wasn't measured by monotony and minor victories. He almost envied the way she could brush off their hours together with a final wave and disappear into her own rhythm, leaving him to watch her go with a hollow pang he tried to disguise beneath a shrug.

Of course, she had a life. Not everyone was like him, waiting for a call that never came, hoping for a flicker of connection to anchor a week that had already begun and threatened to end in emptiness.

Regardless, he savoured the hours he spent with her, feeling something akin to peace. It wasn't anything that soul-deep, but it was life-altering all the same because it gave him the fragile, tentative hope that maybe he could belong somewhere after all. The summer would remain a graveyard for his losses, but maybe fall could gather the scattered remnants of what remained, winter could offer solitude to reckon with them, and spring might dare to dream of renewal. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

The sacredness of Mondays was broken sometime halfway through that first year at Stanford. It was already January by the time Conrad realized he needed help, or at least, help of the professional variety, not the kind that came from caffeine and pretending things were fine. He was struggling more than he'd let himself believe, and the cold, gray days of winter worsened things, making him ache for the sun-bleached summers he'd once taken for granted. Days that felt like they belonged to someone else's life.

At least exam season was behind him. December had been a blur of long nights and longer silences, and only God—or whatever indifferent cosmic force was playing dice with his life—knew how he'd scraped through. Now, with a new semester yawning open, he needed to get his act together, or at least figure out how not to sink, because most days he felt less like a functioning human being and more like a particularly soggy rock trying to learn how to swim.

One of his professors had suggested counselling when he'd admitted to struggling in class. Conrad had been skeptical at first, because how was baring his soul to a stranger supposed to fix the years of grief and guilt knotted inside him? How was someone supposed to understand a lifetime they hadn't lived?

Nonetheless, he wanted to try and get better, so here he was, standing in the student counsellor's office, hating every second of it. It was Friday afternoon, strategic planning on his part. If his first session was a disaster, he'd at least have the weekend to crawl into his dorm and self-isolate with Netflix and the comfort of not having to make eye contact with anyone.

He was still rehearsing his escape plan when he noticed the girl at the front desk. Her face was half-hidden behind a laptop, the lid plastered with comic book characters and an entire year's worth of stickers—school clubs, campus organizations, slogans from events Conrad had heard about from her in passing.

All at once, he was confronted with the absurdity of it. Of all people, it had to be Devon on the other side of this particular battlefield, too. Mondays were supposed to be the only place they existed, sealed off from the rest of his messy life, but here she was, unknowingly intruding on the fragile bubble he had constructed around himself.

Bile rose in Conrad's throat, and he stood in the doorway longer than he should have, hand tight around the strap of his backpack like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He hadn't said much over the phone when he scheduled the appointment, but now he wondered if she would know why he was here. He trusted her, of course, but trusting her with jokes over coffee was a far cry from baring the ugliest, unsavoury parts of himself. He wasn't sure he could stomach the thought of her looking at him differently, like she'd found something rotten inside and decided he wasn't worth the hassle.

When she caught sight of him, she grinned. "Oh, hey, it's Fisher. Come on up, I'll check you in." Her expression was warm until she noticed his whitened knuckles and stiff shoulders. Then, her demeanour softened. 

"I just do front desk stuff," she explained gently, almost as an apology. "Paperwork, check-in forms, scheduling appointments, helping plan events for Mental Health Day and all that. Just boring irrelevant stuff."

Conrad's grip slackened slightly. She could read him like a book, and he hated how obvious he must have been, how quickly she'd picked up on his fear that she knew too much. The clarification was her way of telling him that she wouldn't pry. She wouldn't connect dots that weren't hers to connect. 

He forced on his first smile of the day. "Sounds fun." His voice was dry enough to make it clear he didn't quite believe it.

"Meaningful work," Devon countered, seeing through his sarcasm too. "And good on the résumé. Not much opportunity to intern as a psych major, so I'll take what I can get." She slid a clipboard across the desk toward him, along with a cheap, blue-capped ballpoint. "Unfortunately, this pen you cannot keep. You shouldn't want to anyway, it's kind of ugly."

Conrad snorted. "Why would I need to, when I have a perfectly good set of pens from a very good friend?"

"If you're talking about your birthday gift, I hope you know you're getting pens from me every year. Gotta make sure you never run out."

He raised a brow. "Wasn't the pen you gave me on the first day supposed to do that? Bring me luck and make sure I'm never without?"

"We make our own luck. I'm just helping yours out with the monumental task of keeping Conrad Fisher stationery-stocked."

She tapped the clipboard to draw his attention to it, and when he looked down at the novel-length questionnaire designed to figure out if he was crazy or just garden-variety miserable, he debated just scrawling 'all of the above'. Or maybe he should draw a stick figure of himself waving a white flag. But Devon's encouraging look made him uncap the pen and try to ignore the voices in his head that told him how pointless it would be to sit down and air the dirty laundry of his life to a complete stranger. 

Name: Conrad Fisher.

Emergency contact: No one, but thanks for asking.

Once upon a time, the answer would've been obvious—his mom. She would have come running across states, even for a mere stubbed toe. In fact, sometimes in his worst delusions, he imagined she wouldn't even let death stop her from coming to him if he really needed her, but that was just wishful thinking. He'd spent too many miserable nights needing her, and she'd never come. This was reality, and in this reality, he couldn't put down his dead mom as his emergency contact. 

The thought of putting Adam's name down made him sick. Nothing like having your absentee father as the guy who gets the first call if you're bleeding out. No thanks, Conrad would rather die than need his father for anything.

Jeremiah's name drifted up next, and just as quickly, he shoved it back down. Would Jere even come? The same Jere who could barely get through a birthday or holiday call without sounding like someone had a gun to his head? The same Jere who treated him like a stranger awkwardly orbiting his shiny new thing with Belly. Putting his name there felt like signing up to be disappointed twice.

So, no mom, no dad, no brother. Which left him with... no one. How pathetic that he couldn't think of a single soul who'd care if he was sprawled out cold somewhere. Maybe he should just leave it blank. Who needed an emergency contact when you were the emergency?

"Hey," Devon's voice broke through his spiral. "You can always put down a friend if you don't have family nearby. Happens more often than you'd think. Plenty of students move away for school."

A friend. Right. He thought of the handful of classmates he'd gotten to know last semester. They were nice enough, but classroom friends were about as far as they went. People you could split notes with and present group essays, not people you wanted called when you were lying in a ditch.

His eyes were drawn to Devon before he could stop himself, the question half-formed in his chest, heavy and humiliating. "Would you mind if I—" his throat felt tight, and he cleared it with a cough. "I mean, would it be okay if I... put you down?" His voice was hoarse with a self-deprecatory laugh. "I don't really... have anyone else."

Nice job, Fisher, way to sound like the biggest loser alive. Congratulations on confirming you have the social circle of a hermit crab.

But Devon didn't make fun of him. She just nodded solemnly. "Sure. Put me down." Then, to ease the tension like she always did, she added, "Looks like Sherlock needs his Watson after all."

"Guess so." A reluctant chuckle escaped him before he could bite it back. "But don't get too comfortable with the role. Watson always ends up stuck patching Sherlock up after some reckless stunt. Guess that makes you my unpaid EMT now."

"Is this your way of saying you're going to be extra reckless now?"

"Maybe."

"Then I'll brush up my first aid skills just for you. Don't worry, I've got good bedside manner. You could do worse, Fisher."

Conrad let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. The emergency contact line no longer looked like a scarlet letter on the page once her name had been filled in, and by the time the therapist stepped out and called his name, he felt minutely steadier, like maybe the ground wasn't tilting quite so violently beneath him.

Maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world to have a Watson of his own. 

The session went better than he expected. The therapist didn't prod at raw places or try to dig a scalpel into wounds that weren't ready to breathe air yet. Instead, he told Conrad that they could go at his pace, and that it was his choice what to share and when to share it. That alone was a mercy he hadn't realized he was desperate for.

When he stepped back into the lobby, it was quieter than before. Devon was still at her desk, squinting at the large monitor in front of her. 

"Dr. Thomas wants me to book a weekly appointment," Conrad told her bluntly, hoping she wouldn't ask anything else, and she took the hint. 

"Alright, then, what day works for you?"

"Friday." Same reason as before. If it tore open any unhealed wounds, he wouldn't have to trudge to class on a broken heart for at least two days. 

"Friday it is." Devon's fingers—painted cornflower blue to match her sweater today—flew across her keyboard before she looked up again to surreptitiously nudge a small ceramic bowl across the desk toward him. It was full of hard, cellophane-wrapped toffees that clinked faintly against one another when moved.

Conrad frowned. "What is this?"

"It's a treat."

He gave her a flat look. "Why would I need a treat?"

"For showing up," she replied without missing a beat. "And for following through."

"This makes me feel like a kid again. Like when you'd get a lollipop after the doctor jabbed you with a needle."

Devon laughed, the sound tugging against the grim knot that usually occupied his stomach. "Yeah, pretty sure that's the idea. They're trying to Pavlov you into coming back. Positive reinforcement. Attend therapy, get candy." She spread her hands in mock flourish. "Flawless system."

Conrad stared down at the bowl again, eventually picking up a piece between two fingers like it would bite him. When he turned it over to inspect the golden wrapper, his expression soured almost immediately.

Devon caught it and smirked. "What, too good for a sweet treat? Don't tell me you're picky."

He shot her a grimace. "Not picky, just selective. This is not my usual preference."

"Selective," she echoed with exaggerated solemnity. "Fine, I'll make sure to only offer you gourmet, five-star confections from now on, Your Highness."

The quip was sharp, but the warmth in it kept it from stinging, and Conrad tucked the sound into his pocket along with the candy. It felt ridiculously childish, but the weight of it was grounding. It was proof that someone noticed he was there, and that he'd done something worth acknowledging, even if it was just walking through a door and sitting on a lumpy couch for an hour.

"Don't forget, Sherlock. Next Friday. I'll have your reward ready," she called out behind him when he left. 

And so the candy ritual lingered. What began as a joke turned into a pattern, and by the end of the year, Devon had narrowed down the exact brand Conrad favoured. On the days she wasn't on shift when he came into the office, she left his reward with whoever replaced her at the front desk. 

That was how their Monday rule dissolved into insignificance. Suddenly, she was everywhere, seeping into the rest of his calendar. He'd blink and realize it was Friday night and they were sliding into a diner booth, or Saturday morning and he was following her through the echoing halls of a museum.

At the diner, Devon ordered the weirdest combinations imaginable: grilled cheese with strawberry jam, curly fries dipped in vanilla milkshake, and pie before the actual meal. He'd mutter that it was a crime against humanity, but when she offered to share, he found that it wasn't as bad as he expected—not that he'd ever admit it. 

At the museum, he found himself mirroring her antics. She encouraged him to read the plaques aloud in his best rendition of game show hosts, and once they were nearly kicked out of the medieval wing when he made a joke about one of the knights' gauntlets looking like oven mitts.

She was at her best in the library. While Conrad's focus sometimes wavered, Devon's was ironclad. He both admired and resented it in equal parts. She didn't fidget or distract him deliberately, and when she did speak, it was only to share an interesting finding or share a funny anecdote if she sensed him getting restless. 

In the spaces between those activities, Conrad learned that she hated the sound of chewing ice, that she never drank soda after nine, claiming it ruined her sleep, and that her mother collected keychains—a tradition Devon kept up, though hers were stored in shoeboxes rather than on the mantel. 

She was learning him too, and he was letting her. She never pried, but always left the silence open, like a doorway he could walk through if he wanted. It unsettled him a little to be read so well and seen without flinching. And so his years at Stanford unfolded, the odd mosaic of moments Devon left scattered in his life coalescing into a half-formed image of companionship. 

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

If someone had told Devon that she'd run into Conrad Fisher in a Medical Anthropology class, she would've laughed them right out of the room. They'd shared English all four years of high school, and senior year biology too, memories of which she refused to revisit thanks to one particularly traumatic frog dissection. After graduation, he'd vanished into the great suburban ether, and she'd had far too much on her plate to think of him again, yet here he was, years later, sitting in the same lecture hall

She knew she should've ignored him. Her schedule and life were already overcrowded, but from the moment she spotted him, she knew she didn't have a choice. Her little sister, who read more webnovels than any sane human being should, would've called it a saviour complex, but Devon just called it helping.

The first obvious sign was the fact that he arrived at his first class of the day completely unprepared, with not even the decency of a stolen pencil. Amateur hour. But it was more than the absent supplies. Sometimes in the middle of the lecture, he'd zone out, and not in an expected 'the professor's monotone is slowly liquefying my brain' way. It looked like something unseen clawed him down into a place far away, a place that didn't let him back easily. His face, when it returned, wore a hollowed-out look that made her want to snap her fingers in front of him, just to check he was still breathing. She didn't, of course, because that might've made him feel like a circus animal. 

Instead, she offered him what she could. A smile, a friendly hand, and a pen from her carefully curated stash—gel pens that glided like butter on paper, the crown jewels of stationery. She even let him keep one, which for her was the equivalent of donating a kidney. The poor sap looked like he needed a friend, and if there was one thing Devon knew how to do, it was volunteer herself as tribute.

Maybe it was the kicked-puppy look, maybe it was pity, or maybe she just preferred fixing other people's problems to avoid looking too closely at her own. His family had lived down the street from hers, and she'd heard enough about his mother to know good things were in short supply in his world. If anyone deserved a little extra kindness, it was him, and adding 'keep Conrad Fisher alive and somewhat functioning' to her overlong list of distractions was better than giving in to her ongoing spiral of existential dread. 

After the first month, Devon didn't even have to pretend to like him. He was a sweet guy, almost obnoxiously polite, the kind of person who held doors open for people even when they were ten feet away, which should've been annoying, but somehow wasn't. One month turned into two, and before she realized what had happened, an entire academic year had been filled with movie recommendations and afternoon trips to the guitar store where she bullied him into buying a new one after he admitted he played—past tense, unfortunately. At some point, her little pet project morphed into one of her closest friends, and it was nice. Distracting him meant distracting herself, and moments with Conrad felt like rare pockets of peace carved out just for her.

She liked talking to him. He was a good listener, and not in the fake, nodding-along way most guys managed. With him, she never felt like she was rambling into the void, and though it took some time—he didn't give away much easily—he eventually started to open up too. When he did, it was always in little fragments that felt like rewards she'd earned. He told her about his mom, the cheating scumbag who was his father, and his backstabbing manwhore of a brother, though not in those exact words, of course. Devon formed her own caricatures of them because he was too polite to purposely badmouth someone, even if they'd wronged him. 

She never really knew what to say to all that; comfort had never been her strong suit, but he didn't seem to need flowery speeches or empty reassurances. He told her he valued her silent company during times like that, so she figured she wasn't screwing it up too badly.

When he finally started therapy, she was happy for him. The changes were small at first—barely there shifts in the way he carried himself and the way his smile didn't feel so forced—but something was infinitely better than nothing. He even encouraged her to try, which she deflected with practiced cheer. She simply didn't have the time, which, considering she literally worked part-time at the campus counselling office, was a lie that didn't stand up to much scrutiny. But unpacking her own thoughts? No, thank you. Why let a stranger poke around in the dark corners of her head when she barely let herself look there? Better to keep it all buried, locked tight where it couldn't crawl out and ruin things.

Besides, there were grades to keep up, so she wouldn't get benched from her games. And there were games to keep up with because soccer was the only thing keeping her degree paid for, and if she lost that, she'd be a fucking disappointment. So no, no time for therapy or introspection.

All of that brought her to today, the last game of the season. The locker room buzzed, and the air was thick with the smell of deodorant and adrenaline. Around her, teammates cycled through their odd little pregame rituals. One girl muttered affirmations under her breath, while another had headphones cranked so loud Devon was pretty sure she caught the lyrics through two layers of lockers. The goalkeeper sat cross-legged in the corner with her eyes shut and her palms pressed together like she was communing with a higher deity.

Devon, meanwhile, perched on a side bench, knees pulled tight to her chest, palms kneading her left calf like she could wring the ache right out of it. To anyone else, it looked like a normal stretch. Only she knew the dull, stubborn throb had been haunting her since last month. Three games survived on sheer grit and athletic tape; what was one more? She just needed to drag herself across ninety minutes of hell, and then sweet, merciful summer would grant her a reprieve.

Now would be the perfect time to be a goalie, but no, she was a Striker, which meant ninety minutes of sprinting, juking, and colliding with girls who had thighs carved from marble and no sense of self-preservation. Rest wasn't in the job description.

The door swung open, and their coach strode in, clapping her hands with the enthusiasm of a kindergarten teacher rallying kids before snack time. Coach Andrews was a mother hen, all warm pep and team spirit instead of the 'shout until you cry' type. 

"Alright, ladies," she announced, her voice carrying over the chatter. "Last game of the season. I don't want you thinking about wins or losses, not tonight. I want you to think about why you started playing in the first place. The joy of the game, and the fact that each of you gets to step out on that field with your sisters beside you. That's what matters. Play for each other, not the scoreboard. And whatever happens—" she paused, sweeping the room with a look that managed to be both soft and deadly serious—"you walk away knowing you gave it everything. Clear?"

"Yes, Coach!" the team chorused back.

Just like that, the nerves sharpened into electricity as they collectively rose, tugging jerseys into place. Then came the flood of blinding stadium lights against the velvet black sky, so bright they erased the stars, and the roar of the crowd spilling over them. The opening whistle split the night like a blade, and then they were off, the ball ricocheting across turf that smelled of damp earth and artificial rubber. 

From that moment on, Devon lived in constant motion, feeling the jolt of expectation that sparked through the stands. Do something, score, be brilliant. Her heart burned with each inhale, lungs dragging air heavy with the scent of sweat and cheap food truck concessions. 

Her calf throbbed from the first sprint, but she ignored it, the scoreboard above the field looming like some eldritch creature, its glaring red numbers reminding her why she couldn't afford to stop.

0–0.

The announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers every time the ball changed possession, each syllable echoing in Devon's skull like a countdown as she cut past the midfield line, catching a perfect cross from one of her teammates. For a moment, the ball was hers and hers alone, spinning like a planet at her feet.

"And Stanford drives it forward again!  That's number twelve outpacing her defender down the left wing!"

The sound lit adrenaline through her veins. Even when a member of the opposite team lunged, catching her knee, she didn't stop. Pain crackled up her thigh, but she pushed even harder. 

"Watson takes the shot!"

Her foot connected, and the ball arced through the night, curving past the keeper's desperate hands and slamming into the back of the net.

"GOAL! Number 12 puts Stanford on the board with a strike!" The announcer was nearly drowned by the eruption of cheers, and the scoreboard flashed 1–0.

Devon's teammates swarmed her, screams and laughter tangling into the noise. Someone slapped her back, and another wrapped an arm around her shoulders, nearly pulling her down. Her knee throbbed, but the warmth of their damp jerseys pressed against her was enough to keep her upright.

The rest of the game blurred, and mercifully, Stanford was able to hold the line. Devon barely registered the final whistle until it pierced her ears, and the stadium roared in victory. The team surged together in a tangle of limbs, sweat, and tears, their voices hoarse from cheering, and together they limped toward the sidelines where their coach waited, beaming, arms wide like a proud matriarch. 

After the endless array of pictures, posing, and impromptu interviews for the school paper, the team retreated to the locker room, which still smelled faintly of sweat and wet turf, but the sharpness of it was softened by the sweetness of perfume and shampoo as they took turns washing up. The metal lockers clanged open and shut as girls shoved jerseys inside, trading cleats for sandals, curling irons hissing to life when a couple of them dragged in power strips.

"Coach said she's taking us to dinner!" Kelsey announced from across the room, already tugging on her jeans.

"Yeah, but where, though?" someone else demanded. "If it's another boring Italian chain, I swear I'll riot."

"Shut up, you love breadsticks," shouted a voice from behind the showers.

"I tolerate breadsticks."

"Let's ask if we can go to a bar!" Kelsey suggested, the idea sparking instant uproar.

"Coach'll never let us."

"Yeah, but if we all ask at the same time..."

"Then she'll say no to all of us at the same time."

The banter rose and fell in waves, but Devon was back at her usual spot on the side bench, her good leg tucked in and her sore one stretched stiffly in front of her. She was too exhausted to take part in the arguments, but her mouth curved faintly as she listened. Then something ice-cold pressed against her cheek, making her yelp and jerk back. 

"Earth to Devon." The team captain, Maeve Donovan, grinned down at her, a chilled water bottle poised in her hand like a weapon. "What's up with you?"

Devon groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "So tired."

"Worth it though."

"Sure."

"Oh, come on." Maeve nudged her shoulder and flopped onto the bench beside her. "You were great. We were great. And we beat UCLA. That's bragging rights for life." She lifted her own bottle in a toast.

"Yes, yes, we love to brag, don't we?"

"Only because we're fantastic!" The girl's short, choppy bob framed her face, damp strands already halfway to dry. She looked over at Devon with an exasperated huff, taking in the sodden wave plastered down to her back despite the fact that she'd relentlessly towelled it minutes ago. "God, you need a haircut. That looks like a nightmare to wash. And dry. And comb. My arms are tired just looking at it."

Devon rolled her eyes, shielding her hair from view. "Hey, I like my hair the way it is."

"Doesn't it get in the way during games?"

"I put it up, so obviously not."

Maeve clicked her tongue, dropping her voice low and conspiratorial. "Vanity is a sin, Watson. The gods will punish you for it."

Devon swatted her with the back of her hand. "Now you sound like Eliza."

At that, they turned to look at their goalkeeper, who was leaning against the lockers, her lips moving in silent muttering.

"You laugh now, but she saved our ass out there. Do you know how many goals Eliza stopped today? At least five. She probably did a human sacrifice for it or something, and I, for one, am grateful." Maeve leaned closer, grinning slyly. "In fact, I've got a few names we can submit for her next offering."

Devon snorted. "Start with the ref."

"Already top of the list."

Across the room, Eliza cracked one eye open, as though she knew she was the topic of conversation. Then she walked over and sat across from them with a serene smile. 

"I heard you said you have names?" she asked. 

Whether she was being serious or simply playing along, Devon didn't know, but she didn't miss a beat. "Maeve's ex, obviously."

Eliza grimaced. "Another one?"

Maeve threw her arms up. "Hey, it's not my fault I keep meeting scummy men."

Devon lifted a brow. "It is your fault you keep meeting men though. That's on you."

"Oh, come on. What do you expect me to do, practice your vow of self-imposed celibacy?" The team captain gasped theatrically. "I'm not a monk, Devon. And neither are you. One of these days, you're going to lose your cool and jump some poor sod's bones."

"If Devon's ever jumping a man, it's probably to beat him up," Eliza pointed out. 

"You know me so well." Devon wrinkled her nose. "And ew, no thanks. I don't think I have the brain cells to debate idiots."

Maeve smirked wickedly. "Who said there needs to be any talking?"

Eliza's eyes widened, scandalized, and Devon shot up to slap her hands over the girl's ears. "Shut up, Donovan, there are children present," she hissed at Maeve. 

"If anyone's being childish, it's you," Eliza muttered, shoving her off with surprising strength.

"Yep," the captain agreed, smug as a cat. "Enough of your excuses. Project: Find Devon a Boyfriend begins tonight."

"No thanks."

"Okay, fine. Summer fling then."

"Still unappealing."

"One-night stand?"

"Even worse." Devon narrowed her eyes. "I'm going to tell Coach you've been with her son."

Maeve stuck out her tongue, unbothered. "Coach loves me, and it's not like he can do better. She's been practically begging him to see me again." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Maybe I will give him another chance. He was kinda cute."

"Didn't you learn your lesson from last time?"

Eliza hummed. "Obviously not."

The three of them dissolved into laughter until Maeve nudged Eliza's shin with her water bottle. "Alright, enough about guys who don't deserve our time. We're celebrating. Did anyone confirm what Coach is feeding us tonight? Please tell me it's something greasy. I've earned french fries the size of my arm."

"Coach said Italian. Pasta, maybe pizza. Carbs are sacred after victory. They must be respected."

Devon snickered. "Only you would make pizza sound like a religious offering."

"Because it is," Eliza said solemnly, brushing her hand through her damp, vivid crimson hair. "Fuel of the gods. Or at least, the fuel of overworked goalkeepers who just saved you ungrateful lot from a humiliating defeat."

Maeve jumped up to pretend to massage the girl's shoulders reverently. "You're right, how can we ever thank you enough. All hail Eliza, patron saint of impossible saves."

"I'm not a saint. Saints don't punch balls out of midair at seventy miles an hour."

As the two girls continued their bickering, Devon closed her eyes momentarily, listening to the chatter of the rest of the girls, their plans for the summer spilling out in little bursts.

"Road trip to the Grand Canyon, mark my words—"

"The internship starts in June, ugh, no break for me."

"I'm going home, my mom already promised to feed me for a week straight."

Maeve stretched her arms over her head with a groan. "So what about you two? Summer plans? Besides the whole ritual blood sacrifice thing."

"Camp retreat," Eliza answered immediately. "They're coven themed, which is the coolest thing ever."

"Shocking," Maeve deadpanned. "Truly shocking. What about you, Devon?"

She hesitated. The truth was, she didn't really have any plans. Both her parents would be working most of the summer, and her sister had her own plans with her friends. Devon would remain here, stuck in the heat, maybe finally catch up on her infinitely long reading list. Maybe take a summer course or two to lighten her load for next year. 

Unbidden, her thoughts wandered to Conrad. She knew his family used to vacation at some beach house every summer. Was he going this year? The thought of him gone made her stomach twist in ways she didn't want to examine. She wouldn't say it aloud, but she'd kind of miss him. Maybe they could squeeze in a concert or two before he vanished to his sandy kingdom.

Out loud, she said, "I should probably figure out an apartment. Finally move out of the dorms."

Maeve grinned. "What, tired of your roommate's potential Hannibal Lecter behaviour? Can't you, like, criminal-profile her or something?"

"You've been watching too much Criminal Minds," Devon sneered. "That's not how it works, and no, I can't."

"Well, either way, it works out perfectly. My lease is up this summer, too, so we can finally room together. The dream lives."

"You'll regret it," Eliza warned. "You'll have to put up with her snoring. I dormed with our dear captain first year. It was a tribulation."

"Excuse me, I do not snore."

"I have video proof."

"Lies! Don't listen to her, Devon. And besides, I'm very noise-conscious. In fact, that's something we should check for when looking for a place. I refuse to live somewhere that allows the neighbours to practice bagpipes or late-night ukulele."

"You're going to be sharing an apartment with someone who plays the electric guitar for fun. I doubt you have to be too concerned about outside noises," Eliza muttered.

Maeva shrugged. "I like Devon's playing, because she's actually half decent."

"Half decent?" Devon clutched a hand to her heart. 

"Well, you're no Jimmy Hendrix, but you also don't make my ears bleed, so passable, you know."

"Ouch, rude." 

"You haven't even heard the rest of my criteria."

Devon leaned back, letting the girl's rapid-fire ideas wash over her. She could almost picture them listed in a spreadsheet. "You know," she said lightly, "I just want a place that's not a dorm."

"But that's so boring. You have to dream bigger!"

Eliza murmured under her breath, "You mean she's got to obsess over wallpaper patterns and floorboards."

Before Maeve could go off on another tangent, their teammate Kelsey popped up with a teasing smile. "Your friend's outside," she told Devon. "Here to see you."

Devon frowned, glancing around in confusion. Her closest friends were already here in this space, so she couldn't imagine who it could be. She grimaced at Kelsey's wink but ignored it, stepping out and making her way down the corridor toward the entrance. 

And there stood none other than Conrad Fisher, leaning against the wall with a sheepish sort of ease that somehow managed to be endearing. He glanced pointedly at her limping state and frowned. "Still didn't get that leg checked out?" 

Devon shrugged. "Some girl tried to take out my knee today, so this particular ache is new, I'm afraid. But don't worry, doc, I've got the rest of the summer to recover."

His expression told her that he very much did worry. 

She continued speaking before he could reprimand her. "But hey, you made it. Thought you had a conflict."

Conrad shrugged apologetically. "Yeah, sorry. Came in a little later than I wanted, but I did see you score, so I didn't miss anything important." Then he held out a bouquet of pale pink roses and thrust them into her hands, making Devon look at him like he'd grown a second head. 

"Wow," she teased. "That's certainly a surprise. You're giving all the romcom heroes a run for their money."

Conrad shifted his weight, suddenly a little self-conscious. "You got me sunflowers after finals last week," he murmured. "Which was weird. I don't think I've ever gotten flowers. Like ever. Maybe for graduation, but that's standard, right?" He faltered a little, a shadow crossing his face, and she knew he was thinking about his mother again. 

Devon's shrug was casual. "I get all my friends flowers."

"Well, I obviously don't get all my friends flowers." He shot her a lopsided smile, despite the little melancholy peeking through. "The guys would probably look at me weird if I did."

"Guys and their fragile masculinities. Flowers are for everyone, I swear—"

"Alright, alright, don't start your rant now," he interrupted gently. "I'm sure you've got post-game celebrations to attend. They're going to complain that I'm keeping you from them." 

"No one can keep me anywhere against my will, I assure you."

"Oh, I know that." He gave a two-finger salute before shoving his hands in his pockets. "Anyways, I appreciated the flowers. Truly. This is my way of saying thank you, and congrats on the big win. And, just in general, thanks for making this year bearable."

Devon's grin widened, warmth rising in her chest. "Thank you too."

Before the moment could stretch too long, Maeve sauntered up to them with her hands on her hips. "We're getting ready to head out to dinner, Devon." She glanced at Conrad mischievously. "Are you inviting your friend?"

Conrad shook his head apologetically. "Nah, some friends and I have plans of our own, but you guys have fun."

Devon beamed, flashing him a thumbs-up. "Yes, go socialize! Get drunk. Well, not too drunk. Hangovers suck, but have fun."

"You too. See you around."

As soon as he disappeared around the corner, Maeve’s gaze dropped to the bouquet. “Wow,” she drawled, reaching out to touch one of the petals. “Real roses. That’s next-level stuff. I thought guys our age just sent out gross pictures.”

Devon rolled her eyes and shoved her with her shoulder. “He’s just a friend.”

“Sure. Totally. A friend who gets you flowers is a friend who wants you. Bad.”

“I got you flowers when you passed organic chemistry!"

“Well, yeah, duh. You want me too. You’re just way too good at lying to yourself.” She looped her arm through Devon’s, tugging her back to the locker room. “Now come on, we’re going bar-hopping after dinner. But I’m telling you—” she waggled a finger in her face, “—a dude who gets you flowers is like a four-leaf clover. Basically mythical.”

Devon groaned loudly, tipping her head back. “Please date better people, I’m begging you. You have horrible standards.”

Inside her head, though, the teasing didn’t fall away so easily. It wasn’t that she hadn’t considered it. Conrad was probably the nicest guy she’d ever met, with that awkward sincerity that made people soften around him. But dating wasn't something she had the bandwidth for. 

She hadn’t had a chance to breathe since she started university, always sprinting from exam to practice to whatever crisis her friends needed patched up. Her current friends understood when she vanished into her own head for a few days, unreachable even by text. A relationship meant caretaking, carving out time no matter how bone-tired she was, and fitting their needs into her schedule. If she dated someone, she'd owe them more than a half-effort, more than the leftovers of her energy.

Besides, she was certain Conrad didn’t feel that way about her. He’d briefly mentioned the mess with his ex and his brother once, and the way his eyes clouded told her he hadn’t healed from it. He hadn’t let go. Sometimes when he looked at her, it felt like he was searching for someone in her face, and when he didn’t find them, there was a flicker of disappointment, quickly hidden but never gone. Devon didn’t mind it in the context of their friendship, but she would not be someone’s rebound.

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

Conrad decided to call it a night before the rest of his friends even considered slowing down. For a while, he'd enjoyed taking part in consuming cheap beers and dissecting summer plans, nodding at the right places, and even laughing at a dumb joke or two. It was good progress, and his therapist would have given him a gold star for making an effort, building a support system, one shaky Jenga block at a time.

But by the time it hit midnight and no one showed any sign of going home, he decided he was at his limit for human interaction for the day. The air was cool when he stepped outside, lingering on the sidewalk and staring up at a sky that had the audacity to look beautiful, like it hadn’t been complicit in ripping the world out from under him. 

Summer was coming, and the thought of it made him nauseous. Summer wasn’t summer anymore, not without his mother. No more lemonade, no more laughter as she whipped everyone’s ass at charades, no more board games ending in suspiciously creative cheating. The beach house in Cousins was now a mausoleum, and the ghost of her voice still echoed through the halls when he let his guard slip.

Conrad exhaled, shoved his hands in his pockets, and told himself he wasn’t spiralling, even if he absolutely was. That’s when movement across the street caught his eye. A group of girls spilled out of the restaurant there, voices tumbling over each other as they argued over their next destination. And there, tucked amidst them, was Devon, with the flowers he'd given her still clutched in her arms.

Had she carried them around all evening? Was that normal? Maybe she hadn't had the chance to stash them somewhere. Nonetheless, it would have been more convenient to toss them out rather than lug them everywhere with her. His traitorous brain decided to feel hopeful about it. Hopeful for what, he didn't know, but the sentiment was there. 

Devon hadn’t noticed him yet, too busy waving her friends toward some neon-lit bar down the street. Then, instead of following them, she turned the opposite way, heading toward the dorms alone. They were still in the vicinity of the university, so everything was mercifully within walking distance. 

Conrad moved before thinking, jogging across the road to catch up with her, and by the time she heard him, he was too close to back out and pretend he was just another guy passing by. She spun around with a hard scowl, and for half a second, he thought she might actually stab him. Then recognition softened her features, and her expression became equal parts annoyed and relieved.

“Jesus, Fisher,” she scoffed, clutching her bouquet like a weapon. “I could’ve pepper-sprayed you. Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on a girl at night?”

He raised his hands in surrender. "Sorry, I tried clearing my throat, but I don't think you heard me."

"Not enough. Next time, bell yourself like a cat." She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched, and it almost felt like summer again.

"Noted. Maybe I'll carry around a neon sign or something, and pay the school's marching band to follow me around and announce my presence."

"You are so unserious." Devon shook her head. “Seriously, though, were you following me? Because if this is going to be a common occurrence, I need to know how many restraining orders to keep on standby.”

Conrad snickered. "None, hopefully. I just saw you and thought you could use the company."

"Did you now?"

"I assure you, my intentions were honourable."

“Fine, I’ll let you off the hook just this once." She paused to scrutinize him briefly, looking very much like she was trying to read his thoughts. "So, how was socializing? Hear anything particularly fun? Or damning?”

"Damning? I went out for drinks, not a confession." Conrad shrugged. "But it wasn't terrible, I guess. I didn’t spontaneously combust, so that’s something. They talked a lot about summer plans. One guy’s interning at his uncle’s lab, another’s doing a road trip through Colorado, and apparently somebody’s cousin got kicked out of a wedding for...” he trailed off awkwardly. "Actually, I can't remember what for."

Devon’s eyes lit up. “Hold on, back up. A wedding scandal? You can’t just drop that and not give me the details.”

“I don’t know the details.” He winced, suddenly aware of how lame that sounded. “I just… remember there being shrimp involved.”

“Conrad.” Devon stopped walking long enough to give him a look of disappointment. “Next time, I’m sending you a list of reporter-style questions. Who, what, where, why, when. You’ve gotta get the most out of these conversations.”

“Why do you care about gossip from a bunch of college students?”

“Because I enjoy hearing about people’s lives. It’s nice to see what everyone’s up to.”

“You mean it’s nice to be entertained.”

Devon grinned, bumping her shoulder against his. “Exactly. It’s like a little soap opera, and you’re my correspondent in the field. You do need to keep working on your retention, though."

Conrad snorted, but the sound carried warmth. “Yeah, sure. I’ll bring you back a full exposé next time.”

He wasn’t sure when she'd gotten so good at making him laugh. After the events of last summer, he wasn’t the type to do so easily, too wrapped up in his own thoughts most of the time, but with her, the edges of those thoughts blurred and dissolved. She’d say something ridiculous, wrinkle her nose at him, and before he knew it, his mouth betrayed him in an expression he couldn’t hold back. It was addictively disarming.

And it was nice just listening to her ramble, letting her pull him out of his own head. He hadn’t realized how dark it had been in there until suddenly, standing here beside her, it felt brighter. Then it hit him like a truck barreling down the freeway. He knew her. Not just from this past year, not just from the dorms or the classes or the group hangouts. Something about the way she’d glared at him earlier had cracked open the memory. It was almost embarrassing how stupid he’d been not to recognize her sooner, but his memory of his life before his mother's death was patchy at best. A coping mechanism of sorts, forcing himself to try and forget all the years of his life he'd lived with her in it. But that meant it erased other people, too. 

The words spilled out before he could form them into something coherent. “I know you.”

“You’ve known me a whole year. I should hope you know me," she deadpanned instantly. 

Conrad shook his head. “No, I recognize you from before Stanford. I've been trying to put my finger on it all year, why you looked familiar. You lived down the street from us, didn't you? We even had a couple of classes together. I think…” He racked his brain. “I think you broke a guy’s nose once.”

“So you heard about that?" Devon groaned. 

“Heard?” He laughed outright, startling himself at how warm it felt in his chest. “I watched it happen.”

“In my defence, he deserved it. He was my lab partner in senior year biology, and he tried to stuff frog guts down the back of my shirt. And he was known for being generally annoying. It was practically a public service.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

She sighed dramatically, tipping her head back. “I can’t believe this is my legacy.”

“Nah, I remember you were on the debate team too. You used to give them hell.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How would you know?”

“Are you kidding me? You were notorious. I can’t believe I didn’t put it together earlier. Do you know what people used to say about you?”

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she conceded reluctantly. "I had a reputation for being… somewhat tempestuous.”

Conrad cocked his head to one side, fighting back a smirk. “I believe the term used was heinous bit—”

She smacked his arm hard before he could finish. “Alright, alright, we get it. But they all deserved it.”

He rubbed his arm, still laughing. “I’m sure they did, but wow, you’ve mellowed down.”

"I believe that's what happens when your frontal lobe develops. And what, you wanna see me break someone’s nose again, Fisher? Trust me, the moment I get my hands on Maeve’s ex, he’s going to lose a lot more than a nose.”

That made Conrad pause momentarily, and he could hardly believe that this girl who used to be a firestorm at the periphery of his high school years had inexplicably become his best friend. She looked a little different, so maybe that's why it had been harder to remember. Her hair texture, for once, was significantly different, and so was the way she carried herself. 

“Took you long enough,” Devon interrupted his musings with an arched brow. “You’ve known me for what, a year?”

“Not a whole year. We still have the summer left. I’ve known you for three seasons.”

She made a face. “You sound like you're the tortured lead of a period drama. Who measures time in seasons, Mr. Darcy?”

“Better than measuring in midterms and emotional breakdowns,” he quipped. “At least seasons come with better weather.”

She chuckled, then tilted her head. “So what are your summer plans, Mr. Darcy?”

“I’m not going anywhere."

He didn't think he could stomach going back to Cousins after everything that had happened last time. Would the Conklins and Jeremiah be there? How awkward would it be to third wheel his brother and his ex? The past year had dulled the sting of their betrayal only slightly, and though he was learning to move past it, avoidance was still his best tactic. He wouldn't have to face what they had made him feel if he simply refused to face them. Minimal interaction, minimal heartache. 

As if seeing the turmoil etched in his face, Devon didn't push the matter. Instead, something akin to relief flickered across her face before she beamed. “Perfect, I have just the itinerary.”

Conrad nodded. “Lead the way to your ideal summer, Watson. I am but your humble follower.” They walked in step for a while, but eventually he slowed, realizing the streets around them weren’t leading back to the dorms, making him stop short. “Wait, where are you taking me?”

Devon glanced over her shoulder with an inscrutable look. “I’m not taking you anywhere. You’re the one who decided to follow me.”

“So am I following you to my demise?”

“Relax, I’m not leading you to some cabin in the woods to murder you.”

“Then where are we going?”

“We aren’t going anywhere. You should go home.”

Conrad frowned, planting his feet into the ground and crossing his arms. “And I’m supposed to just let you wander the streets at night, half-drunk?”

“Half-drunk? I've had, like, only two drinks. Also, did we not just discuss my very impressive bone-breaking track record?”

“Regardless,” he muttered stubbornly. “I’m not leaving you out all by yourself.”

Her lips twitched, indicating that she was messing with him. “Great. Guess we’re both going stargazing then.”

“…What?”

Devon beamed triumphantly. “It's an end-of-year tradition, and tonight's the perfect night for it. The sky's clear, and the weather's not the worst. Lucky you, you get the experience of a lifetime.”

Conrad should have refused. Really, if he thought about it, the logical, responsible thing would’ve been to steer her back toward her dorm, and then go collapse in his own. Finals had wrung them both out, and she still had a limp in her step, a reminder of an old injury she liked to pretend didn’t exist, but which he noticed anyway. What they both needed more than anything else was sleep. 

But then she flashed him that dazzling grin, the kind that looked like the sun had no business showing up at night but decided to crash the party anyway. Against his better judgment, he found himself nodding to her idea. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d have listened to him if he told her to go home. If stubborn had a face, it’d be hers, and he would have had better luck trying to argue with a brick wall. Maybe he was a little drunk too—that was the excuse he’d use later when he wondered why the hell he went along with this.

He followed her to the outskirts of campus, toward the hill beyond the Stanford golf course, and when they reached the top, Devon dropped onto the ground without ceremony. She at least had the presence of mind to set his flowers down gently beside her before sprawling out.

Conrad hovered for a second, eyeing the grass with suspicion. She made it look effortless, just throwing herself down like the earth was a mattress made for her, and with a faint groan of resignation, he lowered himself beside her, long legs folding awkwardly.

“Should we really be up here?” he asked dryly.

“It’s just grass, dude. I promise we could do with some after those finals.”

Not the point of his question, but he didn't argue as he lay back, head sinking into the cool blades. He left a respectable gulf of space between them, enough that no one could accuse him of crowding her, and he shoved all errant thoughts away, staring up at the sprawl of stars instead.

They lay there in silence for a long stretch, the night coccooning them in a blanket of darkness, cicadas humming in the distance, and the breeze tugging gently at the grass. Meanwhile, Conrad's mind wandered in useless directions: how cold his elbow felt against the ground, how his shirt would probably get stained, how he couldn’t remember if he’d locked his dorm door before leaving. 

Devon broke the silence first, still looking up instead of at him. “You know what this reminds me of?”

He glanced at her warily. “If you say a horror movie, I’m leaving.”

“A horror movie.”

“Unbelievable," he grumbled. "I thought we were here for a lighthearted evening. This is possibly the worst time and place to bring up horror. Dark hill, middle of the night, ominous grass noises—”

“Oh, come on, where’s the fun in lighthearted?" she interrupted. "A little existential dread spices up the mood.”

“Only you would use the phrase ‘spices up the mood’ in such an inappropriate context.” Conrad grimaced, then tried to change the subject. "Speaking of, I think we're long overdue for a movie night."

Devon rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow to shoot him a conspiratorial look. "Oh, I'm so glad you brought that up. I have just the recommendation."

“More horror, isn't it?” he demanded flatly, already envisioning her lounging in his dorm watching possessed-doll marathons until sunrise. “Wonderful. Just what I need to make my heart stop prematurely.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. You’ll survive.”

“I barely survived finals."

“Then you’re already in the right state of mind!” she said brightly, as if it were the most logical argument in the world. “You, me, scary movies. It’ll be great.”

“Yeah, but how about we follow it up with something civilized, like a comedy. Or literally anything that doesn’t involve decapitation. Maybe Ghostbusters.”

“That’s horror-adjacent," Devon pointed out smugly. "Admit it, you enjoy the possession stuff."

“It’s literally a comedy,” Conrad argued.

“But with ghosts. You’re still technically watching horror.”

He sighed. “There's just no pleasing you, O Arbiter of Quality Cinema.”

“Fine, how about a rom-com?”

She expected him to recoil, but he perked up instead. “Oh, yeah, rom-coms are good.”

Devon blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Definitely,” he stated without hesitation. “They’re predictable in the best way. Everyone gets a happy ending. No possessed clowns.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “I never would’ve guessed.”

“You don't know a lot of things about me, Watson. I contain multitudes."

“Okay then, Mr. Multitudes. What’s your favourite rom-com?”

“You’ve Got Mail. It’s got witty dialogue and a bookstore setting. What’s not to love?”

Devon’s jaw actually dropped at that. “That’s shockingly respectable.”

“Thank you,” he said, pleased by her approval. “Your turn.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “Probably 10 Things I Hate About You. I mean, Heath Ledger serenading someone from the bleachers? Iconic. No contest.”

“Classic, I approve,” Conrad agreed. “So if we do this, what’s the actual lineup? Horror first, rom-com after? 

"Yep. That way, your nightmares will be immediately softened by the unrealistic shenanigans of two morons who are in love with each other but keep making excuses as to why they can't actually be together. 90 minutes of pure comedy gold."

"Seems efficient.”

At his words, Devon laughed so hard she had to roll onto her back again. “Efficient! You’re such a dork.”

"Takes one to know one."

They fell quiet once more, and Conrad found himself miraculously looking forward to this summer, despite how different it would be from his usual. Somehow, he knew there would never be a dull moment with Devon for company, and even if they just spent hours sitting in silence, he would enjoy it. 

Above them, the stars scattered like spilled diamonds across a velvet sky, the Milky Way a faint smear of light that seemed impossibly close. Each constellation felt deliberate, a subtle pattern meant to hold meaning if only he could decipher it. It made him think of his mother. She would have loved to paint the view. 

He had never believed the platitudes about dead loved ones watching over the living, but lying here beneath a tapestry of stars, with the universe stretched infinitely above him, a sliver of doubt whispered in his mind. Maybe she was here in some way, witnessing his survival. It made sense that she, a lover of beauty, would be here, in such a beautiful place. 

Would she be proud? Or would she be disappointed because he kept his distance from Jeremiah? He had promised to protect his brother, but keeping that distance was the best way he knew how. The bitterness that churned in his chest might have seeped into every interaction, and by stepping back, he protected them both, though it left him hollow, longing, and endlessly cautious.

He stole another glance at Devon, her presence a fleeting reminder that while some things were irrevocable, some moments were still entirely, achingly his.

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

Whoever said that senior year of college was supposed to be the easiest was a liar, and Devon would have liked to meet them personally to shove her mountain of grad school deadlines straight up their nose. Applications, reference letters, personal statements, and GRE scores, all neatly arranged in little colour-coded spreadsheets that she was too tired to keep up with. And as if that weren't enough, there was the matter of graduation itself, which had made her father even clingier than usual. In the past, she could brush off his invitations to come over with academic excuses, but once she graduated, she wouldn't be able to anymore. 

She couldn't dodge him forever, though, and that morning, just as she was about to head to class, her phone lit up with a video call. For half a second, she hovered over the power button, imagining the bliss of radio silence, but then the guilt crept in, and with a hiss of irritation, she accepted.

Her father's face filled the frame, his polished attire making him look like he'd walked straight off the set of Suits to grace her with his presence. He paused a beat before flashing what he probably thought was a warm, paternal smile. The little girl inside Devon lit up—because of course she did, she was pathetic like that—but the bitter, thoroughly jaded hag she'd become dug her nails into her palm and bristled.

"Oh, were you about to head out?" her father asked. "Just wanted to call and check in. We missed our weekly call last week, and you never called back, so I just wanted to—"

"Yeah, everything's fine," she cut him off, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. "Busy."

"Busy," he repeated with a small laugh, as though it were a charming trait she'd inherited from him instead of a constant thorn stabbing her side. "Right. Finals? Applications?"

"All of the above. I'm on the deluxe stress package."

That earned her the slightly pinched look she knew so well, where he couldn't decide if he wanted to scold her or pretend they had the easy, bantering relationship most fathers had with their kids. 

"You don't have to be so sharp with me, Devon," he said eventually. "I just worry, that's all. I know things are hectic, but I'd like to see you soon."

Instead of showing her displeasure, she plastered on her most neutral expression. "I'll think about it." Which, in Devon-speak, meant absolutely not.

"I hate to see you so drained all the time," he continued. "You should have just gone to Harvard. Close to home, so you could've lived with us. I know the boys would love to have you around. Maybe you could consider it for grad school."

Devon's lips tightened into a little sneer before she could stop herself. Oh yes, home sweet home. Watching her father play doting dad to the kids he actually wanted. That'd be a real vacation for her sanity. There was a reason she barely visited. She didn't bother saying any of that aloud, of course, because he already knew. He knew and was trying to atone, which somehow made it worse because no amount of lavish apologies now could make up for a childhood of deprivation.

"I'm fine, Dad. I like it here. You don't have to worry. I'm sure you have more important things."

He shook his head, sadness colouring his eyes, making her feel even more guilty. This is why she hated these calls, because every time she got off, she felt like she'd kicked a puppy that kept bringing her sticks.

"So," he tried again, his voice light with false cheer, "how's school?"

"Fine."

"Your classes?"

"Good."

"Friends?"

"Yeah."

They were playing conversational ping pong with a deflated ball, and they both knew it. When he grew weary of her brief responses, he pivoted to safer terrain. "Well, we've been busy here. Oliver is now obsessed with dinosaurs. He has a plastic T-Rex that he carries everywhere. He even tried to feed it cereal yesterday." He chuckled. "And Jasper just started soccer. First game was last weekend. He was running in the wrong direction half the time, but he had the biggest grin the whole time."

"That's nice," Devon muttered, because what else was she supposed to say? Congratulations on successfully raising your do-over family. How utterly pathetic to envy the lives of sticky-fingered elementary schoolers. 

"And Emma's been planning a little holiday trip for us. Maybe the mountains. The boys have never seen snow like that. I think they'll love it. You're welcome to join us during winter break, if you've got time."

"Can't. Busy."

He looked at her for a long moment, wanting to ask why she always kept him at arm's length, but he didn't. They'd been doing this tango for years now, and they both knew they had to abide by the unspoken rules of the game or else they'd never speak again. 

Her father cleared his throat with another pivot, steering them out of choppy waters. "So, graduation's coming up. Big day."

"Yep," Devon said flatly, popping the 'p' for good measure.

"Have you thought about what you'll wear? Something nice for the pictures after?"

"Not really."

"I'm sure Emma would love to help you pick something out. She has a good eye."

Of course, she would. Stepford Emma, with her Pinterest boards and matching holiday sweaters, swooping in to play dress up with a daughter who didn't belong to her.

"I think I'd rather have my actual mother do that, thanks," she snapped, unable to hold back. 

It was a lie, and they both knew it. 

"You know," her father barrelled on, "the boys would love to see you walk the stage. Jasper keeps asking if he can come. He's excited. He wants to make you a sign."

Devon's lungs ached and burned at once, the idea of her half-brothers cheering her on with a fucking macaroni poster enough to crack something ugly open inside her.

"I don't know yet," she answered vaguely. "You probably shouldn't have told him and gotten his hopes up."

His smile faltered. "It'd mean a lot to all of us if you'd let us come." 

There was that look again, an apology for trying to be a father when she no longer needed one. It made her feel like a vindictive bitch, but that's what she was; no point in trying to be anything else. 

"I'll think about it." Her tone was sharper than she intended, cutting across his hopeful one.

He blinked and nodded quickly. "Of course. No pressure."

Then Devon hated herself again, hated the tight knot in her chest that never loosened, hated that even his clumsy attempts at connection felt like salt ground into old wounds. 

The lull came when her father ran out of small talk, and his next words were pained and pleading, as if begging her not to refuse. "The boys have been asking to talk to you."

Once upon a time, high school Devon would have refused without hesitation, anything to keep from the awkwardness of trying. She was ashamed of that version of herself now, the one that lashed out without forethought. Back then, she'd thought it would hurt less, drawing hard lines and holding her ground, but hurting others didn't really make you feel better, no matter how hard you pretended it did. 

She wasn't that girl anymore. Distance had done its work, sanding down the sharper edges of her resentment, and she'd learned to let go of some of the venom. Soccer had helped, too. She was like those angry boys told to join football so they could channel their rage into something that wouldn't destroy them, their bodies absorbing what their hearts couldn't. And it worked.

So she sighed, long and reluctant, but not hostile. "Fine."

Her father's face brightened instantly. "Great. Hang on, I'll get them."

The camera shifted as he walked, finally settling on the living room where two boys were sprawled out on a ridiculously plush sofa, eyes glued to the TV. The moment her presence was announced, the stillness broke, and both of them sprang up like fireworks, grins splitting their faces.

"Dee!" Jasper—ten and sturdy with self-importance—declared loud enough to rattle the speakers. Oliver—smaller, only six—echoed him, giggling as if saying her name was the funniest thing in the world.

Her dad left his phone in their hands and made the tactical error of leaving them alone with it. Immediate chaos ensued.

"Let me hold it!"

"No, it's my turn!"

"Dad said me!"

"You're hogging!"

The screen wobbled, jostled by small fingers, two faces crowding in and out of view like they were competing for the spotlight. Over it came a rapid-fire stream of chatter—school, friends, the big playground slide, and a new teacher who was "the meanest in the universe." Oliver shrieked something about a turtle he found, and then Jasper elbowed him out of the way.

"Guess what I did? I scored two goals at recess yesterday. Two!" He held up his fingers for emphasis. "Coach said I'm the best on the team. I'm gonna be, like, famous. Like you. Dad was showing me your games, so then I had to show my friends."

Devon froze, caught off-guard by the sting behind her eyes. God, now she felt even worse holding onto her childish resentment. Despite her best efforts to keep her distance, her little brothers still seemed to adore her without question and thought her cool enough to brag about at recess.

Meanwhile, here she was, twenty-something and supposedly grown, nursing bitterness like an old wound she couldn't stop prodding. Her throat ached with shame, but she forced some cheer into her words when she congratulated him. "Two goals? That's insane! You're already better than me, Jas. You're definitely going to be famous."

The boy puffed with pride. "Told you."

Oliver scrambled back into view, unwilling to be outdone. "And I drew a dragon! Wanna see it? Wait, wait, Mom put it on the fridge. Hold on!" He bolted off with his brother hot on his heels. 

Devon laughed, and it was real for once. "A dragon? I definitely want to see it."

Jasper leaned close to the camera and lowered his voice. "It doesn't even look like a dragon. It looks like a dog with wings. But don't tell him I said that."

Devon pressed a finger to her lips. "Your secret's safe with me."

When he had located the drawing, Oliver shoved it into the camera, so close that all she saw was a wall of green crayon. "See! It's breathing fire!"

"Oh, wow." She made a show of appraising the piece as if she were an art critic. "That's terrifying. Most well-drawn dragon I've ever seen."

The boy squealed with delight, bouncing up and down. "Told you, Jas! She thinks it's cool!"

The boys devolved into another squabble, and just as Jasper was in the middle of re-enacting his goal with exaggerated kicks and Oliver was attempting to narrate over him, their dad reappeared, plucking the phone from their hands before it went flying.

"Alright, boys, give your sister a break," he said firmly, turning the camera back toward himself and offering Devon a cautious smile. "Sorry about that. They're a little hyper today. Both took a day off from school. Emma said they needed a mental health day, so now we've got chaos at home."

"Yeah, I can see that."

He hesitated, then added carefully, "Do you want to talk to Emma?"

Devon's mouth moved before she could think. "No—I, uh—I've got class. I really need to get going."

The flicker of disappointment in his eyes was there and gone in a heartbeat, but enough to stick. Enough to make her stomach turn.

"Alright," he acquiesced. "We'll let you go then. Good luck with class."

"Thanks."

Devon jogged the last two blocks of her journey, forcing herself not to glance at the time again. She hated being late, and today she was pushing it. She was supposed to meet Conrad ten minutes ago at the fountain that was the halfway landmark between their apartments. Then they would walk to campus together, as was their routine, and it was one of the few constants left in their schedules, now that classes no longer overlapped and those lazy coffee breaks between lectures were few and far between.

When she reached the fountain, he wasn't there. The morning light was thin and gray, making everything look washed out, and the sound of water splashing only emphasized the absence at her side. She wondered if he'd gone ahead without her, but when she checked her phone, there were no texts or missed calls. 

Then she spotted him sprinting across the quad, his dark hair flopping into his eyes, and his backpack bouncing uncomfortably against his shoulder. He skidded to a stop in front of her, doubling over with his hands braced on his knees, his breath coming in ragged pulls.

Devon arched a brow, tilting her head. His jacket hung half-open, collar twisted, and T-shirt rumpled beneath it like he'd thrown it on without looking. She made a zipping motion in the air, lips twitching in mild disapproval.

"You should zip up, or else you'll catch a cold."

Conrad blinked at her a beat too slow, as if his brain was buffering, and when he didn't respond, she pressed a steaming paper cup into his hands. 

"Here, got you your usual."

His fingers curled around the warmth automatically. "Thanks," he mumbled hoarsely, but he didn't lift his eyes to hers.

That was when she noticed the damp, sickly sheen of his skin. The shadows under his eyes were bruised deep, darker than she'd ever seen them, and when he finally straightened, his gaze swam past her shoulder, unfocused, as though keeping himself upright took concentrated effort.

He was sick. It was inevitable. Conrad, with his endless workload, his impossible standards, and the constant late nights. Throw in the frigid bite of winter air, and it was only a matter of time before it all caught up to him. 

"Hey," she began carefully, "are you okay?"

"I'm fine." 

"You don't look fine. Honestly, you look like you're about to collapse or something. You shouldn't be—"

"I said I'm fine." His tone was brittle. "I can't afford to skip class."

Devon blinked at him, thrown by the stubbornness more than the words themselves. "You can't afford to pass out in class either. Or in the middle of the road. Dude, you can barely stand upright right now."

"I'm standing, aren't I?" he muttered defensively. 

She ignored that, crossing her arms. "If this is about missing notes, you can just text one of your friends. I'm sure someone will send them over. And it's not like you have any labs on Friday, right? If there was ever a day to rest, it would be today. Take a long weekend."

Conrad's jaw clenched. "Devon, drop it."

She should have left it there, but something in her rebelled against his evasiveness. "I'm worried about you. You've been pushing yourself way too hard."

"God, why do you even care?" he interrupted with a grimace. "It's none of your business. I don't know why you're so concerned all the time. Just, please, mind your own business and drop it."

"There's no need to be all—"

"Don't you have a life of your own to focus on instead of being all up in mine? Just get off my fucking back, stop being so damn clingy!"

For a moment, Devon just stood there, the sting of his words burning hotter the longer they sat in her chest. Irritation flared first, and indignation followed right on its heels. Her mouth opened instinctively, the beginnings of a scathing retort already on her tongue. The old her would have gone off on a tirade without hesitation, weaponizing all the venom she had stored up until she'd left him gutted and guilty. But college Devon wasn't high school Devon, so she held her tongue and resisted the temptation to be nasty. Whatever he was going through, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. 

"Caring about whether or not my friend is working himself to the brink of collapse is my business, I think," she scoffed. "But I apologize for my assumptions. Rest assured, it won't happen again."

Her words had the intended effect, and regret flashed across his face, but she didn't give him time to dredge up a half-assed apology. If she stayed a second longer, she knew she'd say something she couldn't take back, so she turned on her heel and fast-walked toward campus. She didn't glance back, not once, refusing to check if he was following.

He wasn't.

The rest of Devon's day passed in a foul mood. Back-to-back lectures from morning until evening left her frazzled, her stomach empty, and her brain running on fumes. She hadn't even had time to grab lunch, just the occasional sip of water in the shuffle between buildings, and by the time the last class wrapped up around eight, she felt utterly knackered, her limbs heavy and her head buzzing from too many hours of forced focus.

Her phone had been off most of the day, her usual tactic when she didn't want to deal with anyone, but as she walked back toward the apartment she shared with Maeve, she finally turned it on, bracing herself for the flood.

Several messages from her housemate popped up first. Not coming home tonight, don't wait up, followed by Maeve's shared location, a name, and what looked like an FBI dossier on some guy. Devon could practically hear her narrating each line—age, hometown, ex-girlfriends, probably his GPA and astrological sign too. Another potential fling, then. No surprise.

Then came a handful of texts from her team members. Kelsey had dropped a bunch of memes about their last training run in the group chat, while Eliza was inquiring about schedules for the weekend scrimmage. Natalie had posted an invitation for a late-night Taco Bell run that Devon considered going to. 

Her dad's phone had been hijacked by her brothers again, because there was a string of incoherent stickers and emojis from him. Finally, buried in the chaos were several missed calls from none other than Conrad Fisher. 

They were from an hour ago, and Devon frowned. Concern and aggravation warred within her, equal parts what the hell does he want and is he okay. When she called him back, it went straight to voicemail, and she told herself to leave him be. But then an unknown number flashed across her screen, and she picked up hesitantly. 

The voice on the other end sounded uncertain. "Uh, hello, is this..." A pause. She could hear muffled sounds in the background, the caller seemingly asking someone for something. When no answer came, he stumbled on. "...Devon? Can you, uh...can you come get him?"

"Come get who?"

"Oh, right, yeah, sorry. You're Conrad's friend, right?"

"Sure, but who are you?" Devon's impatience leaked through her voice. 

The guy cleared his throat. "I'm a classmate. Conrad doesn't look too well. I'd take him home myself, but I've got somewhere to be, and I'm already running late. Do you think you could take him? He, uh—he told me to call you. But he's kinda out of it now, or I think he'd talk to you himself."

Devon sighed. Fine, she could be mad at him some other time. She wasn't shitty enough to ignore a call for help. "Yeah, alright, text me your location, I'll be right there."

Turned out they were somewhere on the other side of campus, which meant it took another twenty minutes to get there, and when she finally spotted Conrad, he was draped on a bench with his head lolling, his skin a ghastly shade that made her pulse kick. His eyelids fluttered as though even the act of staying conscious was a battle. Beside him stood a guy she vaguely recognized, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, thumb flying over his phone screen.

The moment he noticed her approach, relief washed over his features. "Super sorry for the short notice," he blurted. "But I'm really late. Is it okay if I leave him with you?"

Devon's brows rose, unimpressed. "Sure, yeah. I got it from here."

The guy didn't even hesitate or pretend to feel guilty. He just bolted, sneakers slapping against pavement until the sound disappeared, and Devon exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down her face. Then she turned her attention back to Conrad.

His eyes cracked open just enough to meet hers, but he didn't speak. He was waiting for her to start first, but when she said nothing, he broke the silence. "Tried calling you."

"Well, you also told me to get lost, so I don't know why you expected me to pick up." 

Shit. Wrong thing to say. That wasn't what she'd meant, or maybe it was, just a little, but she hadn't wanted it to come out like that.

Conrad winced like she'd struck him somewhere already bruised, and he turned his head away, mumbling, "Sorry."

Devon forced her temper back into its cage. "My phone was turned off. Sorry. Why didn't you pick up when I called back?"

"Dead battery. That's why I had Liam call you."

She cast a glance toward the direction Liam had vanished. "Well, you've got shit friends. He didn't even stick around to make sure you got home."

A ghost of a smile flickered at his mouth. "I have one good friend... I think. I hope." The smile fell almost as soon as it appeared, leaving only remorse. "I really am sorry for earlier."

He looked like he would unravel at the slightest word, and Devon didn't trust herself not to keep choosing the wrong ones, so she rolled her shoulders back and shrugged, trying for brisk. "Let's get you home first. Then we can talk. It's freezing out here."

She crouched to slip her arm under his and coax him upright, silently daring him to argue. When he finally stood, his weight leaned into her more than she expected. He was heavier than he looked, and she found herself instinctively tightening her grip on him. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she unwound the scarf from around her neck.

The night air bit at her exposed skin, but she ignored it, her fingers brushing the line of Conrad's throat as she looped the wool around him. His skin was unnaturally warm, and the contact made him shiver. 

"Leave it to you to never be dressed appropriately for the weather," she deadpanned. 

He tipped his head forward, his fever-hazed expression borderline bashful. "Thanks."

Devon promptly realized just how close his face was to hers. Too close. His mouth was right there, and his eyes, half-lidded though they were, were right there. Before she could retreat and shove an entire regulation-sized six-foot distance between them, his forehead dipped, heavy and clumsy, landing squarely against her shoulder.

The feverish heat radiating off his skin seared through the thin fabric of her sweater, and her pulse stumbled, misfired, and ricocheted between her ribs. All because Conrad—annoying, stubborn, insufferably secretive Conrad—had the audacity to collapse on her like a half-dead cat.

Every instinct screamed at her to shove him off, to sprint to another state, and maybe file for a name change while she was at it. New country, new life. Witness protection program, maybe. It couldn't be too hard to fake a mob debt, right? Because what the hell was her heart doing hiccupping like that?

Then, just to make matters worse, he murmured an apology low against her collarbone. Goosebumps erupted down Devon's arms, her neck, her spine. His hair brushed against her jaw, and she caught the faint scent of cologne clinging to him—warm spice and something distinctively him. Her brain short-circuited, but she shoved her spiralling thoughts down forcefully, slamming a lid on the boiling pot. It'd just been a long day, and she wasn't used to her friends tumbling all over her unless they were drunk. Well, being this sick was almost the same as being drunk, and unforeseen circumstances were bound to provoke unforeseen reactions. 

Gently, she eased him up, putting a respectable inch of space between them. "Okay, please don't pass out here. Can you walk?"

When he nodded, she bent to grab his bag from where he'd left it on the bench, her knees nearly buckling at the motion. "Jesus, Fisher," she exclaimed, groaning as she swung it over her shoulder. "What the fuck do you carry in here? A medical-grade lab?"

Conrad winced in embarrassment. "Textbooks."

"You know you can just download the online versions, right?"

"I like having a physical copy."

"Of course you do."

When he made the pitiful attempt of reaching for it, mumbling that he could carry it himself, she pulled it tighter to her shoulder. "Neither you nor your precious books are making it back if you carry them. You can't even carry yourself." She shifted, trying to prop his weight without stumbling. "Dude, have you even eaten today?"

"Not really. I had lunch yesterday. I think."

"You think?" Devon glared at him. "You absolute dumbass."

"I've been busy!"

"Busy enough to try your hand at dying, maybe."

The walk was a struggle in every sense of the word. For starters, he was significantly taller, which made the whole leaning situation awkward as hell. Devon felt like she was dragging around a broken marionette, and his long legs forced her to half-jog to keep them in sync. By the time they reached his apartment building, she was sweating through her sweater, and then, of course, the elevator was out of service.

"Oh, fucking great," she muttered, eyeing the staircase like it was Mount Everest.

"Sorry."

"Don't be. I'm just adding it to your tab."

That earned her a chuckle, and the rest of the journey became somewhat bearable. When they reached the third floor, she nearly dropped him right outside the door. 

"Next time, I'm going to need a forklift."

Conrad ignored the jibe, lucid enough to ask, "Do you have the spare key with you? Or do I need to find mine?"

"What, you think I carry your keys around every day?"

He looked almost offended at the suggestion. "Well, yeah, I have yours."

"Well, that doesn't really help right now, since we're not at my place."

But his expression was so utterly earnest that she couldn't bear to unravel the implications of his words. Instead, she shook her head. "Relax, I'm just kidding. Geez." She dug around in her bag until she fished out the familiar keyring. 

After one fumbling attempt, the door creaked open, and she all but dumped their bags in a heap before staggering Conrad toward the couch that—thank every god in existence—was mercifully right by the door. He landed with a muffled thump, sinking into the cushions while Devon rolled her neck, stretching her sore arms with a theatrical sigh.

"Alright, mission complete." She scrutinized him. "You want me to haul you to bed or something?"

Conrad shook his head, strands of hair sticking damply to his temple. "No, it's okay. You've done enough. Thank you."

Something softened behind her usual exasperation, but she smothered it with another sigh. "Okay. Stay put. I'll make you some tea or something."

"Not like I have anywhere else to go."

"Do you have a preference for takeout?"

There was a vague hum from the couch that could've been anything, while Devon busied herself by tugging their bags to a more organized corner, kicking her shoes off, then heading toward the kitchen in search of mugs, teabags, and whatever scraps of edible food her idiot friend hadn't neglected into expiry.

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

Devon's scarf was still looped around Conrad's neck, snug against his flushed skin. He should have tugged it off by now because it was too warm in his apartment, but instead, he burrowed into it almost shamelessly. Her scent enveloped him, lemon and peppermint, cutting through the fog in his head better than the paracetamol she'd forced him to take a while ago, and as he lay slack-limbed across the couch, he tried not to think about how ridiculous this was.

Ridiculous, because she was his best friend. Ridiculous, because the memory of her arm cinched around him lingered like a phantom touch, her hair brushing his cheek when he'd leaned in earlier, and that moment—his forehead pressed against her shoulder like a lovesick fool—looped endlessly in his fevered brain. It had to have been viral delirium. 

The couch groaned under his weight when he slumped further down, and from the kitchen came the muted shuffle of cabinets and clink of mugs. She moved with the ease of someone who knew where to find everything, though she hadn't said a word since settling him in. Normally, she'd have lobbed at least three jokes by now at the state of his desk or about how he resembled a sick Victorian maiden wasting away. 

It was obvious that she was still mad at him, busying herself with stacking the books on his desk in neat rows, sweeping stray pens back into their holder, and shuffling the shoes at his entryway into a neat line. When she passed by, she barely spared him a glance, but she returned with a duvet from his bedroom, draping it over him without ceremony. 

"Wow," Conrad croaked. "Really leaning into the Florence Nightingale role, huh? Should I cough more dramatically so you can spoon-feed me soup?"

Devon didn't dignify that with a response, wordlessly tugging the blanket more securely around him before walking away. God, it was worse than a scolding, and he sank further into the couch, scarf pulled up like he could hide behind it.

"Cool," he muttered, half to himself, half to the ceiling. "Silent treatment in my own house. Love that."

The stillness that followed was louder than any argument, and then a mug landed on the coffee table next to him, steam curling upward in lazy ribbons. Ginger and honey, because Devon somehow knew what would soothe his throat before he even registered that it hurt.

The last person to take care of him like this had been his mom. Back then, it had been soup and cold washcloths pressed to his forehead, her voice a low hum while he drifted in and out of sleep. After she was gone, he didn't have the luxury of being doted upon. He'd been promoted to the role of caretaker immediately, no questions asked. The reliable big brother, pillar of strength and foundation of the family, except the foundation had been cracking for years while everyone politely pretended not to notice.

So, being on the receiving end of someone's vigilant concern was so bizarre that his first instinct was to leap up and demand she stop. That's my job, thank you very much. Put the blanket down, I'll fold it later. Drop the sponge, I'll wipe the damn counters down tomorrow. Stop. Just stop.

But he didn't have the strength to stop her, and it was nice that someone cared whether or not he was eating and sleeping. Nice that someone had ignored his best efforts to push them away.

Ah, yes, his efforts—the elephant in the room currently sipping tea. Devon wasn't going to bring it up because her version of warfare was passive aggressive dish stacking, which meant the responsibility fell to him, which made sense since he was the one who screwed up. 

He'd known he was pushing himself too hard. The med school applications were practically a full-time job on top of his actual coursework, but he thought if he just powered through it, no one would notice him unravelling. He just hadn't counted on one overly perceptive girl to have caught on to his self-destructive habits. She always noticed when there was something off, but he couldn't stand the idea of her wasting time worrying about him when she had her own worries to juggle.

So he pulled a classic Conrad move, creating distance by lashing out, something mean enough to sting and make her back off. If she was mad at him, at least she wouldn't waste her energy on him. But the moment she'd walked away that morning, he'd realized something deeply unfortunate. He was the dependent one. He was the one who couldn't stay out of her life. 

She could usually see through every excuse and paper-thin lie he spun, but she hadn't seen through this one. Now he had to fix it, but what the hell did you say to the person you'd tried to push away only to realize they were the one holding you together?

He didn't so much as glance at the tea she'd brought, and when Devon turned to leave the living room, he caught her wrist, firm enough to startle her. Her skin was cold, ice against his overheated fingers. "You're freezing," he remarked, lips curving despite the lump in his throat. "Guess between the two of us, we'd make one normal-temperature human."

Devon's expression was unreadable, but she didn't shake him off, letting him coax her into sitting beside him.

"I didn't mean it." The words he'd been holding back clogged his throat, rough and uneven as he forced them out. "What I said earlier, I didn't mean it."

She shifted uncomfortably, but when she moved to stand, his grip tightened. "Look," she said, "I'd really rather not do this right now."

"Why not? I know you're angry, and you have every right to be. I want to apologize." 

"Because you're sick and you need someone right now, and I'm okay being that person, even if I'm mad at you. Your health is more important. You don't have to force yourself to say something you don't mean just because things are awkward. Are you really sorry, or are you just saying it because you want the weird vibe gone?"

Conrad shook his head so quickly it made him dizzy. "No, that's not it. I'm not forcing myself to apologize." His hand slipped down her wrist until his fingers brushed hers, clumsy with illness and nerves. "I mean it. It was really shitty of me, and you didn't deserve that. And I don't deserve you being here right now, but—" his voice dropped, "—you have to know how sorry I am. I'm not just saying that."

For a moment, she just regarded him wearily, and then she shrugged. "Sure, whatever."

Another golden nugget from therapy: avoid miscommunication. Easier said than done. His whole life was built on silence and carrying too much weight on his shoulders. The Conrad who had lashed out at her today was the old Conrad. The Conrad who shoved people away because if they got too close, they would see just how inadequate he was. The Conrad who had kept his mother's illness locked away like a state secret, and swallowed the knowledge of his father's cheating until it curdled him. The Conrad who had vanished from Brown when the beach house was going to be sold, thinking that if he disappeared, he could handle it alone. But every secret always found its way out anyway, in messy, alienating ways that left him even more bereft. 

His therapist had told him he needed to stop being a fortress and accept help, to let people in before the collapse. But old habits died hard, and his throat knotted when he tried to speak. How could he explain all that to Devon in plain words without sounding pathetic? He couldn't. So he tried with the smallest truth he could manage.

"When I said those awful things to you, that wasn't me," he said tentatively. "Or, it was, but it was the old me. That's not who I want to be anymore. I'm really trying not to be that guy. And I really am sorry."

That seemed to work because Devon's posture slackened, and understanding flickered across her face. "I know a thing or two about past selves trying to take over," she mumbled, almost to herself, but that admission was the thread that tied their jagged edges together, and Conrad seized it, afraid it would snap.

"So are we cool now?" he asked. 

"Sure. We're cool. But you owe me." 

With her lips no longer pressed in that thin disapproving line, she looked more like the girl he knew. Maybe it was the malaise or the dizzy pull of relief, but Conrad moved before he could think better of it, pulling her into a hug. For a heartbeat, she went rigid against him, but then, slowly, like a truce, she let herself melt into the contact. 

"Okay, you big baby, you're going to be just fine. It's just a cold." Her tone was teasing, but she let him stay there for several long minutes with his cheek pressed against her shoulder, her hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. 

There was a low thrum beneath his ribs, equal parts guilt and something sweeter, and a laugh broke out of him. "I'll owe you a lifetime of coffees."

Devon huffed against his shoulder, but she didn't pull away. She also didn't point out how he'd basically pledged himself to her for the rest of his life. His words lingered in the air, both an oath and a declaration neither of them was ready to dissect yet.

Eventually, Conrad cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sorry for inconveniencing you."

Devon pulled back just enough to shoot him the most unimpressed look he'd ever seen. "Shut up. It's not an inconvenience to care about your friends. If you die of a common cold like a Victorian peasant, who's going to be my binge-watching partner?"

"If that's all I'm good for, I might as well die."

He flopped backward dramatically, except he hadn't let go of her, which meant that when he went down, she was pulled forward with him, catching herself with both hands pressed flat against his chest.

Conrad's brain short-circuited. Her face was inches from his, close enough to feel her breath, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, close enough that the thought—God, I want to kiss her—slammed through him so hard he nearly winced.

He felt like the worst person alive. Here she was, trying to comfort him and make sure he didn't die of neglect, and instead of just thanking her like a normal person, he was having absurd thoughts. Peak moron behaviour. 

But he couldn't deny it. He liked her, and not in some fleeting, rebound way that his therapist would have side-eyed him for. He'd known Devon for three years. Three years of her jabs and generous heart hidden beneath layers of badly timed jokes. Three years of realizing she saw through him better than anyone else did. It didn't feel false or desperate, like he was just trying to fill the Isabel Conklin shaped hole that had once existed in his chest. Honestly, he suspected part of him had been over her the moment he saw her in his sweatshirt, kissing his brother in front of his car. That was the nuclear blast, and the end of an era. Devon felt like the beginning of something else entirely.

Then again, here he was, the idiot thinking about another girl while on the verge of wanting to kiss this one. Smooth. Real Casanova stuff. 

If he opened his mouth now, he knew something incredibly stupid would come out. If he didn't, well, he'd do something even stupider. Before he could test just how low the bar for humiliation could go, Devon yanked herself out of his hold like she'd touched a live wire. She scrambled to the other end of the couch, putting a safe—and, frankly, tragic—gulf between them.

"Dude, as much as I care about you, I cannot have you giving me your cold. I'll actually lose it if I get sick this time of year," she admonished, swiping errant strands of hair out of her face. 

Conrad propped himself up on one elbow, dissecting her reaction curiously. "This time of year, huh? Imagine how that makes me feel. And what, you're just going to abandon a sick man in his hour of need?"

"You'll live. And if you don't, dibs on your record collection."

"My record collection? You know my signed Springsteen vinyl is worth more than my life! How about I leave you my surfboard instead?"

"Why would I want your surfboard? I don't know how to surf."

"We're going to remedy that someday."

"No thanks." She made a face. "I am, however, an enjoyer of good music, so vinyls are totally on the table. Maybe even throw in the guitar, while we're at it."

Conrad glanced at the instrument propped against the wall next to the sofa. "You don't even play acoustic. Why would you need that old thing?"

Devon grinned. "Something to remember you by, duh."

"Ouch. Brutal. Remind me to write you out of my will immediately." He had to bite his tongue to stop another irrational thought from slipping out, so he slumped back against the armrest and draped his arm over his face, hiding himself from view. "If this is how you treat your patients, remind me never to end up in your care."

Devon snorted. "Trust me, if you were my patient, I'd already have smothered you with that blanket."

"Romantic," he shot back, grinning despite himself. "You really know how to make a guy feel special."

"Shut up and drink your tea, Sherlock."

"Yes, ma'am." He did as she said, partly because she was right and partly because he couldn't stop himself from listening to her when she took that tone. After several obedient sips, he glanced at her over the rim of the mug. "You know, you're awfully bossy for someone who claims this isn't an inconvenience."

"Yeah, well, someone's gotta keep you from dying. I thought we discussed this already."

"Mm," he hummed, setting the mug down with a little smirk. "I suppose I don't mind being bossed around all that much. Not if it's you."

That earned him a sharp look, the kind where she wasn't sure if she should laugh or smack him. "Oh my god, you're delirious!"

"Fever's talking," he deflected quickly, waving a hand like that excused anything. That way, if she looked too horrified, he could pretend he didn't remember it tomorrow. Perfect strategy. 

A cushion narrowly missed his face as it flew past him. "You're lucky I'm not recording this for blackmail."

"Blackmail?" He feigned outrage. "Oh, please. My ramblings are pure gold. People would pay to hear this."

"Yeah? Name one."

"You obviously."

That shut her up for a solid two seconds before she scoffed, "You wish."

Yes, I do, actually, his brain supplied unhelpfully, and he swallowed the notion down with another sip of tea. "How cruel. Is this how you treat all dying men?"

"I told you. You'll live. Unfortunately." 

When he didn't respond, she beamed triumphantly, pleased to have gotten the last word in. But he was too busy memorizing her to care. The angle of her jaw when she smiled. The curve of her mouth. 

Oh, hell, not this again. Not her. Anyone but her. Don't do this to yourself, Conrad. She's your best friend. Don't go ruining this because you're delirious and your immune system is weak.

"Do I have something on my face?" Devon demanded suddenly, snapping him out of his spiral. 

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

She narrowed her eyes like she didn't believe him. "Okay."

"Fever," he said instantly, shrugging with defeat. "Whatever it is you think I did, don't hold me accountable. Not responsible for my actions while I'm sick."

"You keep acting weird, and I won't be responsible for my actions either, Fisher."

"See, with you, I don't know what that's supposed to mean," Conrad mused. "Am I getting surprise flowers, or am I getting tossed off a cliff. Who knows? Certainly not me."

"Take a wild guess," she deadpanned, and he snickered. 

He seriously needed to pull it together. He couldn't keep the last girl he loved happy for more than five minutes, driving her straight into someone else's arms, his brother's, no less. So yeah, he was a real prize, and Devon deserved better than a guy who screwed everything up. She deserved better than him.

But then she shifted the blanket so it covered him better, murmuring, "You're shivering again, dumbass," and his stomach twisted into knots all over again. This is why he couldn't risk it. Losing her would gut him more than any breakup ever. 

Conrad forced a grin. "You know you don't have to babysit me until the fever breaks. I'm sure you have better things to do."

"Come on, this is nothing. I survived Thanksgiving with my Dad's substitute family last year. You're a walk in the park compared to that." Her expression turned serious then, as if sensing his unspoken intention, and her voice softened. "You can let people take care of you, you know that, right?"

"What a novel concept," he drawled in exaggerated surprise. "Never considered it."

"I'm serious! You're one of those twats who'd have a whole broken bone and not tell anyone until you need a limb amputated or something."

"Funny you should say that actually..."

"Wait, no way!" Devon's eyes narrowed, and she sat up straighter. "Tell me you didn't..."

A furrow appeared between Conrad's brows when he recalled the memory. "In my defence, I was only a kid."

"Oh god, what happened?"

"I broke my arm."

"And?" she prompted, urging him to finish. 

"And I didn't tell anyone because I didn't want to be a bother," he finished lamely, realizing to some degree how insane it sounded to someone who wasn't inside his head. 

"Are you—" she cut herself off with an incredulous laugh, then groaned. "I feel bad enough for kid Conrad that I want to hug you right now, but you also deserve to be smacked, because dude, what the fuck!"

"The hug would be most welcome, but then again, we wouldn't want you to get sick." He shrugged, eyes glinting with wry amusement. "I'm told it's one of my more endearing qualities."

"It's not. It's highly concerning." Devon's scowl deepened, but there was something tender beneath it, something he refused to look at for too long. "Please never do that again."

"I know. I'm learning that now. I think."

"I'm serious, Conrad."

"Wow, I'm getting name-dropped."

"Shut up. I mean it. Fever or a broken bone, hell, if you stub a toe and need help, you can call me."

He gave her an earnest smile, her words settling over him like a warm blanket. "Gotta put my emergency contact to use, right? Don't worry. I've learned my lesson."

"Good."

Before he could think of anything else to say, the doorbell rang, and Devon practically leapt to answer it. "Takeout's here!" she declared, hopping toward the door and returning a minute later with her arms loaded with bags. 

"What are we having?" he asked, watching her rummage around in the kitchen.

"Now, usually when one is sick, the best treatment is my mom's chicken noodle soup, but since you haven't gone grocery shopping in what appears to be months, you'll have to settle for soup from the takeout place down the street. Bon appétit."

"And why are you in the kitchen instead of over here?"

"To fetch my clown suit for dinner."

A startled guffaw burst out of Conrad. "What did you just say?"

Devon rolled her eyes and sighed, "To get plates, obviously. No shit, Sherlock."

"We could just eat out of the boxes, you know," he pointed out. "No plating necessary."

"Oh, sure, let's maximize your exposure to every foreign pathogen in a five-block radius. Great idea. Patient care 101: limit interaction with bacteria you didn't invite."

"Remind me again who's studying to be a doctor?"

Devon returned to set a tray down in front of him. "Don't worry, Dr. Fisher, I wasn't going to make the patient do the dishes. I'll take care of it before I leave."

Conrad suddenly realized that he did not want her to leave. Not tonight, or ever, if he was being honest with himself. He didn't tell her, of course. She probably had other plans, ones that didn't involve nursing a sick college student back to health. When he didn't respond, she turned the TV on and perched herself on the opposite end of the couch with her plate. 

Halfway through the movie, she noticed his tea mug was empty, and before he could even open his mouth, she was up to refill it, leaving him marvelling at the sudden uptick in his heart rate. When she returned, his already fragmented focus crumbled entirely. Every now and then, he couldn't help but glance at her from the corner of his eye. It was absurd. He was sick and should have been miserable, but all he could think about was that he wanted this moment to last forever. 

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

Devon woke to fingers combing through her hair, and for one blissful, unguarded second, she let herself melt into it. In the hazy in-between of sleep and waking, it almost felt like her mother's touch, those rare childhood nights when she'd feign sleep just to feel her hand brush over her hair before rushing off to the next urgent thing. Her mother was always gone—day shifts, night shifts, even brutal twenty-four-hour shifts—so moments where Devon had her all to herself were vanishingly rare and never lasted long. She used to stay up late on purpose just to catch her when she came back, then pretend to be asleep so she could savour that fleeting tenderness, hoarding the moments greedily, knowing they would slip away as quickly as they came.

Then the present intruded rudely on her reverie. A sharp crick in her neck protested the angle she'd been sleeping in, and her knees ached from being curled under her on the floor for so long. She groaned, pulling away from the hand, which instantly stilled. Her bleary eyes adjusted to Conrad's living room, and she realized she'd slumped over next to his couch.

He was still stretched out on it, and his eyes were closed, but she saw through his act when she noticed one of his hands hovering right in front of her face, palm angled to block the slant of morning light streaming in from his window.

When he felt her glare at him, he opened his eyes sheepishly, and the first thing Devon's sleep-addled mind could think of was that his lashes were unfairly pretty.

"You okay?" he asked, frowning as though her comfort was more important than the fact that he was the sick one. "There's no way sleeping like that was comfortable. I thought you would've gone home."

Devon rolled her neck, grimacing at the pop it made. "You fell asleep after dinner, and then your fever spiked. I wasn't about to leave you to fend for yourself. Consider it a public service. What if you choked on your own vomit or something? I'd feel responsible."

Conrad's eyes went comically wide, horror written all over his flushed face. "Oh god," he groaned. "I didn't puke, did I?"

"Nope. Thankfully, you didn't. Would've ruined your reputation for broody good looks if I had to hose down your couch."

"You think I look good?" His lips quirked mischievously.

"Don't you start right now."

"Hey, let a guy enjoy a compliment."

Devon rolled her eyes. "I refuse to entertain your fantasies."

Conrad's gaze flickered up to land on the washcloth that had long since dried against his forehead. He reached up, touched it, and glanced back at her. "I'm assuming that was your doing, too?"

"It was either that or hauling your ass into the bathtub and dunking you in an ice bath. Honestly, I didn't even know people could run that hot. What have you been doing to yourself? Training for the role of Human Torch?"

That earned her a weak but genuine laugh. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "I feel better."

Devon studied him for a beat longer, noting the exhaustion still etched into the lines of his face, and the way he seemed both relieved and embarrassed that she hadn't abandoned him in the night. "Well," she deadpanned, flopping backward onto the rug with a dramatic sigh, "glad my nursing skills have expanded. Should really put that on LinkedIn."

Then she stood, wincing as her knees cracked in protest, and gave a slow, catlike stretch. Her spine popped audibly, and she groaned like someone three decades older. "Ugh, my body is going to sue me for damages." She pressed a hand against her back before muttering, "Alright, I'll fix you some tea before I go, but I really gotta get moving."

Disappointment flooded Conrad's face. "Can't you stay?"

"Dude, I need to brush my teeth and wash my face and look at least somewhat like a human being for the rest of the day. Right now, I'm one step away from being mistaken for a swamp cryptid."

"You can just do it here," he argued, oddly stubborn for someone who had barely been able to lift his head the night before. "I keep telling you to leave a spare toothbrush since you're over so much."

"At this rate, I might as well move in."

"You might as well."

"You're tryna poach Maeve's housemate," Devon snorted. "She's going to hunt you down, you know. And besides, if it gets lonely, you should just get a housemate too. A real one. Not me crashing in your living room every other week."

For a moment, Conrad looked like he was going to say something, but then he sighed and leaned back against the couch instead. "Okay, fine, leave. But if I die, it really is on you. What if my fever spikes again?"

"You are so dramatic."

"It's not dramatic if it happens. It's a tragedy."

Devon shook her head as she padded into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "I'll swing by in the afternoon to make sure you're still alive, don't worry. Considering I'm literally a ten-minute walk away, you'll be fine."

"Bold of you to assume."

She didn't bother to humour his theatrics, busying herself with making him breakfast instead. "I'll make a trip for groceries too, since your pantry is pitiful right now. God, you're fulfilling all the college student stereotypes."

"It's finals season, and I have med school applications to finalize!" Conrad protested.

"Excuses, excuses," Devon clicked her tongue in disapproval. "Just make a list and send it to me, I'll pick it up for you."

Balancing the tray she had prepared, she made her way back to him, setting it down on the coffee table before reaching for the cloth still plastered to his forehead. It was cool to the touch, no longer damp, and she replaced it with the back of her hand, brushing his hair out of the way. To her surprise, he leaned into her touch, and she forced her pulse to remain steady. It didn't mean anything. He was sick and probably didn't even realize he was going it.

"That's not very medically accurate, you know," he pointed out eventually.

"Relax, I've got the medical way too." Devon picked up the thermometer from the tray, handing it to him solemnly. "Now hush and do it properly."

She liked taking care of people. It had always been one of the few things that calmed her down and gave her something to do with her restless energy, but with Conrad, it felt different. Maybe because he never asked for help, and she understood his instinctive need to handle everything on his own all too well. So the fact that he was letting her do so now was strangely precious.

Just then, her phone pinged from the coffee table, and she reached for it absentmindedly, fully expecting Maeve to be harassing her again. Sure enough, one notification was a message from last night:

Maeve: if you're staying at pen guy's place again, at least lemme know so i don't send out a search party

Devon rolled her eyes fondly, but the other two messages made something inside her shrivel.

Emma: I know your dad's been pushing you about graduation, but don't worry about it, okay. Do whatever you're comfortable with. Best of luck with finals! And the boys told me about your chat yesterday. Thank you, it means a lot.

Dad: Weather's been rough lately. Make sure you're staying warm, and don't skip your meals. Don't work yourself too hard. Thank you for picking up yesterday. Here's Jasper in his soccer uniform. Saturday morning practice.

The words she read were kind, but they pressed on a bruise she hadn't realized was still tender. She wanted nothing more than to pretend yesterday's conversation never happened, but if they kept reminding her, she was going to lose it.

Conrad noticed her discomfort instantly, and he sat up, sharp concern threading through the exhaustion in his eyes. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Devon blinked rapidly, her throat tight. "Nothing. Just, busy day, you know. I should get going."

"No." His frown deepened, cutting a line between his brows. "Something's wrong."

"Maeve's threatening to evict me, obviously."

"Stop deflecting."

"I'm not."

Her voice threatened to wobble, and she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. It was just a stupid text. But every time she felt herself soften toward her dad or his family, she felt instantly guilty. It was as if she was supposed to wear her mother's resentment and internalize her grudges against everyone who'd ever wronged her, and wanting to be nice to them was the utmost betrayal. Meanwhile, her mother couldn't even bother calling her to ask how she was, and even when she did, she'd always cut their occasional conversations short with a breezy excuse.

Devon couldn't untangle or explain the ache, and if she stood here any longer, she knew it would spill out and break her open. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, refusing to rise and meet his gaze. "I should really go."

The silence lingered long enough that she imagined he'd let her retreat, but then his hand closed around her arm. Before she could protest, he maneuvered her to sit beside him, his expression almost stern. "This whole asking for help thing works both ways, you know. I'm not your charity case, I'm your friend."

Her first instinct was to laugh it off, but his unwavering gaze pinned her in place, making it impossible to lie outright, but she tried anyway. "It's not really your problem, don't worry about it."

"That's not how friendship works. If you can force-feed me toast and tea when I'm a mess, you can damn well let me listen when something's eating at you."

"God, you're bossy when you're sick."

"Imagine how unbearable I'd be when I'm better," he said, softer this time, but his eyes never left hers. "Might as well take advantage of my weakened state."

Devon mulled his words over for several long minutes. Then the words left her mouth before she could stop them. "Some people really should not have children. Like, there should be some kind of test you have to pass to be allowed."

"Oh. Uh. That's... unexpected."

"We've had plenty of weird conversations. Remember our debate on solipsism?"

He smiled despite himself. "Okay, okay, point taken. You're basically a philosophy major in disguise. But back to what you were saying." He tilted his head, studying her. "I think if they did that, the population would be cut in half. At least. I, for one, would not exist. No way my dad would've passed whatever test they'd make you take for parenthood."

"Yeah. Same."

"Right. And we're discussing antinatalism, why again?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I just think it'd make a lot of people's lives easier. How much easier is it to never have existed at all? No midterms. No financial crisis when finding a job in this economy is impossible. No heartache, no grief, no pain. Just nothingness."

"And you think that would be preferable to living?" He sounded skeptical.

"Sorry. I don't know what I'm on about," Devon muttered dryly.

Conrad scrutinized her with an expression that was half-concern, half-teasing. "Finals got you that stressed out, huh? That you'd consider not existing at all? You sound like that one guy who sued his parents because he didn't consent to being born."

"I don't think I consented to being born either."

"Devon."

"Conrad." Then she laughed again. "Chill, I'm not going to sue my parents. I just think most people would be happier if they never had kids. Kids make people cranky and stressed out. And most moms"—her throat caught, but she forced the words through—"most moms would definitely be happier if they never had kids. Can't say the same about dads. They always seem to find a way to live how they please anyway. It's always the woman's life that's permanently altered."

He was silent, giving her the time to unravel her thoughts and try assembling them into something coherent. But it was impossible to do so. There was no beginning or end, just the big ugly middle. But complaining about trying to navigate a relationship between her mother, especially to Conrad of all people, seemed inconsiderate. 

"Children are the magic of their mothers' lives," he said when it was clear she wasn't going to speak, his voice softening in a way it only did when he spoke of Susannah. A smile ghosted across his lips, reverent and untouched by cynicism. "That's what my mom used to tell us. She never got mad, not really, but when Jere and I pushed her patience and deserved the occasional disciplining, she never stayed angry for long. And she'd remind us that, no matter how it looked in those moments, we were her magic. We always would be." His gaze searched hers with unbearable tenderness. "So whatever intrusive thoughts you're having, stop having them."

Devon resisted the urge to say something abrasive. To some degree, she knew he was right. Of course, her mother loved her. How could she not? The woman had given up law school, abandoned ambition, and worked odd jobs for half her life just to raise her. Those weren't the actions of someone who didn't love you.

But love could be cruel. Love was a noose that tightened every time you tried to breathe freely. Love was eternal guilt for the sin of existing, for being the burden someone else had to choose again and again. She wanted to say that, but it was too dramatic a truth for a Saturday morning.

"What triggered this, anyway?" Conrad asked.

What indeed. The spiral always lived inside her, coiled and waiting, rearing its head at the smallest provocation. Maybe this morning it had been the text. Or maybe it was just the ordinary weight of being alive.

"I got a text from my—from Emma."

Conrad winced, like he'd tasted something bitter. "Is she like your version of Kayleigh?"

"Kayleigh, like your dad's..."

"Mistress," he finished, his expression darkening as though even the word scalded him. "Yeah. He cheated on my mom while she was sick. Can you believe that? I still can't believe that. It's been years and I still can't..." 

"I'm sorry."

"Did you know men are six times more likely to betray their partners after they're diagnosed with a life-threatening illness? I looked it up when I found out. Something about them trying to have some semblance of control over their lives. What bullshit. I just"—he broke off, shaking his head—"I couldn't understand how he could do that to her. When she was at her lowest. And I told myself I could never allow myself to be like that."

What could Devon possibly say to that? There were no words consoling enough for the wound he carried. Eventually, she managed a half-hearted, "Guess the whole 'in sickness and in health' spiel is just for show then."

"Is this where you tell me you don't believe in marriage either?"

"You know what I think about that particular custom." And she left it there. She wasn't in the mood to pick apart patriarchal institutions and their historical corruptions. If it had been Maeve, maybe she would've gone off on a rant, but Conrad wasn't Maeve. This wasn't the time, or the place, and as lovely as he was, he wasn't the person to have this conversation with.

He looked at her strangely then, almost like her answer disappointed him. The faintest shadow passed over his features, but she couldn't imagine why. He'd known her long enough to know where she stood on most things. But his quiet "Yeah, I know," sounded resigned.

Devon cleared her throat. "Sorry I interrupted you. What were you saying before?"

Conrad shook his head immediately, cutting her off. "No. We're not talking about me, we're talking about you. Your dad's mistress."

"That's the thing, she isn't. That's the worst part." She grimaced and tucked her knees up against her chest. "My dad was never even legally married to my mom, but that makes it worse because why the fuck would you go and have two kids with someone you couldn't get along with for more than five minutes."

"Oh."

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure he met Emma years later. I have no logical reason to hate her. In fact, she's nothing but saintly. Too saintly, really, but whatever." She huffed, scrubbing a hand over her face. "I just hate everyone. It's that time of the semester when I'm not fit for human company."

"You're always fit for my company, Watson." Conrad punctuated the statement with a friendly bump of his shoulder.

That drew the smallest twitch of a smile from her. "You're a terrible liar, but okay."

"Besides, it is definitely okay to hate some people. They deserve it. I hated my dad so much I quit football."

Devon's head snapped toward him, eyes widening. "You told me you quit, but not why."

"Never mind," he backtracked. "Again, this is not about me."

"Now it is. You can't say something like that and not explain, dude."

"Fine. I just had to, okay." He shrugged, trying to make the matter seem lighter than it was. "I had to destroy the picture of me he had in his head. So I quit everything that made him like me. The morning runs before work. The golf and the fishing trips, which weren't hard, because I never enjoyed them in the first place. But I also had to quit football, and that was harder because I loved it." He raised his mug in a toast. "So here's to spite, and all the ways we can weaponize it."

When she looked at him with an expression so heavy with angry indignation and grief on his behalf, he nudged her again a forced grin. "Hey, you're supposed to laugh. Otherwise, I just sound like a sad sack."

"You are a sad sack."

"Exactly. No pity party, please. I think I used up your pity quota when I nearly barfed all over you last night."

"I am coming to realize that the well is limitless when it comes to you," Devon mused. "And you didn't barf, so congrats. But hey, I get the whole spite thing. My dad wanted me to do law at Harvard, like he did." She gave a delirious little laugh. "Wow. We really do get off on disappointing our dads. Weird."

Conrad was nicer than she was, plain and simple. If she'd had to give up soccer because of some cheating schmuck, she'd probably have shot said schmuck, but he just packed it away and set it on the altar of spite like an offering.

Maybe that was the difference between them. He carried sacrifice like second nature, giving up pieces of himself to make a point, proving he wasn't the man his father wanted him to be. He had also given up the girl he loved—a sordid story told when he was particularly drunk—to his brother. She couldn't imagine herself doing the same, not willingly anyway, being more likely to bite the shepherd than lie down on the altar.

She glanced at him and thought maybe that was why their friendship worked. They each had something to learn from the other. Conrad needed to learn how to be selfish and fight for what he wanted, while she needed to learn how to stop fighting so hard and living like every choice had to be a rebellion or a performance.

"For the record, I'm glad you didn't end up going to Harvard," he remarked, still scrutinizing her, trying to read the things she wouldn't say out loud.

Devon straightened, nodding solemnly. "Me too. Stanford was the one offering me the full ride. I'd rather not graduate with a ton of debt, thank you very much."

"Is that the only thing you appreciate about being here?" He leaned into her, and she shoved him away playfully. 

"Oh, and there's the team. I don't think I would have survived freshman year without Maeve taking me under her wing. And coach is such a blessing."

Conrad put on an exaggerated scowl. "I see how it is."

"Of course, I'm glad to have met you," she added belatedly with a wink. "You put things into perspective in a way no one else can."

He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest, feigning a swoon. "Now I'm really flattered." Then he continued, suddenly curious. "Oh, by the way, what are you doing for graduation?"

Devon dropped her gaze to her lap. It wasn't a difficult question per se, but her answer would sound insensitive no matter what she said, so she turned the question on him. "The question is, what are you doing?"

The smile on his face faltered. "I was just planning on having them mail my degree. No point in going to the ceremony. It's not like anyone will come. But maybe you and I could hang out. Do something else."

"Yeah, sure, we can hang out," she hesitated before continuing, "But it's your graduation. You deserve to go up on stage like everybody else. It's your achievement. Do it for you."

"Yeah, but—"

"No 'buts'. Come on, you have to go to your own graduation ceremony. You can't cheat yourself out of any potential joy just because other people let you down. That's not fair to you."

He sighed, unconvinced, a noncommittal "Maybe" leaving his lips.

Devon pushed up from the couch, stretching her stiff limbs. "Just think about it, okay? And, thank you for a delightful conversation, but I really must leave."

"But you never told me what was bothering you."

"I did, and you helped immensely. So thank you."

Conrad didn't argue, but his gaze lingered on her as though he knew she was only giving him half the truth, but she had slipped on her shoes and was gone before he could press further.

On her walk home, guilt bloomed like an ugly flower between her ribs. Because how dare she complain when she had a father who kept trying to fold her into his new family, and her mother, no matter how absent, was at least still alive. She had people—messy, imperfect, and sometimes suffocating people—but they were there.

Conrad, on the other hand, had only solitude. He wore the emptiness like it was a coat that had always belonged to him, even though it never fit right around the shoulders. Sometimes she envied that ease of resignation and his ability to be content with less. Her own endless wanting made her feel greedy, but it wasn't like she knew how to stop either. Greedy for things she shouldn't and couldn't want. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

Conrad woke up on graduation day with the same feeling you get when you realize you've left the oven on, except instead of burning down a house, he was about to walk across a stage in a polyester robe. It was dread. Pure, stupid, unshakable dread.

It was irrational, of course. People graduated all the time. Billions of people had walked before him, and billions would after. It wasn't all that fear-inspiring, but it was hard to convince the pit in his stomach, which was currently arguing that it wasn't too late to skip the whole thing and just let the university mail him his diploma like some sad Amazon package.

When his phone vibrated on the nightstand, he rolled over, bracing for another last-minute reminder from the registrar. Instead, the screen lit up with a text from Laurel.

Good luck today! You'll be amazing. 

The words were saturated with the sort of motherly kindness that clogged his throat before he even finished reading. Then came the guilt, because he'd lied to her. She'd been asking about graduation since March, and eventually he'd told her he wasn't going to the ceremony because he had an internship that started right away, and he couldn't miss the first day. The lie had been pathetically easy to deliver, and even easier for her to believe. 

Laurel would have dropped everything to be here. She would've flown across the country, sat front row, recorded his walk, and that was exactly the problem. She would've also brought the ghost of Susannah with her, just by existing and occupying the space his mother should have.

Conrad knew it was ridiculous. There would be so many more milestones she wouldn't see—weddings, jobs, and a million little things that mattered, but he didn't want to start today. He didn't want his mother's best friend standing in for her, and he certainly didn't want to hear the words 'she would have been proud of you' because he'd never hear it from her lips.

Besides, Laurel would've rallied the whole Fisher-Conklin circus for the event. His father, with his useless platitudes, and his brother—God forbid—sticking his tongue down his ex-girlfriend's throat, because apparently, nothing said true love like mass PDA right in front of him, like Belly was some prize to be won instead of a human being. 

The whole reason he'd fled to California was to carve out a pocket of peace where no one could touch him. So why did this self-imposed exile feel so unbearably lonely? He'd built himself a fortress of absence, and now he was surprised there was no one left inside. What a joke. 

His phone continued lighting up with notifications from his program group chat. Everyone was riding the high of graduation day, announcing to their peers about their plans for afterward. Most had dinner reservations with family, and the few who didn't made plans to hit up some bar after the ceremony. Conrad debated tagging along with them, and the voice in his head—sounding alarmingly like Devon's—told him to socialize. 

Go out. Celebrate. It's allowed. 

But the truth was, when he felt like this, he was a drag. His silence could sour an entire room, and his half-hearted smiles made people uncomfortable. He didn't want to make himself someone else's chore on a day that was supposed to feel good for them. He was just considering bailing again when Devon texted. 

Need a ride to the venue?

It was eerie how she always seemed to sense when he was about to chicken out. He stared at her message for too long before telling her a friend was picking him up, and she shot back a single thumbs up.

That was it, conversation over, and yet it wasn't. Her text left him with an inexplicable urge to see her. She'd know what to say, like she always did. She'd tell him something that would tilt his perspective enough to make it bearable, but he shoved the impulse down. She had her own things to deal with today, and he wasn't entitled to her comfort.

Eventually, Conrad dragged himself out of bed, going through the motions—shower, teeth, deodorant—mechanically, like he was a marionette on strings. Then came the suit, which he slid on without thought until he got to the tie and froze.

He knew how to do it. Hell, he could tie one with his eyes closed if he wanted, but his brain dragged him to four years ago, to his mom's hands fixing his tie before his high school graduation, and the way she'd swatted him away when he said he could do it himself. He'd humoured her back then, because he knew she wouldn't be around for long. He had been mourning her even before she was properly gone. 

Suddenly, his fingers stopped working, and the fabric blurred in his hands, the knot slipping apart again and again, until it wasn't a tie anymore, it was a noose. The air in the room felt like it had been sucked out, and he clawed at his collar, his breath coming in shallow bursts as his heart jackhammered through his ribs. He dropped to his knees, and somehow he managed to rip the tie from around his throat, but he was already spiralling. 

Ground yourself. The therapy voice in his head tried to muscle through the panic, and he clung to it desperately. 

"Three things. Three things I can see." His blurry vision darted around the room to find the corner of his unmade bed, the glow of his phone screen on the dresser, and the mirror in front of him, reflecting a pale, wrecked version of himself he didn't recognize.

"Three things I can feel." He pressed a hand to the scratchy carpet. His knees ached where they dug into the floor. His chest was still excruciatingly tight, but his other hand pressed hard against it, trying to remind himself it was solid, not caving in.

"Three things I can hear." His own ragged breathing. The hum of the bathroom fan he'd forgotten to switch off. A car passing outside, faint music rattling its windows.

He repeated the list, over and over, until the vice around his lungs loosened. It wasn't gone—he doubted it ever would be—but he could feel the ground under him again, so at least he wasn't floating away.

When he managed to wrangle himself into something that could pass for a human being, he went downstairs to meet his ride, skipping the tie altogether. They were going to cover him with a gown anyway, so it'd be a wasted effort. 

He went through the rest of the day with the same stiff motions, his body moving on autopilot until the universe decided to screw with him again, right as they called his name. He had just stepped up to the stage when his eyes betrayed him, scanning the crowd before his brain could stop them, looking for the one face he'd never see again. 

Conrad forced his pulse to stay even, jaw clenched so tight it could've cracked. How pathetic would it be to lose his mind while every proud parent with a recording device immortalized his breakdown for posterity. 

As if things couldn't get any worse, he thought of his brother next, because when all was said and done, Jere was the only family he had left, the one person who was supposed to have his back. Sometimes he did, because he'd managed to track Conrad at Brown when he'd ghosted the world. But he wasn't here right now, and his absence throbbed like an open wound, worse than if he'd been six feet under. How much worse was it to mourn someone who was still alive? 

Somehow, Conrad managed to shake the dean's hand, accept the diploma, and walk back to his seat, not hearing a single name after his. Everyone else's triumphs blurred into white noise, and halfway through, his phone blinked with a text from his brother. Speak of the devil. 

Congrats on the internship. Happy grad.

 Laurel must've told him, and the words were about as heartfelt as an auto-reply. Instead of making him feel better, it made him feel worse, because here was proof that Jeremiah remembered and still couldn't muster a kinder message than the sort someone might send to an estranged aunt. 

Not bothering with a response, he shoved his phone back into his pocket, plastered on his blankest expression, and sat motionless while everyone else clapped and cheered. Surely an Ivy League graduation should have felt less miserable. 

After the ceremony, Conrad loitered outside the venue, looking very much like he'd misplaced his purpose along with his will to live. Families spilled out in waves—parents with cameras, siblings balancing gift bags, everyone buzzing with post-grad adrenaline. A friend had offered him a ride home, but he'd declined, figuring the long walk back to his apartment would clear his head.

He was halfway to making his grand Irish exit when he spotted Devon with her family. She looked awkwardly distant, but when her eyes found him, she lit up, excusing herself without hesitation to make her way toward him. 

She arrived before he could escape, and his brain unhelpfully buffered when she was within hearing distance. Her hair, pin-straight today, caught the sunlight in a sheet of gold, and her smile was a direct hit to his already fragile cardiac health. She was carrying a bouquet of daisies and sunflowers, so naturally, the best thing he could manage was, "Nice flowers."

"Glad you think so, since they're for you." Her grin widened. "Would've been an awful shame if you hated your grad flowers."

"They're for me?"

"Duh." She pressed them insistently into his hands, daring him to argue. "Pictures look nicer with flowers. Basic photography logic."

Conrad stared at the bouquet, then at her, then back at the bouquet. The white and gold looked out of place in his hands, like they belonged to someone more cheerful, and his first thought was that she pitied him. Why else would she go out of her way? Everyone else had family bearing floral offerings for them, and Devon knew his wasn't here. 

He swallowed hard, embarrassment prickling under his skin, tangled up with something suspiciously close to gratitude. "Wow, you really went all out making sure I don't look completely pathetic."

She gave him a disapproving look. "You were doing just fine." 

Before he could argue, she was steering him away from the crowd. "Come on," she said, already scanning their surroundings like a hawk. "We're finding a spot."

"A spot?"

"For pictures, genius. Preferably somewhere that doesn't look like a stampede just happened."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but this entire place looks like a stampede just happened."

"Lucky for you, I have an eye for these things. Trust the process."

 "I'm also really not a picture person."

"Bullshit. Everyone's a picture person." Devon stopped in front of a patch of greenery just off the main path, framed by a cluster of trees, and gestured dramatically. "Voilà. Nature's photo booth."

Conrad eyed the spot skeptically. "Looks like a bush."

"Looks like the future wall décor of your nursing home bedroom," she corrected, leaning forward to brush a strand of hair away from his forehead, the contact sending a giddy buzz through him. "When you're old and gray, you're going to want to look back at this day and say, 'Damn, I used to be hot.'"

"Bold of you to assume I'll make it to old and gray," he muttered. "Besides, I don't exactly feel very youthful right now."

"You don't have to feel it, but you definitely look it. Sometimes that's enough."

"Great. That's exactly the grad energy I was going for."

"Good. Stay consistent." She pulled out her phone and retreated a few steps. "Now, hold the bouquet like you love it."

Conrad raised the flowers dramatically. "I do love it."

"Okay, Romeo, maybe tone it down a little."

He gave her a crooked half-smile that felt foreign on his own face. "You said to act like I loved it."

"Yeah, not like you're planning on eloping."

"Subtle distinction." But he adjusted his grip anyway.

"Better. Now smile."

"I'll try my best human impression."

"That's all I ask of my muse." 

Devon snapped a few shots, tilting her head critically and making adjustments. After a few minutes of sarcastic commentary, they ended up with a handful of pictures, and when he found one where he didn't look completely miserable, his traitorous mind wandered again. Maybe, if there was ever a day when he and Jeremiah stopped being strangers, he could share that one. 

For now, he pocketed the thought and shot Devon a grateful expression. "Fine, you win. Thanks for making sure I have photographic evidence. Now no one can spread conspiracy theories that I dropped out to join a cult."

"Oh, please, you'd be the world's worst cult member. You hate group activities."

"True. I'd complain about the robes and get kicked out before the initiation."

"Exactly." Devon tucked her phone away and leaned against the nearest tree. "So how was the ceremony?"

Conrad shrugged. "I don't know. Long and boring. And don't even get me started on the stage part. Having a last name that starts with F is brutal."

"Forever? Dude, are you serious right now?"

"Yes," he nodded solemnly, enjoying her enraged expression. "I aged at least a decade before they got to me."

Devon pushed off the tree and nearly smacked him with the back of her hand. "Try being in the W's. You want to talk about suffering? I was practically fossilized."

"At least by the time you got up there, half the crowd had stopped paying attention. Fewer witnesses if you tripped."

"That's low, Fisher. Real low."

"I'm just saying. There are perks to being last." He gave her a faux-innocent look. "I, on the other hand, had the full house experience. Every eye glued to me, waiting to see if I'd survive the walk without face-planting."

"And did you?"

"Barely. I'm sure my gait will be dissected in slow-motion footage later. Headlines tomorrow: Local Grad Walks Like He's Never Used Legs Before."

Devon shook her head with a scoff. "You're insufferable."

He spotted her family coming toward them before he could think of a smartass reply. Her father and the two small boys who trailed after him looked like someone had copy-pasted Devon at different ages. They had the same shade of curly hair and the same eyes, the colour of sour apples. It was almost uncanny, like they had all been Xeroxed from the same page, and Conrad found himself wondering if that was why she'd changed her hair today, a way to not match them so perfectly.

When her father said her name, Devon stiffened, her smile dimming a fraction. 

"Are you going to introduce us?" the man asked, nodding toward Conrad.

"Oh, uh, yeah." She shifted awkwardly. "Conrad, this is my dad, and Emma, and—" 

Before she could continue, the two boys darted forward. "I'm Jasper," the taller one announced, thrusting his hand out with more confidence than Conrad had mustered in his entire life.

"And I'm Oliver," the smaller one echoed, mimicking the gesture.

He blinked at the twin handshakes, then took them both. "Conrad. Nice to meet you guys."

Devon gave her brothers a look. "Thanks for stealing my thunder."

"They beat you to it," he defended dryly, shaking his head. "Efficient introductions. Future politicians, maybe."

The boys grinned like they'd just won the lottery, and then her father cleared his throat pointedly. "Devon, are you ready to go?"

"Sure, yeah, I guess." She glanced at Conrad to gauge his reaction. "What about you? Any plans?"

He felt all four pairs of green eyes land on him expectantly, feeling like he was on trial before a family of cats, and he tried to formulate a casual response. "I was just going to go home."

Before the tension could fester for too long, Emma spoke up. "Why don't you have your friend join us, Devon?"

"Oh, no, that's not necessary." He quickly held up a hand. "I wouldn't want to—"

"Yes!" Devon cut him off firmly, her expression almost pleading. "That's a great idea."

Conrad opened his mouth to politely decline when Emma chimed in again. "Oh, we'd love to have you, really. It'll be nice for Devon to have a friend with her."

"I don't want to intrude."

"Nonsense." The older woman's tone was somehow both gentle and immovable. "We're good company. You'll see."

Right, because nothing said fun like inserting yourself into a strained family dynamic.

Devon's dad, meanwhile, had been watching him intently, like Conrad was some rare insect he was trying to pin under glass. After a long pause, he finally spoke. "Yes, we like getting to know Devon's friends, don't we, sweetheart?"

"We do," Emma agreed. 

Devon glanced between the two of them, clearly amused. "So it's settled. You're coming?"

"Sure... if you insist."

"I do. It'll be fun." She sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than him. 

Oddly enough, Conrad wanted her family to like him, which probably made no sense because she always gave the impression that their approval was irrelevant to her. Still, something inside him wanted to measure up and be the kind of person they might welcome.

Today was probably not the best day for that, though. He was tired, his shirt collar was itchy, and there was a non-zero chance he'd say or do something wrong, but still, it was better than going home to his empty apartment. At least here with her, there was a distraction.

They crossed the parking lot in a little flock, and by the time they reached their SUV, the doors were opening and he was being directed to the third row.

"Sit with me," Jasper demanded, already clambering into the space. 

Conrad glanced at Devon, expecting a rescue, but she just shrugged and slid into the middle row. So he climbed in next to the boy, who took it as an opportunity to start rattling off a list of questions. "You're Dee's friend, right? How long have you known her? Do you guys study together? What's your major? Do you like pizza? What's your favourite dinosaur?"

He blinked. "Wow, that's a lot of questions."

"Yeah, so?"

"Okay, let's see." Conrad paused, trying to remember. "I've known her a few years, pizza's cool, and I guess I like velociraptors."

Jasper's face lit up. "Mine's the Spinosaurus, but my brother thinks it's not as cool as the T-Rex."

"Cuz it's not!" Oliver declared from the seat in front.

"It is!" Jasper shot back, then turned to Conrad, eager. "It is, right? You're a grown-up, so you must know."

If only the kid knew how utterly un-grown-up Conrad felt most days, but he wasn't about to expose himself like that. Luckily, he didn't have to, because Emma glanced at him through the rearview mirror with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. They just get excited about making new friends. Don't mind them too much."

"No, it's okay," he said with forced cheer. "I'm enjoying the energy."

Jasper beamed, launching into another string of questions. What was his favourite sport (football), if he'd ever broken a bone (yes, the arm incident), whether he thought space was scary (a little), and whether Devon was really bossy or just a little bossy (really bossy, but he didn't mind). Conrad nodded along with brief answers, but with every word, something inside fractured a little more. 

Because Jasper—cheerful, persistent, and looking at him like he was interesting—reminded him too much of a younger Jere, back when his brother used to look at him with that same wide-eyed admiration, like Conrad was the sun itself. Those days were long gone, and he didn't know if he'd ever get them back. 

A part of him envied Devon for being able to sit there and have her little brothers orbiting her like she hung the stars in the sky. They fought for her attention like it was gold, and she probably didn't even notice it. Conrad certainly hadn't, not until it was too late and the sky had gone dark, perhaps forever. 

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

Graduation day for Devon was going about as well as she expected, which meant, of course, a complete disaster.  

A week ago, her mother had called to inform her that since her sister's high school graduation coincided with her own, she couldn't be in both places at the same time. Devon knew who she'd choose even before the words were said aloud, but it was fine. She was twenty-one, not twelve; she'd get over it. 

Then came the second bombshell. Her mother had gone ahead and invited Devon's father in her stead, because nothing screamed supportive parenting like pawned-off attendance. Gold star for effort, though. 

Her father, to his credit, meant well. He took the time off work, booked flights, and hauled his entire family across the country to be there for her, but what was that saying? The road to hell was paved with good intentions? Yeah, Devon was currently marching down that road in her chafing shoes. 

Why did her parents have to miraculously learn how to co-parent now? Couldn't they have managed that when she was actually a kid, instead of when she finally met the legal drinking age? Although she supposed that was asking for too much. They'd been kids themselves back then, which was its own emotional landmine. Being someone's child was a constant ping-pong game between feeling sorry for your parents and resenting them. 

As if Devon's day was not predestined to be crummy enough, there was also the matter of the dreaded straight iron. She'd barely used it since high school, which was probably why it was older than dirt and twice as temperamental. She only dragged it out for special occasions, like today, when she was absolutely not going to risk showing up in curls that would make her look like she'd been copy-pasted from her father's gene pool. Small rebellions, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. 

The result was a sizzling burn right on the side of her throat. Just perfect. The one day she needed to look like she had her life together, and she looked like she'd been attacked by an octopus. She layered on the concealer and told herself no one would notice, except it was June in California, which meant the sun was turning her makeup into soup. 

The only silver lining was Conrad's presence, and despite the melodrama of her own morning, she hadn't forgotten his flowers. No amount of self-pity was enough to let her forget that someone else out there had it even worse today, and he deserved at least that much.

And though she hated to admit it, she was grateful to Emma for suggesting that he tag along to their post-ceremony lunch. Devon felt bad about using him like a human shield, but he was the perfect buffer. No one could stage a dramatic meltdown when a guest was present, and it was a reminder to keep her own temper in check. 

Her father had insisted on Italian because he still thought it was her favourite, and she didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise. He was trying, and today, she was feeling generous enough to let him.

So there they were, tucked away in the corner of some posh restaurant, all white linens and waiters who looked personally offended if you asked for tap water. Her father was doing his very best impression of "Good Father" and half-interrogating Conrad across the table. Career plans, family background, where he saw himself in five years—the usual LinkedIn icebreakers delivered with a smile that suggested he was evaluating the poor guy for stock options. 

Conrad, bless him, was trying his best to keep up, answering politely like he wasn't being ambushed into the role of honorary son-in-law for the afternoon. She really hoped he wouldn't hate her for it afterward. Maybe she'd bribe him with ice cream later. 

Meanwhile, her little brothers were hunched over their napkins with the kind of concentration usually reserved for defusing bombs. They were trying to remember the trick she'd shown them last year for folding the linens into origami cranes, and she wasn't in the mood to help out just yet. 

Eventually, Jasper's dramatic sigh cut through, halting all conversation. "This is impossible!" he declared, shoving the mangled napkin across the table at her. "Why won't it fold right?!"

Devon caught it with one hand, grinning despite herself. "Because, genius, you didn't listen to the instructions." She smoothed it flat, then held it up where he could see. "Look, step one, crease it in half, like this. Nice and sharp."

He leaned over the table, his polo shirt practically bathing in his pasta, watching intently as she folded. "Okay, okay, step two?"

She walked him through the rest of the steps, handing back the finished crane with a flourish, and next to her, Oliver scowled and crossed his arms. "Mine already looks like that, doesn't it?"

"No, yours looks like a drunk chicken!" his brother piped up cheerfully. 

Oliver shook out his napkin and handed it to Devon. "Do mine now. Make it look better than his."

"I'm not running a workshop here."

"You are now," he said smugly, watching as she refolded his napkin into a neater crane. The moment she finished, he reached across the table to swipe his parents' linens too. Then, before Conrad could protest, Oliver took his too, plopping them all in front of her in a heap. "Build me a crane army."

Devon raised a brow. "What are you going to do with a crane army?"

"Steal Jas's crane!"

Emma chuckled, covering her mouth with her perfectly manicured fingers. "They're relentless once you get them going. You're stuck now." She shot Conrad an apologetic look. "Sorry about that."

Conrad shrugged, looking amused. "I don't mind. As long as I don't have to fold any myself."

Her father smiled at that, and Emma's laugh was genuine. They were being kind. They were all getting along, and a traitorous part of Devon was enjoying it, but every time she got too comfortable, she had to remind herself that it didn't belong to her. 

Then, as if the universe had been waiting for the perfect moment to ruin her day, her father turned his gaze on her. "When can we expect you back in Boston, Dev? You said you applied to grad school there."

Devon's fork froze halfway to her plate, and she glanced instinctively at Conrad, who looked oddly hurt. She'd kept him in the dark about it, but to be fair, she hadn't told anyone. She'd applied to Harvard just to get her father off her back. It wasn't like she was going to go. 

She could tell her father that she didn't get in, but if she tried to bluff her way out, he'd call one of his old buddies to confirm, and they'd inform him that she indeed had a place waiting for her in the fall if she chose to take it. "I, um..." She set the fork down. "I actually got a really cool research position with one of my professors here, so I think I'm going to stay at Stanford. Familiar grounds and all that."

"I thought you were going to come back." He seemed offended by her response, and she felt a lump in her throat. "It's Ivy League Dev. And you got in."

"I know." She regretted bringing Conrad now. Of all the people to witness her dysfunctional family drama, it just had to be him. Reluctantly, she forced herself to meet the disappointment in her father's gaze. "I said I was going to consider it. And the opportunity here is just better, more in line with what I want to pursue."

The table went a little quiet after that. Her father's jaw tightened, and he looked down at his wine glass like it had personally offended him, while Emma patted his arm in consolation and gave Devon a maternal smile. "He was just excited to have you at home," she said. "We were even thinking about redoing the guest bedroom for you. But if your heart is set on Stanford, then so be it. Just promise you'll come visit."

Devon stabbed at her pasta, trying to look unfazed, but inside, her stomach was a coil of guilt and defiance and irritation. She probably looked like an ungrateful bitch, turning down Harvard like she didn't know how privileged that sounded. Like she wasn't grateful for the crumbs.

But it wasn't fair for them to try now. Was there finally space for her in their fucking house? A freshly painted guest room just for her, how thoughtful. Where the hell was that energy when she was seven, or eight, or nine, or ten? Back when she had begged him to let her be a part of his life. Back when she had wanted it so badly, she wept for it. 

There were always a hundred excuses. First, he couldn't take her because he had moved back in with his parents, and God forbid, they didn't approve of a bastard granddaughter. Then he met Emma, and there was no space for her because they were "figuring things out" and he didn't want some inconvenient child to ruin his shiny new relationship. Then the boys were born, and there wasn't space because they were adjusting to having a family. Only when she had exhausted herself banging on the closed door and swallowed the reality of being unwanted, did he decide to start trying.

Ever since, there existed a grotesque little tug-of-war inside her chest. Misplaced yearning, poisonous resentment, and a sick kind of longing she hated herself for. In response, she bit her tongue until it tasted like iron, going through the motions as the conversation moved on around her, and throughout it all, she refused to meet Conrad's gaze. She could feel him looking at her, a few times at least, like he wanted to check in. She couldn't bear it.

Mercifully, the meal ended without another disagreement, and by the time they shuffled back into the parking lot, the sky was turning a bruised purple-blue, and the streetlights had hummed awake. Jasper had already nodded off, slumped against his father's shoulder as he carried him easily, one hand absently stroking his curls as the kid's head lolled. Meanwhile, Oliver had latched onto Devon's hand with a death grip, like he thought she might vanish if he let go. There was an outburst just waiting to happen. 

When her father's phone buzzed, she knew the excuse before it even left his mouth. Something came up. It always did. He cleared his throat sheepishly. "I have an emergency meeting with a client, can you..."

The shame in his voice was almost worse than the words, and Devon forced another tight smile, sharp enough to cut her own cheeks. "Oh yeah, go ahead. We weren't headed home yet anyway."

"We weren't?" Conrad muttered from behind her, and she apologized to him in her head. 

Sorry for dragging you here, sorry for stranding you in god-knows-where suburbia with me, sorry for my entire circus of a life.

Her father seemed relieved, like she'd freed him from the shackles of obligation. After he put Jasper in the backseat, he leaned in for a hug, which Devon returned stiffly. Then came the hard part, prying Oliver off her without inciting a meltdown. 

It was a futile attempt because he only clamped down harder. "Can't you come with us? Pretty please, please, please?" He tugged hard, small feet planting against the asphalt like he could physically drag her into the car.

"I can't just—"

"Yes, you can!" he cut her off, his face scrunched with determination. "You don't have school anymore, you said! And I have summer break too. You can stay in my room! I'll show you the park and the treehouse! It'll be so fun!"

Devon's ribs ached. God, why did he have to sound so much like the version of herself who used to beg their father the exact same way? "I'll come visit," she promised, squeezing his hand. "You have my word."

Oliver's eyes went wide and wet, his bottom lip trembling before he exploded, "No, you won't! You're a liar! You never do!" His fists pounded against her leg in frustration, tears spilling hot and fast. "You always say you will, but you don't! You never come to stay!"

His father scooped him up into his arms, trying to soothe him. "Hey, buddy, she'll come. I promise, okay?"

"No, you're a liar too! Why can't she just come now? Why can't she stay?" Oliver glared at Devon in a way that was both a plea and a curse. "You just don't wanna be with us. You don't like us. Fine, I don't like you either."

Her father shot her one last regretful look before bundling the howling boy into the car and driving off, shrinking into the distance. She hated the image of him leaving because it had always been her least favourite memory.

She could still recall it with surgical clarity. The shouting in the living room, her mother's voice like shattered glass, and her father's deeper one raised in that flat, immovable way that indicated he'd made up his mind about something. Even as a kid, she had known that it wasn't one of their usual arguments where he'd stomp out for a night and come back sheepish the next morning. 

She also remembered her own bare feet slapping the hot asphalt as she tore after him, the sting of pebbles and grit digging into her skin. She remembered the smell of tar baking under the summer sun, the rasp of her breath as she shouted his name, and the sound of his car door slamming. She'd chased him like an idiot, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the window as he started to drive, pleading with him to come back. 

He told her he'd come back for her later, but when he did, it was a decade too late, and all she had was the memory of the first time someone had pulled her heart out of her chest and stomped on it. She'd never give anyone that chance again. 

"You alright?" Conrad's voice cut through her one-man pity party. 

"Yep. Perfect. Sorry about all that." She dragged in a deep breath and let out a brittle laugh, forcing her shoulders loose. Shouldn't have dragged you out here to play babysitter."

"It's okay. I enjoyed it. The food was fantastic, and your father's interview wasn't so terrible. Just usual parent stuff. It's fine. I didn't mind."

Devon squinted at him like he'd just said the sky was green. "You're way too nice for your own good sometimes."

"If I ever need to be mean to someone, I'll just sic you on them." He grinned tentatively, sensing her need to be distracted. "That way I can play the good cop."

"So I'm your pitbull for hire now?"

"Now you're just putting words in my mouth." He tipped his head at her, eyes glinting. "Plus, you now owe me a family dinner, and trust me, I will be cashing in that favour."

Devon snapped off a salute. "Count me in. Even if there's screaming, crying, or someone throwing peas at my head, I'll soldier through it. But first, I need a drink. Several, in fact."

"Cool," Conrad replied, hands sliding into his pockets. "Me too. I think."

"You think?" What, you only drink on leap years?"

"Just weighing whether I want to keep my liver functional into my forties."

She snorted. "You're a doctor, you'll be fine."

"Now you sound a little crazy. Do you want to go home, maybe?"

Devon glanced toward the empty street where her father's car had vanished. "Not particularly. But you can go ahead if you want. I don't want to monopolize more of your time than I already have today."

Conrad rolled his eyes. "I wasn't planning on leaving you to fend for yourself." When she opened her mouth to argue, he lifted a hand. "And before you say you can handle yourself, I know that. I'm chaperoning you for public safety, not yours."

"Rude." 

"Your friend Maeve told me you once punched a guy when drunk."

"I've punched several guys when drunk, and I'll have you know every single one of them deserved it. You'll have to be more specific."

Conrad hummed thoughtfully, pretending to weigh her words. "Now that you've brought up your history of assault and battery, maybe we should just call it a night." He gestured pointedly at her shoes. "Besides, those have got to be torture devices."

"Are you offering to switch?" Devon's grin turned sly. "Your loafers look like they're made of butter."

He barked a laugh. "I'm not that much of a masochist, thank you very much."

"Relax, they're not that bad. I broke them in with the hairdryer trick." She glanced down at the platform heels Maeve had bullied her into buying for graduation. They added at least seven extra inches of height, and only made the backs of her heels bleed the tiniest bit, not that she'd admit it. 

Conrad's expression was disapproving. "You have a tendency toward self-harm. Maybe get that checked out."

"Okay, Doctor, we get it," Devon shot back. "Come on, if you're really determined to play bodyguard, drinks are on me, for sitting through that shitshow without bolting."

"In that case, I'll take something expensive and pretentious. Just to make sure you really regret dragging me along tonight." He pulled out his phone to squint at the map. "Alright, the nearest bar is about six minutes away. Walking distance."

Devon leaned over his shoulder. "That looks like a murder alley, not a bar."

"It has four stars!"

"From who? The rats living in their walls?"

He gave her a side-eye. "Okay, I know it looks slightly sketchy, but it's the closest, and I don't want you hobbling three miles in those death traps." He gestured at her shoes again.

She smirked. "Wow, I'm touched. You're worried about me."

"I'm worried about me having to carry you when your ankles give out."

"That's fair," Devon admitted, adding brightly, "but imagine how romantic it'll look. Very period drama style."

"Romantic isn't the word I'd use."

"Heroic?"

"Humiliating."

"That is true. You're not rugged enough for it." 

Conrad grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her gently. "You take that back right now. I may not be able to bench press my weight like those gym bros you hang out with, but I can totally carry you. I used to play football, remember."

His fingers were warm on her shoulders, and Devon laughed, her brain rattling in her skull pleasantly. "Dude, I do not hang out with gym bros."

"You definitely do. All your soccer buddies."

"We actually hate the Stanford men's soccer team on principle. They are not my buddies." She extricated herself from his hold. "Come on then, let's go to your shady bar, and if I get tetanus, I'm suing."

"Good luck," Conrad muttered. "I don't own anything worth suing over."

"Guess I'll take your med school acceptance letter as compensation then."

"Your evil knows no bounds. Truly."

"Thank you. That means a lot."

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

The rat bar, as Conrad's phone had promised, turned out to be not that bad, or maybe Devon just wasn't picky today. Four drinks in, and she was already indifferent to the sticky floors and the flickering strobe lights that looked like they would give someone a seizure. She had a relatively high tolerance, something she prided herself on. Soccer kept her too clean most of the year—no hangovers when you had morning practice and no sloppy mistakes when scouts might be watching—so now that summer had freed her of discipline, she was leaning hard into the cliché of drowning her sorrows in whiskey like an alcoholic from a movie.

Conrad sat across from her, but he wasn't playing his part properly, still nursing his first drink like it was holy water. The man had been sipping for an hour, and the glass wasn't even halfway gone. Meanwhile, she was well on her way to forgetting what year it was.

The worst part was his wounded expression, making him resemble a kicked puppy. His bouquet sat awkwardly beside him in their corner booth, its bright colours comical against the dingy Formica table. He kept glancing at it, at her, at nothing.

So of course, because she was constitutionally incapable of shutting up, she blurted, "What's wrong?"

Conrad avoided her gaze. "You didn't tell me you applied to Harvard."

"I wasn't going to go, so I didn't tell anyone."

"Yeah, but you were considering it, weren't you? If you applied, then on some level, you had to be considering it. A heads-up would've been nice."

What the hell was she supposed to say to that? That she'd considered it for maybe five minutes before the old bile rose in her throat? Instead, she lifted her glass and let the burn stall her tongue, but by four drinks in, honesty had teeth, and she exhaled a humourless laugh. "There was no way I was going to live with my dad. It's my turn to be the one who leaves. He's already done it twice."

"Twice?" He said it carefully, like he was stepping barefoot through glass.

Too loose-lipped and angry to stop herself, Devon barreled on. "Yeah, twice. Can you imagine that? The first time, maybe I could forgive. Two dumb teenagers find out they're expecting after a stupid hookup. He gets to run off scot-free because, surprise, a man's never the one physically tethered to the little parasite. Congratulations, you get a get-out-of-parenting-free card."

"Oh..." Conrad's eyes flickered with what she assumed was pity, and she looked away, unable to face it. "I'm sorry."

"What have you got to be sorry about? It's not your fault." She knocked back the rest of her drink for liquid courage before continuing. "As if that wasn't crappy enough, he comes back four years later to try again, and my mom lets him. Can't decide which one of them was stupider for that. They have another baby, and suddenly, oh, they're trying to make it work for her, because of course they are. But shocker, it doesn't work. He leaves again. And then—because apparently third time's the charm—he tries again with another woman. And look at that. It sticks. He does it right the third time around, so what does that make the first one, huh? A failed fucking science experiment?" 

Her voice cracked on the last word, which she hated, so she laughed to hide the tremble. 

Meanwhile, Conrad continued to watch her with his unreadable gaze until, finally, he let out a soft, disbelieving sigh. "Wow. I think that's the most you've ever told me about yourself in all the years I've known you."

Devon scowled defensively. "That's not true."

"It is." He said it like he wasn't trying to win a point but simply stating a fact. "You never share. Which... I respect, okay. Every time I ask you what's wrong, you brush it off, or make some excuse, or just laugh at me until I drop it. But you never actually say what's wrong. I'll admit, I found it a little hurtful at first."

Her stomach twisted. He wasn't accusing her, but it still stung.

Conrad's expression softened. "I've pretty much told you everything there is to know about me. My family, my life, my ex and her brother-hopping tendencies—everything."

The way he said the last one made Devon snort. "I think you may be a little drunk, Fisher."

"I'm not." He rolled his eyes and plucked her glass out of her hands. "Anyways, we're not talking about me, we're talking about you. The fact that you're oversharing this much is an obvious sign you're wasted."

"First, you complain about me not sharing enough, and then when I do, you're calling me a drunkard?"

"Yeah, because you're such a maudlin drunk."

"There are worse things to be. I could be a serial killer."

Conrad's lips twitched, but he didn't indulge her nonsense. "Sure, a serial killer called Watson? It'd be a paradox."

He looked like he wanted to dissect her feelings one layer at a time, and she didn't dare let him. Nope. Absolutely not. She hadn't even let herself look there. God knows what he'd find. So she blundered forward, desperate to change the subject. Digging through her messenger bag with unnecessary theatrics, she pulled out a small box and plunked it onto the table between them. "Oh, speaking of presents, I got you something."

"We weren't talking about presents," he pointed out, infuriatingly.

"Well, family is the gift that keeps on giving, right? And serial killers leave the police little gifts all the time. So really it's all connected." 

Conrad raised an eyebrow, unable to stop the grin that lit up his face. "Alright then, what did you get me? Is it a pen?"

"You make me sound so predictable!"

"That's because you are," he said slyly, eyes glittering with amusement. "Now come on, just admit it. Is it a pen?"

She huffed, trying not to smile. "It's a very nice pen. Don't cheapen the moment."

When he finally opened the box, his eyes widened, his mouth dropping the tiniest bit when he read over the elegant, spiralling script engraved down the barrel: Dr. Conrad Fisher. His throat bobbed, and for the first time tonight, he looked nervous. "I'm not even a doctor yet."

"Yeah, but you will be. Consider it a token of my faith in you. I know you'll do great."

"What if I decide to drop out halfway?"

Devon shrugged, leaning back with exaggerated casualness. "Easy. I'll just get you a new pen with your chosen profession. Pilot Conrad Fisher. Sommelier Conrad Fisher. Whatever you decide to do, I support it." She tapped her chin thoughtfully, pretending to consider. "Although Pumpkin Farmer Conrad Fisher might be a mouthful to put on a pen, so you do have some space constraints."

That finally cracked him, and the look of earnest gratitude he gave her almost stole the very breath from her lungs. He shut the box and tucked it carefully in his suit pocket. "Thank you," he said, all the teasing gone. "Really, it means a lot."

His sincerity made her want to squirm, so she raised her hand to wave at a nearby server for another drink, but Conrad caught her hand mid-action, bringing it down gently. 

"Alright, no more drinks, you've had more than enough for one night. What sort of aspiring doctor would I be if I let my friends turn into alcoholics?" he admonished, reaching for his bag with one hand while the other remained wrapped firmly around hers in case she made another attempt. "And I got you something too. You need to be at least somewhat coherent to see it."

"Oh, is it a pen?" Devon repeated his words from earlier, earning her a stern shake of his head.

"You're so unimaginative, it's concerning."

Something small slid across the table, and he let go of her wrist to let her open the box. Inside lay a delicate sunflower pendant on a thin gold chain. Devon's lungs squeezed, and the smile she managed was sad around the edges.

Conrad's brows knit together, alarm flickering across his face. "Do you not like it?"

"Of course, I like it," she retorted immediately. "It's beautiful."

"Mom always said to pay attention if a girl wore silver or gold," he rambled on hesitantly. "So I hope I got your preference correct."

Devon slumped her head against the table, her words coming muffled as she spoke with her cheek pressed against the cold surface. "You're like genuinely the nicest person I've ever met. I'll put you in my will."

"No thanks," Conrad chuckled, "I don't want your junk. But also, your inability to accept people being nice to you is concerning." A moment later, he slid into her side of the booth, gently propping her to sit back against the leather seat. "Drink some water. Come on. You'll thank me tomorrow."

His presence was overwhelmingly comforting, and for once, she let herself lean into it, her fingers still turning the little pendant over in her hand, the chain pooling across her palm like liquid sunlight, too delicate for her tipsy fingers. "Why a sunflower?" she asked before she could stop. 

Conrad shifted beside her, his shoulder pressing more firmly against hers as he debated whether or not to answer. Then his voice dropped, low and deliberate. "I should be asking you that? You're the one who keeps giving them to me."

If she'd been more sober, she would have followed the question with a snarky remark or joke, but her muddled brain couldn't think of one at the moment, so she settled for the truth. "You looked like you needed them."

"So pity then?"

"No, definitely not pity," she denied vehemently. "Just like... I figured they'd help somehow, I think. I took a floriography class at the library freshman year. Sunflowers are supposed to represent resilience, optimism, and strength. All that colour yellow, happy stuff. I hoped they'd bring you some of that..." she trailed off at the end, realizing how stupid it probably sounded. 

As if reading her mind, Conrad shook his head. "It's not stupid. They were the first flowers I ever got from someone who wasn't my mom... or family. For something that wasn't, like, graduation." He paused, and his jaw tensed imperceptibly. "Or a funeral."

Devon blinked at him in surprise.

"That first year I met you was a really dark time in my life. And this probably sounds cheesy—"

"It probably will," she hummed offhandedly, lips quirking.

He shot her a look of fond exasperation. "Let me finish, god. You probably won't even remember this in the morning, so who cares."

Devon hummed again, her head lolling against the booth, permitting him to dig his own grave with sentimentality.

"You made that year better. Brighter. So this"—he nodded at the necklace in her hand—"is just to say thanks. And happy grad. And..." He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "...I'm glad you're staying at Stanford. I mean, of course, I'm happy you got that research opportunity, and it's with a subject you actually care about. You've never been the type to stay or go somewhere just because of someone else, but I'm glad you're staying."

Devon didn't know what to say to that, so she kept her mouth shut in case she said something stupid, and he took her silence as permission, reaching for the chain in her hand. Before she could protest, he leaned closer, the subtle scent of his cologne flooding her senses as he brushed her hair off her shoulder, grazing the skin of her neck. 

His fingertips lingered a bit too long at the hollow of her throat after he'd clasped the necklace, and she could feel his breath at her hairline. It was the sort of moment that could tip into something else entirely if either of them moved an inch. His lips parted like he wanted to say something else, something that would threaten the delicate balance of who they were to each other, and maybe he did say it, but the buzzing in her head drowned it out. She slumped her head sideways against the table and closed her eyes. If she pretended to be inebriated enough, he would stop looking at her in that achingly sincere way she didn't deserve. 

However, Conrad didn't return to his seat, and she was vaguely aware of his hand hovering near her face before his fingers brushed lightly against her temple. A strand of her hair slipped free, and he smoothed it back without hesitation. Normally, she'd have batted him away, but tonight, when she didn't, he grew bolder, threading his fingers through again. The strands slid through like grains of sand, catching the dim light every time they fell loose.

"I wonder if this is why it took me a while to remember you from high school," he mused out loud. "You always wore your hair like this."

Devon opened her eyes to scoff, "Yeah, I used to straighten it religiously. Stupid beauty standards for impressionable teens, ugh. Don't get me started. You're going to be sick of me."

Conrad shook his head. "Me? Of you? Never."

"Liar."

"Never," he repeated, softer this time. "Not to you."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Did someone ever say something to you?"

"They didn't really have to. When you're a girl, you just pick up on stuff, I guess. How you think you're supposed to look. What parts of yourself to shave down to make yourself palatable. As if the greatest accomplishment of being a woman is being looked at."

Conrad's hand fell still. "I had no idea."

"Most guys don't. Don't worry, I won't hold it against you." She groaned then, feeling the beginning of a headache building between her eyes. "The drunken rambles of a madman. Pay it no mind."

"No. I enjoy hearing you talk about things that are important to you. If they're important to you, then they're important to me."

"Oh..."

His gaze softened even further, steady in that way that always made her feel like he actually saw her. "They give me perspective I hadn't considered before. If anyone should be thanking anyone, it's me thanking you."

Devon's cheeks warmed, and she turned her head, her cheek brushing against the inside of his palm like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers resumed their motion in her hair, combing through lazily, until they stalled.

The shift was subtle but unmistakable, and it was enough to make her sit up straight. She blinked blearily at him, registering the slight furrow between his brows. His gaze wasn't on her face anymore—it was lower, and she realized belatedly that with her hair pushed back, her neck was exposed. His fingertips brushed the edge of the bruise blooming along her throat.

"What happened?" There was something oddly tight in his voice, almost melancholy, like he didn't truly want to find out.

Devon rolled her eyes. "Mauled by an octopus."

"Come on, Dev, you can just say it."

"Dude, I was kidding, Jesus. Flat iron accident. Maeve's fault, really. I tried to ice it, but it didn't quite work. Concealer must've worn off."

For some reason, relief softened his posture, and his expression loosened, his mouth pulling into a smirk. "You're not supposed to ice burns."

"Thanks, doc. I'll try to remember that next time."

He shook his head, but under his breath, almost unconsciously, he muttered, "I thought..."

Alcohol and curiosity egging her on, against every shred of common sense, Devon tilted her head and asked, "You thought what?"

The tips of Conrad's ears flushed pink, nd he swallowed awkwardly. "Nothing. Nothing at all." He pressed her glass back into her hand. "Drink more water," he told her, tone final, like that was the end of it.

"You thought what?" she pressed nonetheless.

"Drop it."

"Ohhh, so it was something."

He gave her a sharp look, the kind that usually shut people up, but she'd had just enough alcohol and stubbornness to keep going. "What, you actually think I wrestle cephalopods in my spare time?"

"You're insufferable."

"I know," she said sweetly, leaning just the tiniest amount closer. "But you didn't deny it. So which is it, Fisher? What did you think?"

"Nothing you need to know," he mumbled into his own glass. 

"God, you're terrible at this. You've got the same face as when you tried to bluff through poker night."

"That's because you cheat at poker," he shot back, his eyes darting anywhere but hers.

"Mhm, sure. Keep deflecting."

That earned her another glare, but this time there was no heat in it. Only that painfully fervent expression that made her pulse skip, and she became hyperaware of everything—the way his knee brushed hers under the table, the warmth of his arm resting on the back of the booth, the ghost of his fingers at her hairline from minutes earlier. When his gaze dropped, just briefly, to her mouth, her heart rate skyrocketed. 

Shit, she was so drunk, she'd started hallucinating or something. 

Thankfully, he stood almost immediately, offering a hand to steady her. "Alright, let's get you home. Maeve will have my head if I don't bring you back."

Devon grumbled, dragging her feet. "She's one to talk."

Somehow, between her stumbling and his patience, they managed to flag down a taxi. The ride was a blur, and Devon slept through most of it until the car slowed and stopped in front of her building. She barely had time to register the familiar brick facade before Conrad was shaking her awake. 

"Ugh, one of us really needs to get a car," she grumbled as he practically hauled her to the main entrance. Then, without warning, he draped her arms around his neck, and she stiffened immediately. 

"Your feet will thank me tomorrow," He explained calmly. "Your feet are bleeding through your monster shoes."

"They are not."

"You won't even make it to the elevator without faceplanting into the floor, so don't argue. Please." Before she could protest further, he swept her up effortlessly, and she yelped, gripping his shoulders instinctively. "You're ok," he reassured. "Don't worry, I've got you."

He moved through the lobby with ease, carrying her as though Devon weighed nothing. Her face was inches from his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, and every subtle movement—every rise and fall of his chest—seemed amplified. It made her head spin slightly, and she was only half aware of how ridiculous it sounded when she blurted out, "You have nice lashes."

Conrad burst out laughing, and she could feel the vibration against her skin. "Told you I was ruged enough," he said instead with a smirk. 

Her brain short-circuited for a moment, and she told herself again that she was probably hallucinating the whole thing. Post-graduation psychosis. Conrad Fisher was simply being a good friend—carrying her because she was exhausted and had blisters on her feet. That's it. Just a friend. That's all.

Plus, he had that ex. The one he was still probably hung up on. There was no way this could lead anywhere, and even if there was, she couldn't do the messy, complicated thing that relationships always ended up being.

Friends were safe. Friends were easy. Friends didn't make you lose your goddamn mind every time they breathed near you.

She clung to that thought like a lifeline, forcing herself not to notice the way his shoulders felt under her hands, or how safe his arms felt around her. 

When the elevator dinged at her floor, he finally set her down, stalling slightly as if reluctant to break contact, and Devon's knees almost forgot how to work properly. "Thanks," she muttered, smoothing the folds of her dress just so she'd have something to do with her hands. 

Conrad's eyes lingered on the pendant that still hung around her neck before clearing his throat and winking at her. "Anytime. Who's going to be my coffee run buddy if you can't walk for a week? I'm just looking out for my own best interests."

And then he was gone, leaving behind a memory Devon definitely intended to bury and never examine again. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

"To global domination," Agnes toasted, raising her bottle with all the gravitas of a Marvel villain. "And, you know, medicine. Obviously,"

Conrad clinked his against hers, echoing the sentiment only halfheartedly. Yes, cheers. To internships, to futures, to celebrating with his friends like a normal, functioning human being. Too bad he felt like someone had unplugged him at the socket.

As if sensing his discontent, Agnes squinted at him. "Can you at least pretend to be happy?"

He shrugged. "It's been a long day." Which was the polite, truncated version of it's been a long day filled with ghosts, guilt, and the kind of phone calls that make you want to swallow your SIM card.

Truthfully, he was grateful for the internship opportunity, but at the back of his mind, he couldn't help but think about the memorial he wasn't attending, which was equal parts painful and merciful. At least he didn't have to see his family, or stand there like a fraud, pretending to feel the right emotions while wishing himself anywhere else. No rehearsed speech, no strained condolences, no judgmental stares. Just him living his small, manageable life across the country.

Laurel had said she understood, but he didn't have to be a mind reader to sense her disappointment. The words, your mother would've wanted you to be there, were just on the tip of her tongue, and Conrad couldn't bear to hear them. 

He had also been too much of a coward to tell his brother. They were meant to be writing the speech together, but when Conrad had called him, Jeremiah had dropped the delayed-graduation bomb. So he swallowed his refusal and apology like always, hanging up with an ocean of unsaid things pooling in his chest. Miscommunication was practically his brand at this point. 

Agnes elbowed him out of his spiral with a mischievous smile. "There's plenty of distractions to be had, you know. No need to wallow in your tragic inner monologue." She tilted her head toward a table of girls, two of whom were blatantly staring. "I mean, Elena definitely wants to get it wet, so..."

When she waggled her eyebrows, he groaned, dropping his forehead onto the table with a theatrical thunk. "Oh my god, no. Please don't say that. Especially not like that. My ears are bleeding."

"What, you don't like me being your wingwoman?" his friend teased.

"I'd rather get mauled by a raccoon. At least then I'd die with my dignity intact. Better than whatever the hell you're trying to orchestrate." He paused, adding, "Besides, you know I'm not very good at relationships."

"Okay, first of all, who said anything about a relationship? You should just take chances."

"No thanks."

"Take a page from Devon's book, for example. Although I hate that she had to choose tonight of all nights to go on her date. She promised me free drinks and dinner if I got the clinic gig. Best believe I'm cashing that in later."

At her words, Conrad sank lower in his seat. Ah, yes, Devon's date. The other reason he was moping around tonight. She'd dropped the bomb on him this morning so casually, and he'd spent the rest of the day spiralling. 

In the four years he'd known her, she'd been on maybe three dates. All comedic disasters in a way you couldn't script if you tried, and every time, Conrad—great supportive friend that he was—secretly rejoiced when things went horribly wrong. Cowardly? Absolutely. Hypocritical? Probably. But there was nothing else to be done. 

Even now, he was manifesting the stupid date into a catastrophe. Maybe the guy would spill wine all over himself. Maybe he'd try to explain NFTs unironically. Maybe he'd choke on an appetizer. Or maybe, fingers crossed, he just wouldn't show up at all. God, that made him sound downright diabolical, to want his best friend to get ghosted. 

Agnes, oblivious to his silent curses, kept going. "She's been so high-strung with her thesis lately. I hope her date's at least hot."

"Yeah, because a hot date is totally going to write her paper for her. That'll help," Conrad snorted.

"If he's smart, he'd help with that too. She told me he's an engineering student. PhD candidate."

Conrad sat up straight in mild alarm. "She did not tell me that."

"God, you can't tell your guy friends everything," Agnes rolled her eyes, giving him a patronizing look. Then her gaze sharpened, pinning him in place. "And you know what? You need a hot date, too. Get laid. Stop being so down in the dumps."

Great. Perfect. Nothing like a pep talk that boiled his entire existence down to: please have sex, you're depressing everyone.

His attempts to take up alcoholism weren't exactly helping his situation, and all he could do was imagine whoever Devon must be sitting across from right now. A guy with perfectly tousled hair who called himself Gregory but insisted everyone shorten it to Grey because it sounded more mysterious. 

Why couldn't he have been some idiot who still lived in his parents' basement instead of a walking dissertation who probably wore cardigans and read Proust in his spare time. Devon would giggle at his dumb jokes, the ones that weren't even funny, just smart-sounding, like puns about circuit boards or entropy, and she'd do that thing where she scrunched her nose when she was trying not to laugh too hard.

Maybe PhD Wonder Boy was even a cyclist, or worse, he brewed his own beer. Or maybe he was normal. Just a decent, nice, smart, funny guy who could actually give Devon the relationship she deserved. Someone who wasn't a coward who dodged from his own feelings like they were sniper fire. Someone who wasn't him. 

Conrad was just taking another sip of his beer, trying to drown the intrusive thoughts, when Agnes whipped her head toward him and asked, "Have you ever been in love?"

He nearly choked. "Excuse me? Where the hell did that come from?"

"Humour me."

Right, because nothing said casual bar conversation like ripping his ribcage open and poking at his insides. Nonetheless, he answered hesitantly, "Yes."

"How many times?"

That one was trickier. Two might be too ambitious. Maybe just one. But maybe it was two. He wouldn't lie and say he'd never loved Belly, because he had. Teenage, messy, not-totally-formed love, but love nevertheless. Looking back now, though, it felt oddly scripted. Like he'd read from a cue card his mom had been holding up behind the scenes. Fall for her best friend's daughter and make them family in one more way. Cue the rom-com montage. And Conrad, ever the dutiful son, had been more than ready to play the part. 

And maybe he had loved Belly, but she didn't exactly love him back, did she? People who loved you didn't sprint into your brother's arms right after you poured your heart out to them. That wasn't a love story; it was a punchline.

What did he feel for Devon then? No, he refused to slap a name on it, because then it'd be real. A living, breathing thing that could hurt you. Better to leave it nebulous.

All he knew was that he liked being around her. That when his sunflower pendant sat against her collarbone sometimes, he had to look away before he stared too long. That he'd carried the engraved pen she'd given him through his entire first year of med school—kept tucked in his breast pocket, right over his heart, like some sentimental idiot. That a single glimpse of her smile was enough to bulldoze through the fog of midterms, and with her, he didn't always have to be infallible because she never made him feel like a failure when he wasn't.

But none of that meant anything. Totally normal friend feelings. Obviously.

"Once," he said flatly, because Agnes was still waiting for an answer. 

"Like, how in love?" She was relentless. "On a scale of one to ten."

"You can't put being in love on a scale. Either you are or you aren't."

"Okay, but if you had to."

The number was already there, humming under his ribs, and Conrad didn't hesitate this time. "Thirteen."

Off the charts and only a little jinxed. 

Agnes' grin was far too triumphant, and he regretted opening his stupid mouth. 

"Ohhh," she purred. "There it is. This is a current ongoing situation, isn't it?"

"No."

"Yes. So, who's the girl?"

"What girl?" Maybe if he played dumb for long enough, the floor would open up and swallow him. 

"Come on."

"Not telling you."

"How'd you meet her?"

Conrad nearly choked again. "I can't tell you that either."

"You're no fun." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Okay, fine. When did you know it was love, then?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, desperate for an escape hatch that didn't exist. "It wasn't one moment. It was..." He groped for words, then finally muttered, "You know when you're still half asleep, and you don't even realize that you're awake until there's one moment when you just are?"

Agnes leaned forward. "Mm-hmm?"

"It's like that. Like one day, I just... woke up."

That was the truth, more than he cared to admit. One day, he'd simply looked at his life and realized he was done clinging to a girl who no longer wanted him, at least not in the way he wanted her, done trying to wring understanding from someone who'd given him none when his mom was dying and he'd been at his absolute worst. 

That wasn't love. That wasn't tragic or romantic in a windswept period drama sort of way. It was just pathetic, AA-meeting kind of pathetic, and Conrad had decided he'd never be that way for another person for as long as he lived. 

But then came Devon, her laughter spilling into the cracks in his life, and her smile carrying him through days when he felt like a hollow shell. One day, he'd woken up, and she'd already made a home for herself between his ribs. It was too late to turn her out, and now he was being pathetic all over again. 

He blinked, realizing Agnes was still staring at him with a wicked grin. "You've got it bad," she said smugly.

"I don't—"

"You do." She tapped her chin with theatrical calculation. "So if you won't tell me her name, that means it's someone I know."

Conrad shook his head immediately. "No. Definitely not. You've never met her. She's Canadian."

"It's Rachel then?" she suggested, referring to one of their classmates. 

"Wrong Canadian."

"You're obviously lying. Is it Layla? You two definitely had chemistry during our group project last semester."

"She was great, but no." Conrad rolled his eyes. "You can't just rattle off the names of every girl in our class and expect to be right."

Agnes leaned back, arms crossed. "So it's someone not in our class? Then it's got to be someone else in our circle. Unless you've decided to really branch out, which doesn't sound like you." 

Before she could say the one he'd been dreading—she was circling closer, he could feel it in his bones—her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced down, read whatever popped up, and immediately burst out laughing.

Conrad frowned. "What happened?"

"All your silent brooding and telepathically trying to give Devon's date food poisoning worked."

"Her date has food poisoning?" In his attempt to keep his tone neutral, he hadn't even thought to deny her accusation. 

"Worse," Agnes snickered.

"What's worse than food poisoning?"

"You can ask her yourself," she said sweetly, thumb flying across her phone. "I gave her our location. She's on her way over."

Fifteen minutes later, the door burst open and Devon came bustling in, hair slightly windblown and expression thunderous as she plopped down on the stool beside Conrad with all the grace of a storm cloud hitting land.

"Men are trash," she announced.

Agnes slid a bottle across the counter without a word, while Conrad sat frozen, nursing his own like it contained the answer to all of life's problems. His brain was too preoccupied with trying not to look too pleased she was here, and trying not to scrutinize her too much, because of course she'd gotten all dressed up for someone else. 

Agnes leaned forward, trying to stifle her smirk. "So what happened?"

Devon threw up her hands, her expression a mixture of rage and disbelief. "Where do I start? First, he spent twenty minutes correcting my pronunciation of quinoa. And then he was rude to the wait staff."

Conrad remained silent, trying not to look satisfied.

"As if that wasn't bad enough," Devon continued, "he insisted on declaring that he only dates women who cook at least three meals a day from scratch. Like dude, I don't even eat three meals a day, what is wrong with you? Then, get this, he actually said—and I quote—'You should move in with me and quit your job to be a full-time housewife. I make more than enough money.'"

"And was this before or after you told him about your thesis research?" Agnes asked, intrigued.

"After."

"Of course he did."

Conrad's lips twitched with amusement. Another date that ended in a no. Excellent. The world made sense. "You're not going to see him again, right?" he ventured carefully.

"Absolutely not," Devon snapped. "I don't even want him in my peripheral vision ever again." She leaned back on the barstool, still fuming but now broadening her scope. "I swear, men are all the same. They think they can just swoop in with some grand gesture, ignore everything I say, and somehow I'll be grateful. No. Just no. They can't even read a room. Or a person."

He cleared his throat. "I mean... some of them try, right? At least the effort's there?"

"Don't you start."

"Yes, ma'am." He patted her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "But hey, if you ever need to rant, I'm a professional listener. Certified. No complaints."

She glanced at him, half-smiling, half-exasperated. "Does that come with credentials?"

"Yeah, I majored in ignoring my own life so I could focus on other people's nonsense. It's a very niche skill."

Agnes snorted from his other side, giving him a sly look before addressing Devon. "So... now that you've had your fill of engineers, maybe you might try a med student? Doctors make bank, you know."

Devon batted her lashes at her with exaggerated sweetness. "If this is your way of asking me out to make me feel better, thanks, but no thanks. Besides, weren't you seeing that lab supervisor guy?"

"I wasn't talking about me."

"In that case, still no thanks. No more matchmaking. No more blind dates with your classmates. I'm officially retired from the dating pool."

"Quit complaining," Agnes scoffed. "Didn't you say that this is your first date in a year?"

"That's one too many. The guy before this one told me he was trying to get over his ex, but I was too aggressive and not pretty enough to be his rebound, so you know, my friends seem to get a laugh out of setting me up with total morons."

Conrad briefly wondered if the man had been visually impaired. Devon was more than pretty enough. Too pretty to be a rebound, in fact. 

"Okay, but if you hate dating so much, why even agree to go out with him in the first place?" Agned demanded. 

"Honestly? I was bored with the monotony, and I figured—even if it went terribly, which I kinda knew it would—I'd at least have a funny story to tell at parties. But also, it was like the extroverted me made the plans, but by the time the plans rolled around, that part had gone into hibernation. The people-averse me had to follow through with the commitment. I really gotta stop doing this."

"That sounds ridiculously convoluted. You could have backed out."

"I like to keep my word, thank you very much." Devon then stretched her arms lazily above her head and pushed back from the table. "Anyway, I have to go now, but you two have fun." She pointed at Agnes. "I'll treat you sometime next week."

"What about me?" Conrad piped up instantly, feigning offence.

Devon tilted her head with a grin. "I don't recall promising you any such thing. My deal is with Agnes."

"Wow. Harsh."

"Don't worry, I'll buy you coffee after our morning run tomorrow." Before he could reply, she leaned over and snagged a fry off the sad-looking plate in front of him, the one he'd been ignoring most of the evening.

Conrad's eyes narrowed skeptically. "What, your hot date didn't feed you?"

She made a face of exaggerated disgust. "He ordered broccoli soup. So no, unfortunately not. I paid for something I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole."

"Here, you can have the rest of mine, then." When he nudged the plate toward her, her grin softened, and he couldn't help but notice the glossy sheen of her lips, completely missing what she said next. 

And then she was gone, leaving Conrad staring after her, while Agnes hid her smirk behind her glass. The door had barely swung shut before she whirled on him, eyes blazing with triumph. "Oh. My. God," she hissed, stabbing a finger in his direction. "It's her, isn't it?"

"Her who?" His eyes widened like a deer in headlights. "Agnes, no. Don't start this again."

"No, no, I'm right. I know I am. You were sulking because of her date. You were jealous!"

"I wasn't jealous." 

"That's exactly what a jealous person would say."

"I was just—"

"What?" Agnes interrupted, eyes sparkling. "Worried that he wouldn't treat her right? Or worried he would?"

"Can we please not psychoanalyze me?"

"I don't need to psychoanalyze you. You're practically broadcasting it."

"I am not!"

"Now I know why you were so broody earlier. The moping, the sighing, the storm cloud practically hovering over your head."

"What are you even—"

"And then," she steamrolled right over him, grinning like a cat with cream, "the moment you heard her date went horribly, you started practically humming in your seat. I could hear the angels singing."

Conrad bristled, face heating. "That is—no. No, absolutely not."

"Oh, please." Agnes waved her hand dismissively. "You've got it bad, my friend. Instead of manifesting prayer circles for each of her dates to crash and burn, maybe you should actually do something about it."

He glared at her, but it was halfhearted at best. "Like what?"

"I don't know, maybe ask her out before the next broccoli-soup enthusiast beats you to it?"

Conrad grimaced, burying his face in his hands, mostly to drown out the sound of Agnes laughing at him. As if it were that easy to simply walk up to her and confess the truth? How had that turned out for him last time? 

No, he didn't need to do anything. Things were fine as they were. He saw her almost every day—when she came over, at the library, and in random stolen pockets of time that were the best part of his week. Why ruin a perfectly good thing?

Besides, Devon clearly wasn't interested. If she were, she would have said something. He scowled into his beer, irritated at himself. "Nope," he muttered under his breath. "Don't need it. Don't want it. Absolutely not."

Agnes arched a brow, clearly hearing him. "Talking to yourself now? That's a great sign."

He didn't respond, but it didn't matter. His reaction was confirmation enough that she'd struck a nerve. 

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

The return of summer meant a new influx of texts from Devon's brothers, the notifications buzzing through her phone like clockwork. Jasper was finally armed with a phone of his own and made it his solemn duty to send her everything, from blurry selfies at weird angles to screenshots of memes she felt too old to understand, and grainy photos of the family cat looking vaguely offended at being paparazzied.

And then, of course, there was Oliver, who was more than happy to hijack the device whenever he felt like it. His method of announcing himself included sending a selfie before launching into whatever message he wanted to deliver, saying it was so she'd know which brother she was texting.

Today, they'd decided to call her, and Devon's phone was propped up against a fruit bowl on her kitchen counter as the speakerphone blared with Oliver's animated chatter while she rummaged through the cabinets.

"...and then she said that he said that I was the one who put glue on the chair, but it wasn't me! It was Benji. Everyone knows Benji carries around like a hundred bottles of glue, but the teacher didn't care, because I was sitting closest. Which is, like, so unfair, right?" The boy's voice pitched higher with indignation.

Devon hummed thoughtfully, squinting at her spice rack. "Unfair indeed. Crime of proximity. Very tragic, Ollie."

"You're not listening," he accused.

"I am listening," she replied, pulling out a jar of oregano and setting it next to the pan on the stove. "But I am also cooking, so multitasking."

"What are you making?"

"Spaghetti sauce. Want to see?" She picked up her phone and tilted it toward the pan's simmering contents.

Oliver leaned in close to his camera with a frown. "Looks kinda watery. Like soup."

From somewhere in the background, Jasper piped up, his voice muffled as if he were yelling from down the hall. "Tell her it looks nasty!"

"I heard that!" Devon called, wagging her spoon at the phone. "Don't think I won't block you both for slander against my culinary masterpiece."

Oliver cackled and turned the camera to show Jasper lurking behind him with a smug grin. "He says you should come make it for us instead so he can judge in person." Then he shoved his face into the phone so only his mouth was visible as he hollered, "It's summer! What are you even doing that's so important? Just come down for a week. Or two. Or forever."

"Forever might be a stretch. I've got this tiny thing called grad school."

"You're always busy. School, work, making bad tomato soup," Jasper complained. 

"Dee, Dee, Dee, guess what?" Oliver's voice rattled through the speaker again. "We're going to the beach this year! We're gonna swim for hours."

"Are you planning on turning into a fish or something?" Devon deadpanned. 

Oliver puffed out his chest, or at least it looked like he did, judging by the way his chin jutted higher in the camera frame. "I already am a fish. I can hold my breath for two whole minutes. Wanna see?"

"Please don't. Not unless someone's standing by with a lifeguard certificate."

"I have a lifeguard certificate," Jasper called from off-screen. Then his face suddenly appeared as he snatched the phone from his little brother. "I did the pool safety course at school."

"Pool safety course is not lifeguard certification, kiddo."

Oliver wriggled back into frame, trying to squeeze his face next to Jasper's. "Anyway! Dee, you're coming with us, right?"

"Relax, hold your horses," Devon waved her spoon at them again. "I told you, I'm coming down sometime next week."

"Good. Then you can swim with us."

Her smile faltered for the briefest second before she pasted it back in place. "Tiny, teeny problem with your plan there."

"What problem?"

"I don't actually know how to swim."

There was silence on the other end for exactly three beats before Jasper burst out laughing so hard he nearly dropped the phone. "You're kidding."

"I am not. Your sister sinks like a stone, unfortunately."

"But that's illegal!" Oliver gasped, scandalized.

"Illegal?" Devon echoed, trying not to laugh too.

"Yeah!" he threw his hands up. "Everyone's supposed to know how to swim! What if pirates attack?"

"What kind of pirates are you imagining at the beach?" Jasper muttered, still grinning. Then he leaned closer to the camera earnestly. "Don't worry, we'll teach you. We've been taking lessons forever."

"Forever?" Devon raised a brow.

"Yeah, I'm basically a pro. I can do the butterfly stroke. Want me to demonstrate?"

"Please don't demonstrate in the living room. Your mom will kill me by proxy if you flood the place."

Meanwhile, Oliver was still staring at her, wide-eyed. "You really don't know how to swim?"

Devon winced dramatically. "Really, truly. Guess you'll just have to be my lifeguards."

"Yes!" Her youngest brother perked up immediately at that. "I'll save you if you drown. I'll even wear floaties to be extra safe."

Jasper rolled his eyes. "That's not how it works, doofus."

Devon chuckled, leaning against the counter as her sauce bubbled behind her. "Sounds like I'll be in excellent hands."

"Okay, okay, so for your first lesson, we'll just throw you in the shallow end. Easy. Then you'll, like, float. And once you float, you can swim. Done," Oliver declared triumphantly. 

"Excuse me? Throw me in? That's your grand plan?"

He nodded enthusiastically, cherubic curls bouncing. "Yes! Sink or swim! It's how heroes are made."

"Or lawsuits."

"Dad'll take care—"

"Ignore him," Jasper interrupted with an exasperated sound. "Here's the real plan. Step one: we get you in the water with floaties."

"I am not wearing a floatie!" Devon protested. 

"Or a pool noodle," he continued loudly, glaring at her. "Step two: you practice kicking. Step three: you learn to breathe properly. Step four: actual strokes."

"Wow, you sound like a YouTube tutorial."

"I take this seriously! Swimming is a life skill."

"My way's faster," Oliver argued from behind him

"Your way is going to kill her," Jasper shot back.

"No, Dee will thank me when she's a dolphin in four days."

At his words, Devon laughed so hard she doubled over, while Jasper smacked his brother's shoulder. "I'm going to teach her, and you're not invited if you're not going to be useful."

"Okay fineee," Oliver whined, drawing the word out slowly. "Dee, tell him I have to be invited. I can be the shark to chase you so you swim faster."

Before she could respond to the outlandish request, the image on the screen shifted, and her father's face appeared, smiling sheepishly as her brothers squawked in the background. "Sorry, boys, I have to borrow your sister for a minute." Then to Devon, he said, "There's been a change of plans for your trip."

She arched a brow, her tone dry as sandpaper. "Am I no longer welcome?"

Mild horror flashed across his features as he shook his head vigorously. "What? No! Devon, you're always welcome." His voice softened. "I just meant change of plans as in location-wise. Instead of Boston, we were hoping you'd spend the summer in Cousins with us."

"Fancy."

Her father frowned, the lines settling deeper into his face. "I've been asking you to come for years now."

"Right. Sorry." She shrugged, avoiding his gaze to glance at the stove behind her. Of course, he'd been inviting her, but she had never wanted to go. It felt wrong somehow, but backing out now would make her a villain in her brothers' eyes, and she couldn't go back on her word again. 

"Well, anyways," her father continued, sounding way too hopeful, "it would be really nice if you could come. We're headed there tomorrow, but you're welcome to join us any time. I've emailed you the address and all the relevant information. If you tell me your available dates, I could arrange for your flight as well."

Devon shook her head instantly. "No thanks, I've got it covered."

"The boys are very eager to show you around. They've become quite fond of the place," he added, and when she did not respond, his expression turned sombre. "Alright then, we'll see you soon. Take care of yourself."

Then he hung up, leaving her with the aftertaste of obligation bitter in her mouth. But before she could properly stew over it, the front door creaked open. A shuffle, a thud, and the telltale rummaging of Conrad Fisher echoed through her apartment. 

A moment later, he appeared in her kitchen, and it was such a routine sight that she no longer felt self-conscious about her mismatched attire. Her hair was still damp and frizzing from her earlier shower, and her patterned pyjamas were from a matching set she'd gotten with her sister last Christmas. 

"Someone's taking advantage of their spare key this week. Everything alright?" she asked with one hand on her hip. 

Conrad rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Apart from the fact that I'm unemployed and got kicked out of my placement on the first day? Sure. Everything's great."

Shit, now she felt like a jerk for mocking his break-in habits when he was probably spiralling. She turned the stove off and turned to him with an apologetic expression. "I'm so sorry about that, dude. Truly. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You've comforted me plenty the first three times you came to check in on me," he pointed out. "It's fine. I'm fine."

Ah yes, the classic man mantra, right up there with 'It's just allergies' and 'I totally read the terms and conditions.'

"You sure?" she asked anyway. 

He shrugged, looking both resigned and faintly embarrassed. "Yeah. Everything happens for a reason and all that. Agnes knocked some sense into me. Said Dr. Namazy was right. I didn't have my head on straight, which was fair. I didn't. I was just so worried about Steven and everything... sorry."

Oh great, now he was apologizing for his existential crisis. If Devon wasn't careful, he'd start thanking her for letting him breathe in her apartment next. "You don't have to apologize for being upset when something upsetting happens, you know. That's kind of how feelings work." She hesitated, then added, "Speaking of—how's your friend doing?"

Conrad exhaled, his shoulders loosening just a little. "It's been a week, so he's better now. Discharged to go home by now, I'm pretty sure. Laurel's been keeping me updated."

"Good to hear."

"So..." he trailed off awkwardly, trying to think of something to say, until his eyes landed on the large logo emblazoned on her sweatshirt. "Batman, huh? Didn't take you for a fan."

"I'm actually a Nightwing girl myself. My sister's the Batman fan."

"Noted, thank you. Now I know what to get you for your next birthday."

"If you manage to track down Nightwing merch, I'll actually love you forever." She winked at him, and when his cheeks turned a bright red, she attributed it to the stifling atmosphere in the kitchen. 

"By the way, when did you redecorate?" he asked after several moments. 

"Maeve moved out last week, so I've been changing things up. Need to get a new roommate, though. Living like a king without the funds of one. What am I supposed to do with two bedrooms?"

"Maeve moved out, and you didn't tell me."

She shrugged as casually as she could manage. "You had so much on your plate last week. Didn't want to add to it. What with your new job, and then your friend, and... everything else that happened."

Conrad's eyes narrowed, sharp in a way that made her pulse skip. "Devon..." His tone was low with warning, and he rarely used her first name like that, so it made her straighten instinctively. 

"Not a big deal," she rushed to clarify, lifting her hands slightly. "She made it official with Coach's son a couple months ago, and they got a new place together."

He looked like he had another pointed comment chambered, but instead, he redirected, gesturing toward the stove. "What're you making?"

"Spaghetti sauce."

"From scratch?" he demanded, sounding like he didn't believe her.

"Yep. Although I've been told it looks like soup, which is disappointing."

Conrad's expression shifted into mild alarm. "Is this you... learning how to make three meals a day from scratch to impress future dates?"

The moment he so much as hinted at her unfortunate date, Devon felt a weird hiccup in her diaphragm, the kind that made you choke and wonder if you were about to become the tragic protagonist of a Heimlich poster. Because Conrad Fisher was the last person she wanted to discuss dates with. 

After she'd mulled over the whole disastrous evening, she'd realized that it didn't even matter. The guy could have been a perfect saint, pulling chairs out, tipping waiters generously, quoting Jane Austen by candlelight, and she still would've walked away unsatisfied and firmly in the no-second-date column. So really, she was glad he'd turned out to be such a jerk. At least she had a logical excuse to reject him now. Him being a narcissistic asshole was infinitely easier to explain than the real reason—that he was not Conrad.

It was absurd and unthinkable, and so embarrassing she would sooner commit tax fraud than admit it out loud, even to herself. She didn't know exactly when it had happened. Probably sometime after the surreal madness of graduation, but at some point, something had shifted in how she saw him, and what she was starting to feel was decidedly un-bestfriend-like.

A tiny, defiant part of her thought maybe she should just say something. Why should she wait? What a patriarchal idea to sit around twiddling her thumbs, waiting for a man to broach the subject of romantic pursuits. But the truth was, Devon was a coward, and she'd rather eat a shoe than take a chance, only to realize she'd misread the entire situation. 

"Oh god, no," she forced out a strained laugh. "No date influence here. Besides, this is like my first meal of the day."

Conrad glanced down at his wrist, and in the half-second it took, she had the deeply unwelcome thought that she'd never seen anyone pull off a watch so well. Who the hell looked that good checking the time? It was supposed to be a neutral human action, not some—never mind. She mentally smacked herself, telling herself not to swoon over timepieces. 

"It's six p.m.," Conrad enunciated slowly. "Why is your first meal of the day... dinner?"

Devon held up a hand, turning back to the stove to tip the sauce into a bigger pot, letting it merge with the waiting spaghetti. "No nagging, please, Doc. I've had a busy day. Now, what brings you here? Surely it isn't to check up on the state of my daily calorie intake."

"I, uh, had a favour to ask you."

"If you need a kidney, I'm afraid you'd only get one. I'm saving the other for when Linkin Park comes back to California."

Conrad sputtered, halfway between laughter and outrage. "That leaves you with none."

"I know how to do simple math, dude."

"But you failed high school bio, apparently."

"Hey, we don't talk about bio, remember!" 

"Because Patrick V. tried to stuff a frog down the back of your sweater?" He didn't even try to stifle his snickers as he continued, "I can't believe I forgot I shared that class with you. You were notorious."

Devon whirled around to glare at him. "Why, because I got stuck with the absolute worst dissection partner?"

"No, because you kicked him for it and got sent to the principal's office. You ended a whole bloodline that day, Watson. You should be ashamed." Conrad's eyes sparkled with mischief, and she couldn't decide if she wanted to smack him or kiss him to wipe that look off his face. 

"I'm going to kick you out, I swear."

"You'd oust a poor, unemployed man?" He clutched a hand to his chest dramatically. "Cruel indeed."

"Shut up."

"Also, don't worry, I don't need your kidney."

"Good. I'm rather attached to them after all." Devon gestured toward the cabinets. "Your favour can wait until after dinner, I hope. Go set the table."

"We're not eating in front of the TV? Must be a special occasion."

"Haha, go ahead, call me an iPad kid. I just like having something to watch while I eat."

"Like a toddler," He pointed out before rushing to set the kitchen table before she could swing the sauce spoon at his head. Then, when she brought over two steaming plates, he let out a low whistle. "Wow, I did not know you had the talent."

"Well, it's no grilled chicken," she smirked knowingly, "which I understand is your specialty."

"Now you're just making fun of me," Conrad huffed. "I may not be a world-renowned chef, but I bake, you know."

"Yeah, I'm aware. You're every girl's dream guy."

"Not every girl," he muttered, half to himself, and when she gawked at him, he cleared his throat awkwardly, as if surprised his thoughts had slipped out. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

Had she said the wrong thing? Was he thinking about his ex? That had to be it, right, because who in their right mind wouldn't choose him, unless of course they were involved with his brother. She still found that whole situation comically bizarre, even if it had been years since Conrad had told her, but she was practicing being non-judgmental—for now—so she refused to dissect it further. 

"Why the sudden experimentation, anyway?" Conrad asked, trying to change the topic. "Up until last month, you were burning boiling water."

Devon shot him a glare. "Now that's just rude. I'm practicing for my brothers. They've sent over a list of recipes I'm supposed to perfect for their enjoyment when I go see them this summer."

"Oh, speaking of summer..." He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "That's what I wanted to speak to you about. I know you're going to visit your family in Boston, but..."

"Well?" she prompted when he fell silent. "Go on then."

 "I was wondering if you'd come with me to my mother's memorial."

Devon stiffened slightly, serious now. "The memorial? The one you weren't going to attend?"

"Yep. I wasn't going to, but then Agnes gave me the whole exposure therapy spiel, and I figured I should go. I think I've self-isolated enough. And it'd be nice to see everyone again. To see everyone come out for my mom. I'd like to see it."

"I see."

"Of course I'm worried too... about how everyone will react, but my therapist told me to imagine the best version of the day to get through it." He paused, glancing at her with way too much sincerity. "And at the risk of sounding horribly sentimental, the best version of any day is if you're there."

"Your sentimental displays are forgiven." Devon cracked a small smile, his hopeful expression making her want to reach out to him. 

"So you'll come?"

"Sure. When and where?"

"Cousins. The day after tomorrow." When her eyes widened, he rushed to explain. "I know, I know. It's crazy last-minute, but I was just going back and forth the whole time. We'd have to get a red-eye tomorrow to make it in time."

She took a deep breath and sighed, then nodded again. "Sure. Why not?"

"Sorry again. I can pay for your ticket if you want. I know it's out of your way."

"Dude, no more apologizing when you have nothing to apologize for. In fact, sometimes no apologizing even if you do have something to apologize for." Devon gave him a disapproving look. 

Conrad snorted, the tension draining from his posture. "I don't think that's a lesson you want to impart."

"Oh, I do. Trust me, it builds character." She waved her fork in a lazy circle. "Besides, I don't think letting you sugar daddy me is going to do wonders for my image, so I can handle my own ticket, thank you very much. I have to be there anyway."

"My finances aren't really in a position to sugar daddy anyone until I've at least finished residency. If anything, you should be sugar-daddy-ing me. You're the one who's employed."

"I know, I know," Devon groaned. "Doctors and their debts. Which is why I have no qualms about shouldering your coffee expenses until you graduate med school."

"You're going to spoil me rotten, Watson." Conrad placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward expectantly. "What else do I get?"

"Uh... free therapy?"

"I have a therapist."

"I'm not really good for much else, to be honest. But hey, now that I have a car, I can be your designated driver anytime."

"Need I remind you of grad night?" He said it in an indecipherable tone, and Devon couldn't figure out which part of the evening he was referring to, but she felt her ears warm all the same. But before she could say anything, he continued, focusing on something she'd said earlier. "Wait, what did you mean you have to be in Cousins anyway? Weren't you going to Boston?"

She winced a little, like she'd been caught. "Ah, yes, change of plans. Apparently, I'm headed there for the summer, too."

Conrad's whole face lit up at that, his grin endearingly boyish. "That's great! You're going to love it."

"I don't know how great of a tour guide a seven-year-old and an eleven-year-old can be, but they've promised to show me around."

"So, if I hadn't decided to attend the memorial after all, you were just going to leave me by myself all summer?"

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm not," he insisted. "I don't think I've spent a single summer alone since I moved to California." His smile softened then, turning almost tender. "You've become the new summer constant."

Devon's pulse skipped. She didn't know what to say to that—or even what to think—only that an uncomfortable lump rose in her throat. "Alright, Mr. Darcy," she mumbled with a strained laugh. "Enough sentimental displays for the day. Eat your dinner so we can have dessert."

"You made dessert?"

"Don't sound so shocked," she grumbled. "But no, unfortunately, baking is not in my set of brilliant expertise. You remember Kelsey from the soccer team? She's in culinary school now and keeps dropping off her experiments."

"And by experiments, you mean...?"

"I mean, I currently have three whole cakes in my fridge waiting to be eaten because Maeve is no longer around to midnight snack on them."

Conrad beamed, practically glowing. "Lucky me."

"You're shameless."

"Shameless," he agreed easily, grinning. "But also destined to reap the benefits of your very generous circle of friends. And someone's gotta help you clear out that fridge. I'm just doing my civic duty."

After dinner, Devon pushed back her chair to stand, but Conrad was on his feet faster, gently intercepting her with practiced ease. "You cooked, I'll clean up. Them's the rules," he said, already clearing the dishes away.

"Has anyone ever told you you're way too nice?"

"You do. Almost constantly." But that didn't stop him from piling everything neatly in the sink and rolling up the sleeves of his button-up. 

Devon forced herself not to oggle his forearms like a psychopath and pulled the fridge open. "Dishes can wait. Dessert first."

Conrad paused, soap bottle in hand, then sighed dramatically and dropped it back on the counter. "Twist my arm, why don't you?" He complained as he dried his hands and sat back down.

"Alright." She returned to the table with three platters precariously balanced in her arms. "Exhibit A: lavender-lemon with basil frosting. Exhibit B: chocolate-chilli with... I think those are walnuts?"

"Chilli? In cake?"

"Kelsey swore it 'adds dimension.' She's like the Picasso of baking, so I believe her."

Conrad took a careful bite, then his brows shot up. "Okay, this is actually really good. But why does it taste like... like I just licked a fancy garden?"

"That's the lavender. It's aggressively floral. Something your grandma would wear as perfume, but edible."

He chuckled at her description, savouring another bite before leaning back in his chair. "You know who'd love this? My brother. He'd go on and on about flavour profiles and 'balance of texture.' Even when we were younger, he'd get all hissy over his poached eggs. Called it a delicate science."

"Poached eggs?" Devon's lips curled with amusement. "What a hill to die on."

"I know," Conrad said, his voice nostalgic and a little pained at the memory. "He'd throw a fit if the yolk was overcooked. Meanwhile, I was just happy if I didn't burn the toast. He's got this obsessive streak about food. You'd think he was auditioning for MasterChef when he was like, twelve."

"Sounds intense." She slid the chocolate cake across the table. "Oh, come on, why are you making that face?"

"I'm just mentally preparing myself for the possibility of betrayal," he replied, then forked a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "This one's not my favourite. Cake is not supposed to be spicy."

"Third time's the charm. Last one's pistachio-rose with white chocolate drizzle."

"That sounds fancy."

"Yep, screams overpriced wedding cake."

This time, though, when he tasted it, his eyes fluttered closed in mock ecstasy. "Oh. My. God. This is a revelation. Ladies and gentlemen, we have entered the gates of dessert heaven."

"Please don't do this," Devon groaned.

"Texture immaculate," he continued, unfazed. "Mouthfeel divine. It dances upon the palate like a ballerina at the Bolshoi—"

"That's it." She snatched a napkin from the table and lobbed it straight at his face. "Since when do you frequent opera houses in Russia?"

He caught it midair, still grinning like a fool. "Admit it, I'm elevating the dining experience."

"You're elevating my blood pressure," She shot back, shaking her head. "Honestly, how does anyone put up with you?"

"Because I'm charming and I do dishes." Conrad sighed happily, polishing off his slice within minutes and reaching for a second helping. "I'm going to need the baker's contact information. I'm having her cater my wedding. And retirement. And every graduation. Maybe she'll give me a discount for knowing her delightful friend."

Devon paused momentarily, an odd ache tugging in her chest. Lucky girl, whoever he married. She shook it off with a crooked smile. "I'm being used for catering discounts now? How flattering."

"The pistachio one is a winner. I want it at all my events," he went on unbothered, like his comment hadn't accidentally detonated something inside her.

"I'll make sure to remember that."

"Please do."

"Cool, in that case, I'll pack it up for you. Take it home."

"What?" he seemed taken aback at the offer. "Nah, I couldn't—"

"Consider it my way of cheering you up," Devon cut in, matter-of-fact. "It's been a rough week for you. And the memorial will be rough, too. You deserve cake."

Conrad softened at that, like he wanted to protest but couldn't quite bring himself to. "Are you sure?"

"I like the chocolate one better anyway. Surprisingly."

"Abomination. You have terrible taste." Then, before she could move, he shovelled the last bite of cake into his mouth and stood to place his hands on her shoulders, gently pushing her back into her chair. "Remember," he said firmly, daring her to argue. "I'm cleaning up. You're not lifting a finger. I will not be called a moocher of your good intentions."

"My intentions are far from honourable, I assure you." But Devon's smile betrayed her as she pulled her knees up against her chest and resigned herself to spectating duty.

Meanwhile, Conrad moved around her kitchen like he lived there, rinsing dishes and stowing away leftovers, making the scene look so domestic that it almost hurt. At one point, he pulled off his watch and handed it to her so it wouldn't get wet, not even pausing in his work, and all she could think was wow, he really was every girl's dream guy—thoughtful, capable, and kind. He just wasn't hers, but she'd cherish the moments she got to spend in his company anyway. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

Conrad stood hunched over in the underground parking lot beside his rental car, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing faintly and casting his reflection in the car's darkened window. His tie was a pitiful strip of fabric around his throat, which he'd tried looping into something presentable, but as usual, his fingers faltered. He was reminded of graduation day again, his lungs shrinking until he could no longer breathe. He couldn't afford to have a panic attack here, so with a frustrated huff, he yanked the tie off completely, almost shoving it into his carry-on when hurried footsteps echoed against the concrete.

"Sorry, I took a minute!" Devon skidded into view and gave him a sheepish look. "Had to fix my face."

He glanced at his watch, then back at her. "It's fine. We've got plenty of time to make the drive to the memorial." His expression dimmed the moment he saw her though, because despite her obvious attempts to freshen up, her eyes were bloodshot, and the shadows under them betrayed her lack of sleep. "Wow, you look—"

"Like a zombie?" she cut in quickly, grimacing. "God, rub it in, why don't you?"

"I told you to sleep."

"I can't sleep on flights. My legs get all cramped."

"You could've put your legs up on me," Conrad blurted before he could stop himself. "There was no one else in our aisle."

"Dude, I wasn't going to harass you like that."

"You said you did it with your sister all the time when you travel with her."

"You're not my sister, Fisher," she snorted. "Her I have no problem being a pain in the ass with. Now come on, let's get this show on the road. And you're driving, by the way. I don't trust myself behind the wheel."

When she rolled her neck with a pained sigh, Conrad felt a stab of guilt. She really hadn't gotten a wink of sleep, while somehow he'd managed to use her shoulder like his own personal pillow the entire flight. "Yeah, I'll drive," he agreed. "We're not trying to make it our memorial."

When she let out a theatrical gasp, he rolled his eyes. "It's okay, you can laugh."

"Conrad Fisher just made a joke. The world must be ending."

"Hey, I make jokes all the time!"

"Not... gallows humour. That's my brand. I must be rubbing off on you." Then Devon's eyes caught the crumpled strip of cloth still in his hand, and she raised an eyebrow. "What are you trying to throw out secretly?"

"I think I'm just going to skip the whole tie thing."

"Sure," she agreed way too easily. "Whatever you're comfortable with."

Conrad studied the way she leaned her weight on one hip, her bottom lip caught between her teeth like she wanted to say something else. He hoped she would. "But—"

"But what?"

"You look like you have a 'but' coming."

"I was gonna say... you can always ask for help, you know. No shame in not knowing how to do your own tie, even at your grown biblical age."

Indignation flared in him immediately. "I know how to do my own tie."

"Okay."

His eyes narrowed. "Why do you look like you don't believe me?"

"I didn't say anything!"

"You don't have to!" Conrad knew he was being ridiculous. Maybe he just wanted someone to talk him into wearing the damn thing. It was just a stupid piece of fabric, but it had also been one of his mother's favourites, so wearing it today felt right. If only he could muster the courage to do so and not be overwhelmed by the memory of her doing it for him. That was the thing about losing a mother. Every single little thing reminded him of her, and there was no escaping the grief, no matter how long it had been. 

With a frustrated exhale, he extended it toward Devon. "Well, go on then. I assume you were offering your help."

"How do you know tie-tying is part of my skill set?"

"Somehow I do." His tone was rougher than he meant, and he forced himself to relax, bending his head and slumping his shoulders to lower himself to her level. 

Devon stepped closer with a mischievous grin, draping the strip of fabric around his neck as her fingers worked deftly. The movements were mesmerizing, but Conrad's attention remained fixed on her face, charting the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose like they were constellations. And god her eyes, he had never noticed how many colours lived there. He tried to memorize them all, as if there'd be a quiz later and he'd never get to look this close again. 

When she was finished, she gave the tail end of the tie a sharp tug, the motion pulling him closer until his breath mingled with hers and they hovered barely a hair's breadth apart. Conrad's gaze betrayed him by sliding to her mouth. 

Then, of course, she had to ruin it by stepping back abruptly, her hands coming up to cover the massive yawn that overtook. The spell shattered, and he snickered. "Wow, I didn't realize my company was so boring."

Devon's voice came out muffled through her palm. "Blame the six-hour flight." But when she finally lowered her hand, her cheeks were pink and she hurried to the passenger seat of the rental car before he could say anything else. 

The drive to the memorial site was its own special brand of torture as Conrad went through all seven stages of grief in the car, dreading every interaction. He could already hear his father's poorly timed, crass jokes. 

And then there was Jeremiah. He'd left him a voicemail saying he couldn't be there or help with the speech, yet now here he was, backtracking like the hypocrite he was. His brother would probably accuse him of wriggling out of commitment again and dodging the hard work. Typical Conrad, never wanting to take responsibility. That's what they all likely thought of him. 

Steven would be there, too, and Conrad would be glad to see him alive and well with his own eyes. But the days of their easy camaraderie were long gone, and he was more Jeremiah's friend anyway. Not that Conrad blamed him. Jere was easy to get along with for most people. He was easy and didn't drain people just by being around them like some dark cloud. His mother had always called him her sunshine boy. And besides, Steven was Belly's brother, and Conrad was the one who'd made it impossible to be anything but resented. 

It was laughable, really. In his pitiful attempt to get away from her, he'd lost everyone else, too. All roads led back to her because his friends and family weren't just his own; they were hers, too.

Naturally, he found himself missing California next in his spiral. At least there, he had a life. He had Agnes and her unapologetic honesty, and that random barista at the corner café who traded jokes with him every morning. He even missed his handful of other friends, all the people he'd gotten to know during his years at Stanford. He missed them all, even the strangers who barely knew his name but still knew him better than most of the people who were about to watch him walk into this memorial like a ghost come back to haunt them.

Conrad's eyes drifted from the road to the passenger seat, toward the one piece of California he'd somehow managed to smuggle across the country. His version of a keepsake was not sand in a bottle or a postcard, but a person currently dead to the world. 

Exhaustion had finally caught up with Devon, dragging her under mid-ramble about airport security being a lawless wasteland. Her head lolled to the side, mouth slack and breathing even, like a little reminder that maybe humanity wasn't entirely garbage. 

He wanted to wake her up, craving the distraction she'd no doubt provide, but he didn't have the heart to. The early morning light streamed harshly through the windshield, creeping toward her closed eyelids, and threatening to ruin the fragile peace she'd carved out in dreamland. With one hand still on the wheel, Conrad reached over and tugged down the sun visor, angling it just right to shield her. This way, he could almost pretend that made up for all the other ways he'd failed at being decent.

The memorial was oddly hopeful, which was not a word Conrad had expected to associate with the day. It was outdoors, the gardens sprawling and blooming as though the earth itself had decided to dress up for Susannah Fisher, and for once, he was grateful he'd wrestled with his doubts to come.

He and Devon stood at the very back, tucked away in the anonymity of the crowd. No one noticed him, which suited him just fine, allowing him to soak in the stories people shared about his mom without being judged for his reactions. They brought her back to life for a few precious seconds every time, and he even found himself smiling at some of them. 

When it was his brother's turn, he found himself pleasantly surprised. The speech was beautiful, threaded through with that charm only Jere could get away with. Conrad felt the breath knock out of him, not from envy exactly, but from the sharp, unexpected ache of longing. He had promised to take care of his little brother, but clearly, he didn't need him anymore. But god, Conrad still missed him, and watching him up there made him realize just how much of himself he'd lost in losing his brother.

When the formalities ended, the crowd broke apart, drifting toward the gardens, but his focus stayed locked on his brother, and when Jeremiah finally spotted him, the grin that broke across his face nearly undid him. It was their mother's grin, radiant and impossible not to return, and for the first time in a long time, Conrad thought maybe all hope was not lost. Maybe his brother didn't hate him for ditching him and then showing up shamelessly anyway. Maybe he was happy to see him. He certainly looked happy. 

Before Jeremiah could reach him, though, the rest of the family spotted him. Laurel pulled him into a hug, her voice a mixture of surprise and relief. "You're here. You made it."

"Yeah," Conrad mumbled. "Last-minute thing. Cleared my schedule. Took a red-eye."

When she finally let go, his dad stepped up, clapping him on the back with more force than necessary. "Well, I'll be damned. You didn't say a word."

He shrugged. "Didn't want to get anyone's hopes up. Figured if I said I was coming and then bailed, it'd be worse. So... surprise."

"That's my boy. out there saving lives but still has time for the family." And there it was, the first poorly delivered comment of the day. 

Instead of responding to the man, Conrad's eyes slid to his brother, whose smile had become brittle, and the two stood there awkwardly, suddenly unsure of how to act after years of distance. Finally, Conrad made the first move, reaching out and clasping Jeremiah's hand, their palms smacking together in a familiar grip before pulling each other into a hug.

"You crushed that speech," he muttered against his shoulder. 

Jeremiah pulled back with his grin restored. "Thanks, man."

Something in Conrad's chest eased at the casualness of it all. He had been bracing himself for cold shoulders, some smartass remark, and maybe even a public dressing-down, but this was not so bad. But then came the moment he had been dreading. 

Isabel Conklin stood there beside his brother, beautiful as she always had been. The sunlight caught in her hair, her dress made her look like she'd walked out of a magazine, and her smile could still knock the air out of a room. But Conrad felt absolutely nothing.

A small part of him had expected it, honestly. Christmas had been the first test, an entire day spent in her company, and not once had his stomach clenched or his heart twisted like it used to. 

Here it was again, that same blankness. No anger or resentment, though maybe some would have been warranted. But there was also no anticipation or ache to know what she'd been up to, what she was doing now, or if she was happy. Just nothing.

Then, of course, Adam decided to bless them all with his second irritating comment of the day. "Ah," he said, "I bet Connie's really glad to have his little sister around again."

Conrad wanted to roll his eyes so hard they'd get stuck in the back of his skull and he wouldn't have to witness the rest of this trainwreck, but instead he let out the awkward chuckle that had been simmering in him all morning. Before he could recover, Laurel chimed in, "Aren't you going to introduce us to your friend, Connie?"

Shit. He knew he was forgetting something important. Or rather, someone. 

Devon stood at the very edge of the circle with her arms folded, giving him space and trying not to intrude on the Fisher-Conklin reunion. She seemed to be scrutinizing all of them, and Conrad's ears burned hot with the realization that everyone was watching him now.

"Uh, yeah," he mumbled apologetically, "everyone, this is Devon."

Thankfully, Laurel swooped in before it could get too awkward. "It's so lovely to meet you," she declared kindly. "I've heard so much about you!"

Devon's trademark smirk was replaced with the polite expression she usually wore when trying to impress professors, but her eyes slid slyly to Conrad's with a promise that she would be absolutely teasing him about the nickname later. "I'm not sure what stories he's been spreading, but I hope he hasn't completely ruined my chance at a good first impression. 

Jeremiah spoke next, looking way too pleased at her arrival. "You mean to tell me my brother actually convinced someone to get on a plane with him? Incredible. Did he bribe you?"

Conrad shot him a look, but Devon only took it in stride. "Oh, totally. I was promised a tour of Cousins, but I'm still waiting for him to deliver."

Jeremiah looked momentarily stunned, nudging Conrad to whisper, "You never said you were bringing someone."

"Last minute," Conrad replied quickly. "Didn't think it'd matter."

Meanwhile, Belly hadn't said a word the entire time, watching Devon with an expression he couldn't decipher, but it looked startlingly close to disappointment and hurt, like in bringing a guest to his own mother's memorial, he'd somehow run over her dog or something. 

Then, of course, his dad had to make things worse by pretending to be a parent. "So Devon, was it," he began casually, "what exactly is it you do? Unlike Laurel here, I have heard nothing about you because my son has a tendency to keep me in the dark about his life. Are you studying to be a doctor, too?"

Devon smiled politely and shook her head. "I'm in a master's program at Stanford. Forensic Psychology."

"Sounds intense. So what's the plan? FBI? Profiling serial killers?"

"Uhm... not quite," she chuckled. "I want to continue into a PhD afterwards, but I'm more interested in working in criminal justice, particularly evaluations and rehabilitation."

"Well, well, a brain and a plan." Adam turned to Conrad with a grin that made his stomach plummet, and then came the wink. "A doctor for our doctor. Connie finally brought home someone halfway impressive. That's not usually his strong suit."

Fantastic, Conrad was going to have to dig a tunnel and live underground now. Maybe he'd even switch careers and pursue life as a mole. When he saw Jeremiah open his mouth, no doubt to add fuel to the fire, he tried to intercept him. "So," he said, turning to Belly with a level of casualness that fooled exactly no one, "how've you been?"

Belly's grin looked about as natural as a mannequin's. "Yeah, we've been great." And right on cue, her arm slid around his brother's. 

Conrad resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. He would have assumed that after four years, the PDA would have calmed down a little, but no reunion was complete without the two of them trying to prove to the world that their relationship was alive and nauseating. Besides, he'd asked Belly how she was doing, not how her relationship was doing. What an odd way to respond. 

He inhaled deeply, reminding himself of the plan. Zen. Today, he was Buddha, serenity in the face of chaos, untouchable.

Except Conrad Fisher was not, in fact, Buddha. He was a little petty—okay, a lot petty—which explained why, before his brain could stop him, his hand moved entirely of its own accord and straight into Devon's. 

She was mid-conversation with Steven, animatedly debating the merits of Criminal Minds reruns, when his fingers wrapped around hers. For half a second, he expected her to swat him away and ask him why the hell he was acting like a lunatic. Hell, he was asking himself the same thing. But she didn't even flinch, carrying on her conversation while simultaneously letting him hold her hand, lending him comfort on a difficult day. 

When Steven finally walked off with the parents, she glanced at Conrad with a questioning look, as if to ask him if he was alright, and he felt like an asshole. Because no, she wasn't his date, no matter how much he desperately wished she was. She was his best friend, and he was trying to drag her into some half-baked scheme for petty revenge against his brother and his ex. 

But then he saw their expressions. Jere looked relieved, like he'd been waiting for this moment, while Belly's polite smile slid off her face completely, her eyes darting between their joined hands to Conrad's face, as if trying to decipher his thoughts. 

Just like that, Conrad's guilt evaporated. Even enlightened monks had bad days, and he had never been the most rational person to begin with. The adrenaline of the moment made him bolder, and instead of letting go, he shifted his grip so their fingers laced together, his thumb brushing lightly over Devon's knuckles. 

This time, she flinched imperceptibly, but thankfully didn't pull away, and Belly's composure cracked for a moment, her lips pressing thin and her spine stiffening. Jeremiah, on the other hand, looked like Christmas had come early, clapping his brother's shoulder and murmuring in his ear, "About damn time, man."

Then they were gone, leaving Conrad alone to face the consequences of his reckless actions, and Devon whirled on him immediately. "You're acting weird." 

"Am I?" he shot back with faux innocence.

"Yes." She glanced at their still entwined fingers, then back to his face. "But I'm too tired to ask why." 

Her hand lingered a moment too long before she pulled it away, and he missed its warmth immediately. Usually, he could read her like an open book, but today it was impossible. She looked uncharacteristically guarded, or maybe he was just imagining it, but it made his chest tighten in a decidedly unhelpful way. He wanted everything—her thoughts on his brother, on his family, hell, even the dreaded ex. He wanted to hear her spill them unabashedly liek she always did, but for a girl who was usually so unfiltered, right now she seemed to have activated Fort Knox-level defences.

"Going somewhere?" he asked when she turned away.

"I should go home," she responded evasively. "My dad will be expecting me."

Conrad stepped closer to gently take her hand. "You heard Laurel earlier. She insisted you join us, and I'm pretty sure she won't let me in if I don't bring you along. Plus, I'm supposed to be your ride back."

"I don't want to impose on you and your family." She was still avoiding eye contact. "I'll be fine, really."

He forced himself to bite back a sarcastic retort about how fine always meant internally screaming. Instead, he squeezed her hand again, hard enough to anchor her. "Didn't you hear what my brother said in his speech?" He lowered his voice, trying to balance casual and earnest. "Mom always believed that anyone you loved was family. By her definition, you're family already."

It was the closest thing to a confession he could manage right now, and when her hand twitched in his, it was all the encouragement he needed. "And besides," he added with a sly grin, "you owe me one awkward family dinner. Remember? The Watson I know never goes back on her word. I need my emotional support behavioural analyst."

"Referencing Criminal Minds is not going to earn you any points right now," Devon scoffed. 

"Oh, I'm being scored now? I'll have to up my game."

"God, shut up!" She laughed, and the sound made him want to pull her into a hug right there.

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

Devon knew, with the kind of grim certainty usually reserved for death and taxes, that her favours would always come back to bite her squarely in the ass, and today was the proof.

Last year, she'd dragged Conrad to her graduation lunch to act as a buffer, and now he was doing the same, using her as a human shield. And to top it all off, her left hand was on fire. At the restaurant, while Mr Fisher and Laurel figured out their reservation details, Devon eyed the nearby wine display longingly. The bottles sat in buckets of ice, frosty and serene, while her hand pulsed like it had been stung by a jellyfish. Maybe when she got home, she'd dunk it in an ice bath or liquid nitrogen. 

Or maybe she was having an allergic reaction. Yes, that had to be it. She was breaking out in hives because Conrad had dared to hold her hand.

It wasn't just any hold, either, not a casual handshake, or a friendly high five. Not even the dramatic Regency-era grip he broke out whenever she forced him to binge-watch period dramas with her. No, this had been different, intentional and dangerous. He'd slipped his fingers between hers like it was the most natural thing in the world, their hands fitting like puzzle pieces clicking into place. 

Now, her skin was staging a rebellion, and her heart was pounding like a bad garage band, but she was determined not to read too much into it. Obviously, the guy was going through it—back in this town, this house, this grief-soaked environment where his mother's memory lingered in every rock, every grain of sand, and every blade of grass. People in mourning did strange things. They clung, they reached, they needed comfort, and as his best friend, she was obligated to provide that comfort. 

While they waited in the restaurant lobby, Devon's phone started buzzing like it was possessed, and she didn't even need to look to know it was her sister. She should've broken the news earlier that she was in Cousins, staying with their father for the summer, but Devon had been a coward and waited until five minutes ago to send that little bombshell. Now Dakota was unleashing hell with a dozen angry texts, three missed video calls, and passive-aggressive emojis, because no one held a grudge like she did. 

When Conrad grabbed her hand again and squeezed her fingers, Devon's brain short-circuited, but against her better judgment, she squeezed back.

"What's wrong?" he asked, peering into her face in an attempt to decipher her thoughts. 

"Nothing's wrong."

"You look like you want to dunk your head into the nearest ice bucket, which, to be fair, I relate to."

She arched a brow and gave him an impressed once-over. "Close, but no."

"Then what's wrong?"

"My sister is threatening to disown me."

That didn't alarm him nearly as much as it should have, and his lips twitched with amusement. "We'll match then."

"Your brother has not disowned you."

"Yet," Conrad corrected, glancing over to where Jeremiah and Isabel were standing. "I'm sure he's still debating it."

She rolled her eyes and returned to pleading her case with her sister, trying to convince her that their stepmother wasn't going to sell her organs on the black market or abandon her in the woods to be eaten by a forest witch. She was pretty sure Cousins didn't even have a forest. 

But the thing about Dakota was that logic slid right off her like water off a duck's back. A duck armed with a machete and a lifetime's worth of resentment. The fact that Devon, of all people, had to play devil's advocate for their father said enough. While she was skeptical at best about his renewed efforts to reconnect, her sister had taken his olive branch, set it on fire, and tossed it back in his face. It probably helped that Dakota didn't have memories of him to screw with her judgment, leaving her the luxury of pure, unfiltered contempt.

By the time they were all led to their seats, Devon's notifications had calmed down, and Conrad's family was no longer interested in grilling her, which meant she could put her interrogation notes away. Nonetheless, she pitied him because he appeared as much an outsider to his own family's event as she did. 

Every now and then, he would glance between Steven and Jeremiah as if waiting for the right moment to jump in, but each time the topic pivoted before he could open his mouth. It was painful to watch, like seeing someone chase a departing bus over and over again, and Devon could do nothing but fold her hands neatly in her lap, wearing what her friends infamously dubbed her "lobotomy half-smile." 

It was her go-to when she needed to look approachable but not accidentally scathing, a face that told people she was having nothing but pleasant, wholesome, nonjudgmental thoughts. However, in truth, she was silently running diagnostics on everyone at the table, trying to match Conrad's late-night stories with their actual behaviour. 

Once the orders were placed and the menus whisked away, Steven leaned toward Conrad with the gleam of someone about to stir the pot. "So why don't you ever leave California, Fisher?"

Conrad shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, I'm here now."

"Yeah, for the first time in how many years again?"

"Yeah... something like that." He looked cornered, and Devon resisted the urge to slide him a note under the table asking him if he wanted her to draft an emergency exit strategy. 

Meanwhile, Steven chuckled, then went in for the kill. "So you got a girl—ow!" The table jolted slightly as Jeremiah kicked him under it, the two boys glaring at each other. 

Then Jeremiah turned smoothly toward Devon. "How long are you in Cousins for, by the way?"

She smoothed her expression and locked her smile in place. "Oh, uh... couple of weeks." Long enough to regret her life choices, short enough to hopefully avoid permanent damage.

"Perfect. You should have Conrad show you around. He's basically a pro—knows all the cool spots, the beaches, secret hangouts. Way better than a guidebook." Jeremiah leaned back in his chair, grinning like he'd just remembered the juiciest secret. Devon already didn't trust it. Nothing good came from expressions like that.

He glanced deliberately at Conrad as he said it, like it was some private joke she wasn't in on, and she wondered if she was about to be roped into some elaborate Cousins tourist trap. 

"Oh... well, that sounds... nice," she managed. 

"Yeah, you'd love it. He's got all the insider knowledge, right, Connie?"

Conrad, looking about as enthusiastic as a man being asked to recite the alphabet backwards during a DUI stop, mumbled, "I guess."

Now she was really lost. Wasn't this his town? Why was he acting like his brother just suggested they go pick out matching tattoos?

"Make sure he takes you to the boardwalk at night, too. It's, like, his favourite, and romantic as hell." 

Devon nearly choked on her water, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught Isabel shifting in her seat, her face tightening like she'd just sucked on a lemon. All of a sudden, it didn't feel like a travel itinerary, but rather some weird sibling triangle soap opera situation she absolutely did not want to be drafted into.

Apparently, Steven was unaware of whatever inside joke the Fisher brothers had going because he spoke up next. "You know what else you should do while you're here? Hit up the old movie theatre downtown. They run those summer midnight showings, and it's kind of a Cousins tradition."

"Yeah! I forgot about that." Jeremiah's grin doubled in size, wide enough to sell toothpaste. "Also, there's the pier. Go at sunset, it's the best view in town. Way better than the tourist spots."

"And the lighthouse trail!" Steven added. "Conrad dragged us all up there once. Total death march, but worth it."

"There's also that little café on Main Street, the one with the cinnamon rolls the size of your head. You like cinnamon rolls, don't you, Devon?" Jeremiah asked. 

She shrugged. "Sure."

"Then you'll love it!"

Devon's eyes wandered around the table, and for the first time all evening, her eyes met Isabel's. The girl hesitated briefly, like she was debating whether or not to allow herself to offer solidarity, but then gave a tentative smile while her boyfriend prattled on. Devon returned her smile, but a part of her still felt like she was trapped in a sitcom where everyone else had the script but her.

Next to her, Conrad tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention, then took a slow sip of his wine.

"Oh, look, Conrad's getting wasted," Jeremiah snickered. "Now it's a party."

Before he could keep needling, Laurel mercifully swooped in, lifting her glass gracefully. "Well, before everyone gets sloppy, Adam and I wanted to make a toast."

She barely got the words out before Mr. Fisher barged in, cutting her off mid-syllable. "Yes, let me kick it off by saying thank you, Laurel, for that gorgeous event."

Laurel's mouth snapped shut, her lips thinning to a razor's edge before she stretched them into a smile so tight it could've rivalled Devon's. A live demonstration of female rage suppression. Of course, a man who cheated on his dying wife would have no qualms about steamrolling someone mid-sentence. A true Renaissance depiction of audacity.

Adam Fisher was giving Devon's own father a run for his money. She could barely even imagine the two of them in a room together, two black holes of ego, collapsing in on themselves, creating a supernova of unbearable mansplaining. No one would survive, and she'd rather stick her head in a blender.

As Mr. Fisher droned on, Devon tuned him out entirely, nodding along while her brain drifted off into scenarios of aneurysm-inducing collisions. The toasts blurred together, a polite white noise of Laurel's sweet wisdom, and Mr. Fisher's 'my child is better than yours' Olympics. 

Then came the most painful toast of all. "And let's not forget Jeremiah, our super senior," Mr. Fisher drawled. "Fingers crossed, only one more semester till the diploma, and then I guess, we'll see."

Conrad flinched imperceptibly while everyone else at the table turned their pity-lanterns toward his brother, who muttered an awkward, "Thanks, Dad."

While Devon held no affection for the guy, even she could admit it was a cheap shot. She knew what it meant to be snubbed by someone who was supposed to be in your corner, to have the one person who owed you unconditional loyalty look at you and think you weren't worth any effort.

Just them, the air shifted, and Isabel flew in to his defence. "Jere actually has really big plans for his future, too." A look of determination passed between the couple, and they both nodded. 

Devon's eyebrows shot up. This was where they either announced a pregnancy or told everyone Jeremiah won the lottery and planned to blow it all on a chain of artisanal hotdog stands. Only something outrageous and a little foolish warranted an expression like the one they were wearing. 

"He and I... I should say," Isabel continued. "We're getting married in August."

Steven, Laurel, and Mr. Fisher chuckled in disbelief, looking like they'd just been told Jeremiah and Isabel were joining a circus, and as much as Devon loathed Conrad's dad with the fire of a thousand suns, his expression—a mixture of bafflement, irritation, and are you serious right now—was a perfect depiction of her own thoughts. He just had the audacity to wear them in public.

The table exploded immediately, voices colliding in waves as the parents demanded if it was a joke, while the couple insisted it wasn't. Everyone layered over each other until it was just a cacophony of overstimulation, but Devon barely heard any of it because beside her, Conrad had gone rigid. 

He looked like someone had reached into his chest and wrenched out his still-beating heart, his lashes doing that fluttery thing which was his body's tell for when he was deciding whether to lash out or crumble. 

Without thinking, she reached under the table, her hand brushing his, but he flinched away from her like her touch burned, tucking his hand in his blazer pocket firmly. She tried not to dwell on how much the action stung, and it was made easier by Mr. Fisher's loud hiss as he declared, "Obviously, she's pregnant."

Laurel nearly dropped her glass as she glared sharply at Isabel. "Are you pregnant? How many times did we discuss contraception?"

"I am not pregnant!" Isabel's face flamed scarlet, and heads turned from surrounding tables to watch the commotion with interest. Nothing like free lunch entertainment to go with your buttered lobster. "I'm marrying him because I love him!" she went on vehemently. "And because he's my family. I mean, that's what Susannah always said, right? Family is the most important thing?"

The air thickened, and Devon's eyes flew to Conrad, just in time to watch him crumple without moving an inch. He glanced between Isabel and Jeremiah with heartbreak so raw it was almost indecent. He looked like they had run him over with a car... then thrown a dance party at his funeral.

Oh.

Something in Devon's brain clicked so loudly she was sure everyone at the table heard it too—an audible crack echoing from her ribs.

Conrad Fisher was still in love with Isabel Conklin. That was the betrayal carved on his face. Not just that his brother was marrying the girl, but that the girl was standing against her whole family for it. The two people he had trusted most were now partners in the crime they'd committed against him, sealing the deal with wedding bands and registry lists at Bed Bath & Beyond.

Steven turned to Conrad, outraged, his voice cutting through the clamour. "Wait, did you know about this?"

"No." The response was flat and glum, as if dragged out against his will.

What followed was a lot more shouting, finger-pointing, and lectures about readiness and responsibility, until the happy couple stormed out in tandem, Laurel and Mr. Fisher chasing after them, and Steven trailing behind like a one-man Greek chorus of disbelief.

But Conrad remained in his chair, staring mournfully at the seafood tower a server had wheeled in at exactly the wrong time. Lobster tails and oysters glistened under the restaurant lights, a cruel mockery of celebration.

When he finally dragged himself outside, Devon drifted after him like an afterthought, both of them emerging just in time to see everyone's cars pulling out of the parking lot, leaving nothing but dust and a bitter emptiness behind. She felt a surge of indignation on his behalf. His family hadn't even paused to check on him—not to ask if he'd make it home, or where he was staying, or how long he was even in Cousins for. 

With a disgruntled sigh, she fished the car keys out of the pocket of Conrad's suit jacket and maneuvered him to the passenger side of his car, ushering him inside carefully. He moved on autopilot, and Devon put in the address to his beach house on her phone, trying to make sense of a route she'd never driven.

The ride itself was silent, laced with unspoken words and fractured glances. Devon's fists clenched the steering wheel a little too tightly, her myriad of rings biting into her fingers to provide some physical distraction, but every time she looked at Conrad, one thing was painfully clear. He was still hung up on his ex, and no one else even stood a chance.

It almost made her breathe a sigh of relief. How many times had she almost slipped up and confessed? How many times had she come this close to total, utter humiliation? He was a sweet guy, so he would've let her down easy, and then she'd never be able to face him again. She'd have lost her best friend in the process, so she was glad she'd come here with him. She was glad she'd witnessed the chaos, heartbreak, and absurdity of it all, and in some ways, she told herself, she was okay with it.

Well, not really. Conrad deserved someone who returned his feelings, someone who didn't make him doubt himself, but that was the only reason she was upset. She wasn't jealous or greedy—she was simply upset on his behalf. Nothing more.

Her knuckles whitened against the wheel, but she kept her eyes on the road, her mind racing with all the messy, irritating thoughts she refused to let escape. And maybe she was being a bit of a selfish bitch, but in her not-so-expert opinion, her best friend deserved better, but also, it's not like she could ever be that person because she wasn't better, she was probably worse for him. 

Suddenly, Devon had the intense desire to consume an entire tub of ice cream and call Maeve, even if it was just to tell her that all those stupid little signs she'd been pointing out in Conrad over the past four years had been utterly, completely wrong. She certainly didn't want to go live in her father's house for the next few weeks and entertain her little brothers while pretending to be happy. But she'd made promises, and she was someone who kept them, even if they brought her nothing but misery. 

When she pulled into the driveway of Conrad's place, she paused for several long moments. Evening was creeping in, and the headlights cut a swath across the sand-dusted driveway, illuminating the quiet expanse of the house. "Are you going to be okay?" she asked cautiously, breaking the silence. "Is it safe to leave you by yourself? Or do you want to come home with me?"

Conrad blinked at her, escaping slightly from whatever fog he'd been trapped in. He muttered under his breath, half aware, "Sorry... I was supposed to be your ride home... let me just..."

Devon shook her head, cutting him off gently. "No thanks. I don't really trust you not to drive yourself off a bridge or something right now. You should just try and get some sleep." 

She expected him to argue or protest like he usually did, but he didn't. He just nodded to himself, staring vacantly straight ahead.

"Call me if you need anything," she said at last, getting out to haul her carry-on out of the trunk. Thank God she'd packed light, because the walk to her dad's place was at least forty-five minutes. Plenty of time to contemplate her existence and find humour in how the universe kept reminding her just how helpless she was in the face of someone else's heart. Forget being second choice—she didn't even make the list. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

It had taken Conrad three whole days to scrounge together the illusion of a functioning human being. Three days of staring at the ceiling and feeling his insides twist like he'd swallowed barbed wire, festering in the remnants of what should have been a day about remembering his mother.

Mostly, he was just angry because who in their right mind thought announcing an engagement at someone's memorial was a good idea? It was the emotional equivalent of proposing at someone else's wedding—tacky, tone-deaf, and hijacking a day that wasn't yours to claim.

He'd dragged himself across the country—against his better judgment, against every instinct screaming at him not to come back—just for one day. One day to be with what was left of his family and remember the only woman who had ever held them together like glue.

He blamed his father most of all. What even was that graduation jab at Jere? Plenty of people graduated late, and it wasn't a mark of shame, but of course, Adam Fisher had to find a way to twist a knife at his own kid in a roomful of people. Ruining his wife's events was basically the man's brand. Made sense, really. A husband who'd made Susannah miserable in life—why stop there? Why not poison the one day that was supposed to be about honouring her memory?

Then there was Belly. Conrad understood her desire to defend Jeremiah, but out of all the ways to do it, she had to choose the nuclear option. She could have claimed he'd started tutoring or volunteering at the animal shelter to get his priorities in check, or literally anything that didn't turn the dinner table into a cage match with an audience while everyone watched like they were zoo animals.

Nothing screamed 'mature adult ready for marriage' like an impromptu engagement with a wedding in two months—August, really?—when they hadn't even finished their bachelor's degrees.

And because Conrad Fisher was a dweller and his brain loved replaying the worst reels of his life on loop, he couldn't stop thinking about Belly's outburst at his mom's funeral. About how she basically told him to go to hell, all because he'd had the audacity to have a panic attack, and the only person there to ground him in that moment happened to be his ex.

If he had a penny for every time Isabel Conklin turned one of his mother's events into a train wreck of humiliation, he'd have two pennies, which was way too many, considering the woman was dead.

Eventually, though, he managed to put aside his grievances and drag himself to Devon's doorstep, armed with his mother's hydrangeas to apologize.

What was he apologizing for, exactly? The list was long enough to merit its own scroll. For dragging her into the family circus and making her drive him home while he sulked in the passenger seat like a toddler fresh from a timeout. And for the fact that she then had to walk herself home in the dark because, apparently, he'd given her the impression he might drive into a tree if left unsupervised.

Real gentlemanly of him. If there was an award for most pathetic excuse of a friend, Conrad's acceptance speech was ready.

When he rang her doorbell, her stepmother answered with a cheerful smile. "Oh hey, it's Conrad," she said brightly, as if he wasn't a chronic disappointment standing on her welcome mat. "Are you here to see Devon?"

When he nodded, she waved him into the living room, where Devon sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the couch with a video game controller in hand. Her brother Jasper held the other one, concentrating on a game of Mario Kart, while Oliver was draped half over the couch and half over Devon's shoulders like a backpack, shrieking encouragement in her ear.

"You're going to make me deaf, Ollie," Devon muttered, pressing her finger against his lips. When the kid responded by biting her finger, she simply sighed and turned her eyes back to the screen, oblivious of Conrad's presence until her stepmother cleared her throat pointedly. 

When she finally looked at him, the easy, carefree look she'd worn a second ago snapped shut, replaced by something cool and guarded.

"Hey," Conrad managed awkwardly.

Devon didn't respond, but she didn't avert her gaze either, until Jasper kicked her shoulder from his position on the couch, exclaiming, "Stop looking away, you're gonna lose!"

"You guys continue without me." She handed the controller to Oliver and pried him off her back, taking the flowers from Conrad to place them in a nearby vase. "Nice flowers," she told him with a trace of surprise that softened her expression.  

"I—They're for you."

"I surmised that much."

"Right..." Conrad shoved his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to crack some joke about being the reigning champion of bad decisions, because she already knew that better than anyone. She was being short with him, which meant he had indeed upset her. 

After what felt like the longest staring contest of his life, Devon finally jerked her head toward the stairs. "Come on, then. You're clearly itching to talk." 

Conrad trailed after her dutifully, and by the time they reached her room, he'd already drafted three escape plans. When she gestured toward the swivel chair at her desk, he lowered himself onto it as if it were a witness stand, while she remained standing, arms folded, hip cocked—the very picture of an interrogator, but thankfully she broke the silence first. "So... how are you feeling?"

That was Devon, concerned for his well-being, even when she had every right to toss him out on the curb. But her expression stayed guarded, a new distance widening between them like she'd built a wall overnight.

"I'm sorry, by the way," Conrad said, the words scraping out of him. "I owe you an explanation."

She didn't look relieved. If anything, she seemed even more deflated, her shoulders giving a little shrug as if his apology were too heavy to bother carrying. "You really don't. You're entitled to your feelings, dude. I get it. Yesterday was a lot."

"Yeah, it was," he admitted, shifting on the chair. "But I... I was doing that thing where I shut down when I'm upset and completely disregard the feelings of the people around me." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, wincing. "I'm sorry I left you stranded with no ride home."

If apologies were supposed to make things better, he must've been doing it wrong, because she looked even more miserable. "Is that why you're sorry?" she asked softly.

The question felt like a trap. What else was he supposed to say? No, actually, I'm sorry for the entire sum of my existence. "Yeah," he muttered after a beat, hesitant and unconvincing.

Devon sighed, the sound threaded with resignation, like she'd already given up on something he hadn't even figured out yet. "It's fine, you know I enjoy a good walk. Helps clear my head."

"Because hauling your suitcase down a dark road is obviously very therapeutic."

"Shut up, Fisher." But her words contained no real bite, so maybe she was thawing. 

Conrad scrutinized the floor as if it might spell out the words he was fumbling for. He didn't fully know why he acted the way he did—half the time, he wasn't sure he understood himself at all—but if there was one tenet to his and Devon's friendship, it was honesty. Brutal, unvarnished honesty. If he couldn't do that with her, then what was the point?

"It's my brother," he said finally. "I wish he'd told me first. That's what hurt the most, I think. I know we've kept our distance, but this is... this is the most important decision of his life, and I wish I'd heard it from him. I wish he'd trusted me enough."

"Oh."

He found himself digging his nails absently into the skin of his arm, needing the sting to ground him. "It's like—okay, if you were planning to get married, who's the first person you'd tell?"

Devon wrinkled her nose. "Willingly bind myself to a man and take part in a historically patriarchal ritual? No thanks."

Conrad rolled his eyes, some of his frustration softening at her theatrics. "Humour me, Watson."

"No," she insisted stubbornly, almost uncharacteristically so. "I'd rather not jinx myself with such unsavoury hypotheticals."

"Fine," he muttered. "If you're determined to give me a hard time, say your sister was getting married. Who would she tell first?"

"Me. Duh."

"Exactly. I wanted to be that for Jere," Conrad explained. "God, I've gone and bungled it, haven't I? If he can't tell me about the most important milestones in his life, then what even are we anymore? What if I've pushed him so far away that we can never go back? I'm his brother. I want to be his brother."

Devon's expression shifted then, something unsaid lingering on the tip of her tongue.

"What?" he snapped, then hated himself for it immediately.

"You didn't tell your brother about your graduation," she pointed out. "You didn't invite him. Didn't you say he found out through Laurel?"

Conrad's jaw clenched, a scoff tearing out of him before he could stop it. "Are you seriously blaming me right now? You know what he did. You know why I didn't."

"No, Jesus, I'm not blaming you, chill." Devon massaged her temples slowly, as if just being in the same vicinity as him was giving her a headache. When she spoke again, her voice was cautious. "I'm not blaming you, but I am saying communication is a two-way street. If you want your brother to rely on you more, to tell you things, then maybe you have to start that conversation. Obviously, you don't have to forgive him for the pain he's caused. You don't owe anyone that, and if you want to cut him off forever, that's your choice."

"I don't—"

"I know you don't," she interrupted. "Clearly, you seem like you want to fix things, but the start to that isn't waiting for him to bridge the gap. It's you telling him the truth. Tell him he hurt you. Tell him how you felt. Tell him you're still mad, if that's the case, and give him the chance to apologize. Or tell him you've forgiven him and want to be more involved in his life. Whatever it is, he won't know unless you say it."

It was so simple when she put it that way. So painfully obvious, and yet it felt like the hardest thing in the world, but Conrad's mouth pulled into a flat, sullen line. "He's never once apologized."

Devon groaned and flopped onto her bed, her head tipping toward him so she still had him in her line of vision. "I know. God, it's so fucking annoying, but as the older sibling, we have to get the ball rolling. Younger siblings can be idiots, but they're kids, and for some reason, they're always waiting for us to start something so they can follow suit. And I'm not telling you to apologize to him," she added firmly. "I'm telling you to let him know that if he does want to apologize, that door's open. Sometimes we think we're so far past the point of no return that there's no going back, but really, we just need someone to hold our hand and guide us back to it. If you want to be there for your brother, you're going to have to at least hold out your hand. Whether or not he takes it is up to him."

Conrad let her words wash over him, hating how right she was. As a kid, Jeremiah used to hang onto his every word, copying his phrases and wanting to be wherever he was. It drove him crazy, but his mom would just tell him that his brother simply wanted to be his friend, that he looked up to him. 

He'd sworn to take care of Jere, and then delivered on that promise by running away. First, because he was so furious he couldn't stand to see his face, and then later because staying away seemed safer for everyone. If he weren't around, Jeremiah wouldn't feel threatened about Belly, wouldn't carry any weird paranoid notion about Conrad stealing her back. Except, in staying away, he'd drifted so far that now they were practically strangers.

The thought of his little brother planning a proposal, buying a ring, and working through one of the biggest decisions of his life by himself with no guidance made him ill. God, how lonely must that have been. 

Conrad's eyes shifted unconsciously to Devon, still sprawled across the bed, now staring at her ceiling to deliberately give him privacy to stew. If it were him—if he were the one planning a proposal—he knew he'd want his brother's support. 

When he found his voice, it came out quieter than he meant it to, almost hesitant. "Wow... that was..."

Devon's gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling. "Yeah, I know. Revolutionary. Communication."

He huffed, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck, embarrassed but not annoyed. "Shut up." After a beat, he pushed himself up from the swivel chair and crossed the room, sinking onto the edge of her bed beside her. "But... thank you."

"Is that all that's upsetting you?"

"Yes?" He nodded. "I mean, it was also kind of weird seeing everyone move on and get a life, you know. Like growing up, getting married, and starting families. It feels like such an adult thing."

"Conrad, you're an adult," Devon snorted. "You were the adult-iest adult there."

"It doesn't feel that way," Conrad admitted, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. "Sometimes I feel like I'm still seventeen years old and my mom's dying and there's nothing I can do to stop it. No matter how much I wish I could stop time, I never can. So to watch everyone move on while I'm still... I'm still stuck... I don't know how to get over it." Shit, he was rambling again, throwing his one-man pity party. 

"I'm sorry," Devon mumbled. "I wish there was something I could do to make it better."

He gave her his most placating smile. "You already do. More than you know."

Devon's brow pinched in response, a little crease forming between her eyes, and before he could even think better of it, he reached out, his thumb brushing over the spot and dragging upward to smooth it away. "You're going to get wrinkles," he murmured.

"Aging is a privilege."

"Not premature aging."

"Shut up, Dr. Fisher." Her tone was light, but she had a melancholy look that he couldn't decipher. He thought they'd been clear with each other and found some footing again, but something unsaid lingered, and Devon, when it came to swallowing grievances, could've won the Nobel Prize.

Conrad stood abruptly, dusting his palms against his jeans briskly. "Okay, come on. We should start making a dent in Jere's sightseeing list."

"Sightseeing?"

"Yep. First stop, the best ice cream parlour in town. It was my mom's favourite place. You'll love it."

Before Devon could answer, there was a thundering down the hall, and her bedroom door burst open, her brothers storming in with eager voices. 

"Ice cream! Ice cream!"

"Can we come? Let's go, let's go, let's go!"

Jasper scrambled onto the bed, bouncing perilously close to Devon's ankles, while Oliver tugged insistently at Conrad's sleeve.

Devon groaned, pressing her palms into her face. "You two are supposed to knock."

"We heard someone say ice cream." Jasper grinned unrepentantly.

"Maybe I'm too tired to go."

"Nooo, please, please, please, pleeeease!" he begged, tugging at her wrist insistently, while Oliver joined him on the bed to yank her other arm. "Come on, Dee, you can't be too tired for ice cream. You love ice cream."

"I also love naps. And peace and quiet."

"None of those are as important as ice cream," Oliver insisted solemnly, pulling harder. "Pretty please with sprinkles on top!"

"With whipped cream!" his brother added.

"And a cherry!"

"And a waffle cone!"

Devon finally sat up, if only because they were about to dislocate her shoulders. "Fine, fine, let's go."

The boys cheered like they'd won a war, and Oliver latched onto her as they trooped downstairs, where they found Emma on the couch, immersed in some sitcom. She barely looked up when Devon cleared her throat. "Hey, Conrad and I are gonna take the boys out for ice cream. Is that okay?"

"Sure," her stepmother said dismissively, eyes glued to the television screen. "Just make sure to hold their hand if you cross any streets."

"Moooom," Jasper groaned, horrified. "I'm too big to be holding hands."

Oliver stuck his tongue out at him, still swinging off Devon's arm. "That's why I'm Mom's favourite. Because I listen."

"You are not Mom's favourite," Jasper retorted. 

"Am too."

"Are not."

"Am too, times infinity."

"That doesn't even make sense!" Jasper shouted, stomping into his sneakers.

Devon snorted, shaking her head. "You two done yet, or do we need to settle this with a blood oath?"

"I would win a blood oath," Oliver declared. 

"Because you're short?" His brother snickered, which made him elbow him in the ribs and run circles around him. 

"Shorter makes me faster!"

Devon smirked sideways at Conrad, laughing at his startled expression. "If you think they're crazy now, just wait till they get sugar in them."

The bell above the ice cream parlour door chimed as Conrad pushed it open, and the familiar smell hit him—sugar, vanilla, the faint tang of waffle cones baking fresh in the back. For a moment, he froze, because the place hadn't changed at all. It had the same pastel-striped booths, the same wall of framed photos of the family who owned it, and the same front counter that had been wiped down a thousand times but never quite lost its shine.

Oliver bolted to the glass case and pressed his face against it, gasping dramatically at the endless choices, while Jasper trailed after him, and Devon slid into a nearby booth with an exhausted sigh like she'd already aged five years babysitting them.\

"Dee, they have bubblegum flavour!" Oliver exclaimed, bouncing on his toes.

"Get something you'll actually finish, kiddo," Devon muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Don't be weird and experimental."

Conrad shook his head, grinning at the rambunctious boy. "You should absolutely be experimental. Go ahead, pick whatever you want."

Devon stood from her seat instantly. "Oh no, you don't have to..."

He gently pushed her back down. "Ice cream's on me. Consider it payback for your endless coffee runs." 

When he was satisfied that she wouldn't protest, he approached the front counter to place their orders, encouraging Devon's brothers to pick whatever outlandish combination they wanted. Devon herself seemed pleasantly surprised when he got her order right, a flicker of unabashed happiness banishing whatever dark cloud had been hanging over her all morning. 

It wasn't so bad, making new memories in old places. Maybe that's what his mom would've wanted—for this place to keep filling with laughter, even if it wasn't hers anymore. Her ghost still haunted him, but it was more as a gentle reminder that he was allowed to feel joy again, and that it wasn't an act of betrayal to do so. 

Glancing around, he remembered every memory vividly. Sitting at these very booths with his mom. How she would always order extra sprinkles for Belly even when she hadn't asked, how she'd tease Steven about always picking the most boring flavour, and how she'd share her cone with Jere when his melted too fast. Conrad had been so sure that stepping back inside would feel like reopening an old wound, but it didn't hurt the way he thought it would. 

Yes, it was strange being here without her, but it also felt like a tether to her. This was still Susannah's sanctuary, and just by sitting here, he felt more connected to her than anywhere else in the world. 

Suddenly, he felt a pang of regret so sharp it made his lungs burn. All the years he'd let bitterness and cowardice keep him away—away from Jere, away from her places, away from memories that didn't have to hurt—he'd wasted. He should have been here. He should have been making new memories and reminiscing about the old ones with the only person who shared that pain.

He shifted in his seat, glancing at Devon, and that was when it hit him. He wanted to come back. Not just this summer, but every summer, even if med school would make it impossible some years. He wanted to visit every beach, bakery, and restaurant his mom had loved. He wanted to walk into each place and whisper to her ghost: Hey, Mom. I'm doing okay. I'm surviving this. I wish you were here. I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't stop time.

Most of all, he wanted to do it with Devon. Stupidly, ridiculously, hopelessly, he wanted her. As always, the practical side of him—the side trained in self-restraint and the art of walking away from things he didn't deserve—reared its head. He hadn't even worked up the nerve to ask her out. He couldn't love her. He wasn't allowed to love her. But watching her lean over to steal a bite of Oliver's bubblegum-apple monstrosity, and laughing when he tried to do it back, Conrad knew he already did.

Maybe by the end of the summer, he'd work up the nerve. First, he'd work through the mess with Jere, fix the family fractures, and face the ways he'd failed him. Then, when August was over, and he finally felt like he'd earned a place beside her, he'd tell her what she meant to him.

In the meantime, this was his introduction. His way of showing her what his mom had loved, what he had loved, and what he wanted to keep loving. 

It was the only thing he'd felt truly sure of in years, and maybe that made all the chaos, all the heartbreak, and all the mistakes worth it. For once in his life, he wasn't running from anything; he was running toward it.

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

Devon had never known Conrad Fisher to be an outright liar. It wasn't his style. His particular brand of lying was more artisanal, and he specialized in omission, his truths loudest in the things he didn't say. She'd gotten good at deciphering his silences as if they were just another language, except for this particular instance. 

She could sit there and listen to him spill his guts about his brother, his father, the wreckage of what remained of his family—and she had, dutifully—but there was still a glaring blank spot where she knew something important should be. A reason he hadn't said out loud. Of course, he wouldn't explicitly tell her that he was still hung up on her ex. A guy could be your best friend in the entire world, but he was still a guy, and some things simply couldn't be said. This was one of them, Devon supposed. 

Regardless, she moved past it because that's what she did best—ignore things until they reared their ugly heads and bit her face off. Her therapist, if she had one, would probably call it denial, but Devon called it "pragmatism."

It had been two weeks since that fateful memorial lunch, two weeks since Conrad's big explanation, and she was determined to forget both. Her time in Cousins had been surprisingly pleasant, mostly because her brothers, in their infinite clinginess, refused to let her out of their sight. She'd endured sand in every possible shoe, had let Conrad drag her on his dutiful tour of Cousins, and today, for reasons she didn't fully understand, she'd said yes to his invitation to his house.

Not that he hadn't tried before. He had multiple times, but Devon had always found an excuse not to go, because self-preservation was a thing. It didn't seem healthy to put herself in proximity to the guy she liked while simultaneously making peace with the fact that he very obviously liked someone else. Luckily, she had a built-in chaperone squad thanks to her brothers, since they insisted on coming along to every hangout. 

Today, however, they had their own playdates, which meant it was just her and Conrad. From the moment he came to pick her up and through the drive to his beach house, she kept thinking about how easy it would be to just leap out of the car. She could even roll dramatically into a ditch, sprain an ankle for good measure, and call it a day. But no, that would've been dramatic, and Devon liked to think of herself as a rational person.

So she sat in the passenger seat and stared out at the blur of summer trees whipping past the window, feeling the tension coil somewhere deep in her chest. The air between them was relaxed enough, but there was a waiting quality to it, like the universe had cued up a soundtrack and forgotten to press play.

The Fisher House itself was a sight to behold. From the outside, it looked like it belonged in one of those home décor magazines her mom used to hoard on the coffee table, but the inside wasn't as sterile. No, everything here had been touched, lived in, and loved. A shrine to summers that refused to die, and every corner whispered memories. It was a house that still loved its ghosts.

Devon found herself pausing in front of a particularly pretty painting—one of those softly glowing, coastal scenes that made you ache for something you'd never had. "Wow," she breathed. "Your place is... nice."

Conrad chuckled, "Come on, wait till you see my room. I wanna show you my knot collection." Something about the way he said it, so casual and utterly innocent, just broke her composure, and she doubled over with laughter. It was official, all this overthinking was turning her insane. 

To his credit, he simply blinked at her, smiling in that confused way he did when he wasn't sure if he'd accidentally said something stupid. "What?"

"Nothing," Devon wheezed, covering her mouth because explaining would have been... yeah, no. Too much. Due to her sister's questionable taste in reading material and one wine-soaked night of being forced to learn about internet terminology, her ears were traumatized for life. Suffice to say, she could never hear the word knot again without losing her mind, but she certainly wasn't going to subject Conrad Fisher's innocent mind to such horror. 

He was still watching her, brow furrowed, but when she finally composed herself, he added, patient as ever, "It's 'cause I was big into sailing, you know. They're sailors' knots."

"Sailor's knots?" she snorted. "God, you're such a nerd."

He shoved her shoulder lightly. "You collect guitar picks and postcards. You're an even bigger nerd, Watson."

"Oh my god, speaking of—this place is, like, souvenir heaven. I can already imagine the postcards from Cousins. I'm gonna need an entire suitcase just for them."

He gave her a half-smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Weirdo." But the word came out affectionate, and then, almost absentmindedly, his fingers brushed against the sunflower pendant around her neck. "Oh, hey, you're wearing it."

"Don't think too much of it. It just felt like a sunflower kind of day." Devon wiggled her fingers in his direction, showing off her matching themed nails. "Emma's learning how to do manicures, and I was her guinea pig last night. She keeps going on and on about how happy she is that there's finally another girl around the house that I didn't have the heart to refuse."

"Didn't think yellow was your colour, though?" Conrad pointed out

Devon elbowed him. "Asshole."

"I'm kidding," he chuckled, his demeanour softening. "All colours are your colour."

There was an inexplicable ache underneath everything, and it made her want to forget every reason she shouldn't fall for him. It was stupid and pathetic, but his fingers lingered near her skin just a second too long, and it was already too late.

"Conrad, what the fuck?" The additional voice cracked through the room like a whip, and Devon nearly jumped out of her skin, spinning around so fast she collided with Conrad's shoulder.

On the couch behind them sat Isabel Conklin and Jeremiah Fisher, blinking at them like they'd just witnessed something scandalous. Jeremiah was instantly on his feet, his expression halfway between confusion and hurt. "Wait, why are you not in California? Have you been here this whole time? I've been calling you."

Conrad scratched the back of his neck uncertainly. "Uh... sorry, dude. I... I wasn't really ready to go back yet. I've been so nonstop that I just wanted to go offline for a bit."

His brother's shoulders sagged. "Right." He nodded, though the silence that followed felt like it could fill the whole house.

"But, it's good to see you." Conrad stepped forward to pull him into a hug, which Jeremiah returned a little stiffly. "So, uh..." he tried again when they pulled apart. "You guys just here for the weekend?"

Isabel cut in before Jeremiah could answer. "Actually, I was thinking of staying here for a while. We figured it'd be easier to plan the wedding from up here."

Devon felt rather than saw the shift in Conrad, the subtle tightening in his shoulders and the quick glance he sent the girl as if bracing for something painful. "Right, the wedding. You guys are really doing it, huh?"

Jeremiah grinned, oblivious or maybe pretending to be. "Yeah, it's happening."

"So, what, you guys just gonna be hanging out?" Conrad asked. 

"No, actually. I've got to be at work first thing Monday."

"Work?"

"Yeah, he's interning for your dad," Isabel explained. "And he's killing it." She reached out and squeezed her fiancé's hand, smiling up at him like he'd hung the moon.

Jeremiah chuckled, but there was tension beneath it. "It's going about as well as you'd expect." Then his attention turned toward Devon, who was trying to figure out how to make a quick getaway. "But, hey, you brought Devon."

She gave him a polite wave, which he returned with a blinding grin. 

"Hey, could I borrow my brother for a second?" he asked her. "I know you guys probably had plans, but I just need to talk to him."

Devon looked between them— at Conrad's faintly surprised expression, Jeremiah's pleading one—and shrugged. "Sure, yeah. Go ahead." She didn't want to come between whatever this was. Brotherly bonding, brotherly confrontation, either way, she wasn't trying to get caught up in the middle. 

"Alright, great!" Jeremiah clapped Conrad's shoulder as he disappeared down the hallway. "The waves are supposed to be great today. I'll change into my wetsuit and meet you out front in ten."

Meanwhile, Conrad suddenly looked a whole decade older than he had five minutes ago. Without acknowledging Isabel's lingering presence by the couch, his hand closed insistently around Devon's arm, his thumb pressing into the inside of her elbow as he pulled her toward the stairs. His expression was taut with concern. "Is that alright with you? I mean—"

She cut him off with a stern look. "Dude, it's fine. I'm pretty sure this conversation has been a long time coming. I'll just head home."

"You are not walking home again!"

"The weather's nice," she countered. "And I know the way now, so I won't get lost."

"You got lost last time?" Conrad looked aghast, like she'd just admitted to something deeply concerning.

"Only a little, but in my defence, it was dark and my Google Maps was experiencing an exorcism. I made it home in one piece, don't worry."

Something flickered behind his eyes then, an odd mixture of pain, guilt, and something else she couldn't name, before he pitched forward suddenly, his forehead coming to rest against her shoulder.

Devon froze instantly, every nerve in her body flaring awake. She could feel his breath ghosting through the fabric of her shirt, and she resisted the urge to jump out of her skin. He'd been doing this a lot lately, finding reasons to touch her. A brush of his fingers against her wrist when he passed her something, a hand pressed lightly to her back when they crossed the street, a thumb grazing the edge of her jaw when he thought she wasn't looking. He'd always been a gentle and affectionate friend, but this felt different, deliberate somehow. 

"What am I going to do with you?" he murmured into her shoulder.

Devon snorted, trying to ease the tension that had coiled between them like a live wire. "Nothing. You're not my babysitter. I'll make it home alright."

"Don't go. Just stay here. Hang out until I come back. Moral support, you know. I might need a shoulder to cry on if my brother eviscerates me too badly."

"Is that what you're doing right now? Pregaming the 'shoulder to cry on' routine?"

Conrad pulled back, sheepish but still far too close, his face just a breath away. "No, but seriously, stay. We can do something after."

"I actually have plans for after."

"Plans?" His brow furrowed, almost offended. "What plans?"

"I've been invited to a... party, I think? Who knows?"

"I thought I was your only guide to Cousins. Who's sneaking you to parties?" Now he definitely sounded odd. 

"There's no sneaking to be done," she replied with a smirk. "At my biblical age, I'm being set up on playdates by my dad. He might be the only father in the universe encouraging his daughter to stay up till ungodly hours fraternizing with drunk people. So yeah, fun stuff."

Conrad still looked unconvinced, the slight tick in his jaw only visible because of their proximity. "I'll come with you," he said finally.

"What, no way!"

"Nope, it's settled. I'll come too."

"Dude, you are not my babysitter, remember? Surely you've got better things to do than be my chaperone."

"Yeah, well, I want to." He shrugged stubbornly, voice firmer this time. "Besides, I haven't been to a party in forever. If anything, you'll have to be my chaperone."

"Now that just screams attachment issues, dude, you should get that checked out." 

"Wow, pot meet kettle," Conrad mimicked her tone with an exaggerated drawl. " You forget that I'm also your official Cousins tour guide. You can't fire me from my very hard-earned position." There was an unspoken plea etched into his face. "Please, come on, it'll be fun."

Devon rolled her eyes at his antics. "God, you're such a menace. Fine. Sure. Tag along."

That seemed to be all the permission he needed, and his hand found hers again, tugging her lightly toward the stairs. "Come on then, we'll go after I talk to Jere—"

"Wait!" she yelped, digging her heels into the ground until he released her. "Don't you have to change first to go surfing or whatever with your brother?"

Conrad gave her a blank look. "Yeah, so?"

"So... I'm not trying to be a creep and have a front-row seat to that."

The corner of his mouth curved up into a sly, lazy smirk that made her stomach tilt sideways. "I was just gonna suggest you chill in my room. Didn't say anything about watching me." He tapped his finger against her temple, the gesture too intimate for something so casual. "What goes on in your weird little head, Watson?"

And then he was gone before she could respond, shooting her one last look that was all challenge and laughter. But when she turned back toward the living room, she nearly jumped, because Isabel Conklin was still standing there, looking at her with a faintly wistful expression. 

"So, you and Conrad, huh?" she asked with forced levity. 

Devon's eyes widened. Oh God. Did she think that... "No! It's not—" she began, shaking her head so fast she probably looked unhinged, but Isabel didn't let her finish.

"How'd you guys meet?" 

"Uh, school. I think he might've told Laurel."

"Right, yeah, I don't think Mom mentioned it."

The silence that followed was suffocating, and Devon's brain scrambled for something to fill it before she drowned in secondhand heartbreak, so naturally her mouth worked faster than her common sense. "Congrats on the wedding, by the way! I don't think I got to say it earlier. How's the planning going?"

It was the wrong thing to say because Isabel's expression crumpled, and her brittle smile did little to mask the fact that she was near tears. "It's going great," she said stiffly, voice so tight it could've snapped in half.

Well, that was a dead end. Devon wracked her mind for more conversation starters, the ones Maeve had tried and failed to teach her, except Maeve's brand of social charm was controversial at best. Half her so-called icebreakers were probably designed to get her either slapped or banned from polite company forever.

Meanwhile, Isabel's gaze latched onto the modest diamond ring glinting on her finger, her thumb rubbing over it as though to reassure herself that it was really there, so Devon said, "I really like your ring, by the way."

The girl blinked in mild surprise before a hesitant smile tugged at her lips. "Wait, really? You don't think it looks like a sliver of tinfoil?"

Devon winced because, sure, it looked like it could be bent out of shape if someone hugged her too tightly, but she wasn't about to say that. "Doesn't matter what I think," she stated matter-of-factly. "Or anyone, really. As long as you like it, and as long as you care about the person who gave it to you. You could be wearing a rubber band for all I care." 

"Not care about what other people think," Isabel repeated, as if trying the words out. "You might be the first person to tell me that all summer."

"That bad, huh?"

"You saw how our announcement went down. It feels like everyone's got something to say." Her expression soured even more. "Mom, Dad, and even Steven. It's like they all think we're dumb teenagers who don't know what we're doing with our lives." Her voice wavered before she asked, almost tentatively, "Do you think it's all too fast?"

"It's not really any of my business. Who cares what I think?"

Isabe's strained smile didn't reach her eyes. "Conrad usually has good intuition about people, and since he's brought you here, he probably trusts your judgment." 

She said it with equal parts admiration and bitterness, and Devon couldn't really think of anything nice to say in response, so she kept her mouth shut. Like, did she think them announcing their engagement during Conrad's mom's memorial was insane? Yeah, a little. Was six weeks too fast to plan a wedding? Definitely. Getting married before graduation? Reckless as hell.

"I think you should make decisions that let you live the best quality of life possible," she said cautiously. "With someone who brings out the best in you. Set yourself up for a life your future self would thank you for." She paused, realizing how advice-column it sounded, and added awkwardly, "But, really, it's not my place to say."

For a moment, Isabel just looked at her, the faintest trace of gratitude colouring her expression. "Thanks, that's actually really good advice."

"I think that's just my inner therapist talking. She's very annoying and only appears after I say something stupid."

That earned her a laugh, and for a moment, the tension in the air thinned as Isabel leaned against the couch, absentmindedly twisting her ring around her finger. "He really brought you out of nowhere, huh? In all the years I've known him, I don't think he'd ever invited someone to spend the summer," she mused curiously. "This place is sacred to him. To all of us."

Devon didn't know what to say to that. The word sacred hit her harder than she expected, and she could imagine a younger Conrad sitting on these same couches, laughing with his mother, his brother, and the Conklins, before grief turned everything heavy and unbreathable. Now here she was, tracking sand into their memories. 

"Well," Isabel hesitated for a beat, as though weighing whether to say what she was thinking, "I heard you're sticking around while the boys talk. You wanna join me for a swim?"

"Uhm...not really dressed for a swim right now, but thanks for the offer. I'll just wait for Conrad here, if that's alright with you?"

"Sure, sounds good." She seemed relieved to hear Devon deny her request, as if she was afraid to know more about her, or learn something she wasn't sure she even wanted to. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

The waves rolled with sun-slick curls that belonged on postcards, the ocean throwing itself at the sand in lazy repetition, and the sunlight painting everything gold. It would've been a perfect day if it weren't for the storm cloud brewing between Conrad and his brother.

He sat leisurely on his surfboard, bobbing in the swell, the salt stinging his eyes and skin, and the silence stretching long enough to drown in. Before, it used to be easy with Jeremiah, the silences full of shared looks, stupid inside jokes, and the unspoken language that only brothers could share, but now it felt like he was floating beside a stranger.

He cleared his throat. "So, what's the fallout on the wedding?"

"Laurel's pissed." Jeremiah sighed, the sound deep and tired. "Belly and her had a huge fight."

Conrad winced. "Shit."

"Yeah, but she'll come around. She has to."

The silence came back, heavier this time. A gull shrieked overhead and Conrad stared at the line where the sky met the sea, wondering when exactly that line had appeared between him and Jere. Maybe somewhere around the funerals, or the fights, or the day he decided disappearing was easier than showing up. Maybe it was always there.

"So, are you gonna be my best man or not?" Jeremiah asked hesitantly, then corrected himself, "or co-best man. I kind of promised Steven already."

Of course, he had. Conrad's stomach twisted. Steven and Jere had always been closer, and time had only added distance. It shouldn't have hurt, but it did. God, it did. 

"Co-best man," he repeated lightly, like the words didn't taste like rust in his mouth.

At that, Jere's expression shifted, both resentment and disappointment flashing behind his eyes, and he scoffed, "Wow. Really?"

Conrad wanted to roll his eyes. Here they were again, two idiots who couldn't talk without hurting each other. If he said the wrong thing now, it would be the final crack. And wasn't this whole damn summer about fixing things? Fixing his family, fixing his mess of a life, fixing himself?

He took a deep breath, feeling the salt scrape his throat. Sure, honesty wasn't exactly his strong suit, but if this blew up in his face, the ocean was right there. Instant watery grave. "Of course I'll be your best man, Jere," he said quietly. "How could I say no?"

The look of surprise that crossed his brother's face hit him harder than he expected. It was like it hadn't even occurred to him that Conrad might actually say yes. Like that possibility didn't fit in his version of the world anymore.

"Oh," Jere said finally. "Wow. Wait, really?"

That hurt the most, that Jeremiah's first instinct was disbelief, and the question slipped out before he could stop it. "Did you really think I'd say no?"

"Of course not! Why do you think I asked?"

"You looked like you were bracing yourself for a no."

"No," Jeremiah insisted.

"Jere—"

"Okay, fine, yes. Maybe just a little," he admitted reluctantly. "But I was hoping you'd say yes."

He looked cornered, eyes darting toward the shore, and for one terrifying second, Conrad thought, this was the moment where his brother would finally crack. That he would admit that, yeah, he thought Conrad would say no because of the whole Belly debacle. 

Conrad wasn't ready for that conversation today. "I just wish you'd told me, you know," he said instead. "About the wedding, and the proposal."

"Is this about—"

"No," he cut him off immediately. "This is about you. And me. Us. Only us. I just wish you'd told me because you wanted to."

Jere's expression flickered from guilt to defensiveness in the span of a breath. "Well, you haven't exactly been accessible lately. Or, you know, in a very long time."

"Jere, I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Whatever."

Conrad wanted to be annoyed. Hell, he was annoyed. He wanted to snap and ask whose fault it really was that he'd pulled away. That maybe disappearing had been the only way to keep from watching the two people he cared about most fall for each other in real time.

But then, Devon's voice echoed in his head, repeating the unbothered wisdom she threw out like it was common sense: Little siblings are idiots. Big moronic idiots who mess up and hurt your feelings. But they're still your little siblings. 

What Jere did—going after Belly right after Conrad told him how he felt—was cruel, but it wasn't unforgivable. It had felt unforgivable once, back when his heart was still in pieces, but now he couldn't imagine letting her be the reason he and his brother stayed broken forever. Maybe it would have been harder to move past it if he still had feelings for her, but he didn't, so he was willing to try and move past it. 

One day, he'd take Devon's advice all the way, sit Jere down, tell him exactly how much that whole mess had hurt, and give him the chance to apologize, but not today.

"No, it's not whatever, dude. I'm sorry. I really am. I'm sorry I haven't made myself available. I just..." He paused, staring out at the shifting water. "I was dealing with a lot of shit, and I got so wrapped up in my own head I forgot to check in on you."

Jeremiah's defences seemed to fall away the longer he spoke. "You always did have a habit of doing that."

"Yeah."

"Then I'm sorry too. I should've made a bigger effort to keep in touch. I should've told you more. Asked you about your stuff too." He looked at Conrad carefully, then continued, quieter this time. "I really wanted to tell you about the engagement myself. I even told Belly—we'll tell Conrad first, then everyone else after, when her dad's around too. But then Dad went ahead and just... said what he said, and Belly had to jump in and now everything's a mess."

He grimaced when he spoke of their dad, his sad and distant look making him look twelve again, and Conrad's heart clenched. 

"You know it's not a big deal, right?" Conrad said. "Lots of people take their time to graduate. Dad was a jerk for putting you on the spot like that."

Jeremiah snorted. "That's not super helpful coming from you of all people."

"Oh please, I'm not—"

"You so are," he cut in. "No matter how much you push Dad away, you can never do any wrong in his eyes. You could commit arson and he'd be like, 'Cool, look at my boy, keeping the world warm.'"

Conrad huffed out a sound somewhere between disbelief and surrender. "Not arson," he said wryly, "but I... uh... got fired from my clinic job."

He immediately regretted saying it. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe this was what Devon meant—about extending an olive branch—his shame as some kind of offering.

Jeremiah looked immediately apologetic. "Shit, man. What happened?"

"It was after you texted me about Steven's accident. I was so worried about him that I messed up and got fired on my first day. Can you imagine that?" He rubbed a hand over his face, his laugh dry and self-deprecating.

"Oh fuck, was that my fault then? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

Conrad shook his head sharply. "No. Don't say that. Don't say you shouldn't have told me. I'm glad you told me. If there's anything you want to tell me in the future, I want you to be able to. I'll always be in your corner, even if it sometimes seems like I'm not."

Jeremiah hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."

"Okay."

Jeremiah smiled that same sunshine-boy smile that used to melt their mom's heart, and for once, it didn't make Conrad feel overshadowed. It made him feel lighter. He still had thoughts about the wedding, of course. That it was too fast, too soon, that maybe they should at least finish college before tying their lives together, but he bit his tongue. There would be time for that later. He'd hit his emotional quota for the day, and somehow survived this conversation without breaking out into hives.

When Jeremiah's grin turned sly, it made Conrad instantly suspicious. "Now that we're being honest and all that jazz," he began, dragging out the words in a sing-song tone, "can we please talk about the girl you brought home?"

Conrad jerked his head down, pretending to inspect the wax on his surfboard. "No."

"Oh, come on, I've been dying to ask."

"I'll make sure you have a nice funeral service."

"Ouch." Jeremiah clutched his chest like he'd been stabbed. "And here I thought we'd made up."

"We have, but no."

His brother grinned wider, clearly taking it as a challenge. "So is she your girlfriend?"

Conrad's throat went dry. It would be so easy to say yes and pretend it was already true, to manifest something real from the mess of maybes sitting in his heart, but he could already imagine Devon's unimpressed glare if word got back to her. She'd probably kill him before he could even explain, so he cleared his throat. "No."

Jeremiah's eyebrows shot up. "What? No way. No way you guys aren't dating. Have you seen yourselves?"

"We're not."

"Are you secretly married?"

"Jere, what the fuck?"

"What?" he shrugged innocently. "It's totally possible. You could have secretly gotten married in California without telling any of us, and then shown up ten years later with a wife and seven kids."

Conrad felt his ears burn hot. "Seven kids in this economy? Not a chance." His tone softened. "And besides, I'd never get married without telling you."

"Promise?"

"Promise." 

"Well, okay, I hope you figure it out then," Jeremiah said. "You seem happy around her, that's all. And I want that for you. Someone who makes you as happy as Belly makes me."

He sounded so sincere that Conrad didn't have the heart to be mad at him for bringing up Belly. 

After he got home, Conrad took a quick shower before heading into the living room to find Devon. She was exactly where he thought she'd be, curled up on the couch, phone in hand, grinning at whatever was on her screen, and he lingered behind the couch. There was a strange satisfaction in watching her without announcing himself, just to see what she'd do when she finally noticed him.

When she did, it was everything he expected and more. Her head craned up, her smile still half-formed, and then she froze. Her lips parted soundlessly, eyes going wide before she quickly looked away, the flush crawling up her neck so fast he nearly laughed.

Conrad shot her a lazy grin. "I believe we have places to go, Watson."

Devon didn't look at him. "Do you plan to go out into the world nude?"

"I'm wearing pants," he said dryly, glancing down at her. "I have some class."

"Put on a shirt, dude. I'm going to have to bleach my eyes and sue you for public indecency."

Conrad snorted, amused. He grabbed the t-shirt draped over his shoulder, but didn't put it on right away. Instead, he leaned over the back of the couch until his shadow fell across her. His hair, still wet from the shower, dripped onto her forehead, and he caught her sharp inhale before she could stop it.

"This is my house, in case you forgot," he murmured. "I can do whatever I want."

He didn't know what possessed him to push her buttons like this, but he liked seeing her reactions. When he saw her tilt her chin up slightly but still refuse to meet his eyes, his pulse quickened. He was close enough to smell the citrus of her shampoo, and her freckles stood out against the pink on her cheeks. For one dangerous second, he couldn't resist the urge to trace them, his fingertips brushing across the bridge of her nose. 

Then Devon pressed her palm firmly against his forehead and shoved him back. "Personal space, Fisher," she snapped, scooting to the far end of the couch and shaking her hand out like she'd touched something electric. "And you should dry your hair or you'll catch a cold."

Conrad finally tugged his shirt over his head, feeling the cotton cling briefly to his still-damp skin before he came around and dropped onto the couch beside her. "I'm told my wet hair is my most charming feature."

"Whoever said that is lying to you."

"So you don't think it's charming?" he drawled.

Her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile, but the colour that rose in her cheeks betrayed her. "Nope. You look like a weasel left out in the rain too long."

Conrad clutched a hand to his chest in feigned offence. "Wow, you really know how to humble a guy."

"Gotta make sure your head fits in the airplane when you fly back to California, you know."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say I'm getting a big head."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude."

"Alright, alright, enough harassing me. Let's go out. I wanna take you sailing, and we've got plenty of time before that party of yours."

Devon side-eyed him, not moving an inch. "You should probably dry your hair before we go out."

Conrad shrugged, his expression mischievous. "I wish I could, but surfing with Jere has worn me out more than I thought. I can barely lift my arms."

"It was surfing, not weightlifting. You're fine."

"Am not. Surfing is exhausting."

"You're messing with me on purpose, aren't you?"

He smirked, leaning a fraction closer, just enough that she'd notice. "Am I?"

Devon rolled her eyes and stood abruptly, muttering something under her breath as she snatched the towel from his hands. "You're so fucking dramatic."

He almost laughed until she stepped closer to stand between his parted knees and began to towel his hair dry. Her fingers worked in small, careful motions, unintentionally grazing the nape of his neck every now and then, and it made his breath hitch. 

She kept her gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder, resolutely refusing to look at him, and while it usually would have bothered him, right now it didn't. Because now, he could just sit still and watch her, tracing the curve of her jaw and the concentration etched into her brow with his gaze while wondering what it'd be like to trace them with his lips instead. 

He wanted to rest his hands on her waist and draw her in, but that would ruin the fragility of this moment, and she'd probably strangle him with the towel, so he stayed put.

When she was done, she draped the towel unceremoniously over his head so he could no longer see her. "Better?" she asked with forced neutrality. 

"Yep. Great. I feel like a lampshade," he mumbled, his voice muffled beneath the towel, and he heard her snicker. 

By the time Conrad had managed to coax Devon onto his family's boat and out into the open water, the earlier tension between them—the careful line between teasing and too much—had softened into something more comfortable.

The sea stretched endlessly around them, glassy and blue-green, the boat rocking gently with the rhythm of the tide. Devon sat cross-legged in the middle of the deck, his guitar balanced on her knee. She strummed it lazily, but the tune she played was too melancholic for such a sunlit afternoon. 

Meanwhile, Conrad sat across from her, a loose coil of rope resting in his lap. He worked his fingers through it absently, tying and untying it until the familiar motion calmed the restless edge between his ribs. When he'd finally twisted it into something that resembled a proper knot, he lifted it for her to see.

"Ah, one of your famous sailors' knots, then?" Her eyes glinted with mischief.

Conrad squinted at her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She just snickered, derailing whatever dignity he thought he had. There was a joke here, one that had been running between them for days, and he still hadn't quite figured out how it had started. Every time he said the word knot, she cracked up like it was the funniest thing in the world, but he wasn't complaining. As long as he got to hear her laugh, what did it matter if it was at his expense?

Devon's grin turned wicked. "You know what it looks like?"

He groaned preemptively. "Please don't say noose."

"A noose."

"I just told you not to—"

"You should know by now," she interrupted, her voice sing-song. "Telling me not to do something just makes me want to do it even more."

"I knew you were gonna make a noose joke."

"A testament of our friendship, surely," she said, plucking a few dramatic notes on his guitar like a movie villain.

"Do I need to call mental health services?"

Devon winked. "I am mental health services."

"God help your future patients."

"How about you worry about your own future patients, Dr. 'I forget to feed myself during finals week'."

They stared at each other for a few charged seconds before bursting out into laughter. It came out helpless and bright, and Conrad leaned back against the rail, watching Devon's shoulder shake from the force of it. He thought—not for the first time—that if happiness had a sound, this might be his.

Eventually, he reached over to take the guitar from her. The sun had dipped low enough that the water shimmered in molten ribbons of crimson and gold, the light pooling between them on the deck like honey. "Okay, enough of whatever melodramatic thing you've got going on. Let me show you how the real pros play."

Devon smirked, tipping her head. "Oh, real pros, huh? Enlighten me, maestro."

He didn't answer, just adjusted the weight of the instrument in his lap. The wood was cool beneath his fingertips, smooth in the way only time could make it. In California, Devon had convinced him to buy a new one, but the last time he had touched this one was at his mother's funeral.

He expected the familiar wave of grief to rise and suffocate him, but instead, there was only a low ache of nostalgia. This was more than the funeral guitar. It simply belonged to summer— synonymous with bonfires, laughter, and the smell of grilled corn and sunscreen. He remembered playing for his whole family, his mom and Laurel humming along while the kids tapped out offbeat rhythms against the nearest surface. 

The melody he played now was reminiscent of those moments, wistful and tender, the kind of song that made the air feel alive. He closed his eyes, letting the notes spill over the water, mingling with the hum of cicadas and the faint lapping of waves against the hull.

Then there was a sudden click, and he opened his eyes, startled. Devon was pointing an old film camera at him, the kind with a worn leather strap and scuffs along the side.

"What was that?" he asked in surprise.

Devon lowered the camera just enough for him to see the mirth in her eyes. "A project."

"Are you gonna Photoshop me into dumb shit again?"

"You have no imagination."

"Oh, I've got imagination," he said, feigning deep thought. "You're gonna put me on the moon, right?"

She snorted. "Too easy."

"Me playing guitar on top of a whale? Inspirational. Greenpeace would love that."

"Still no."

"So this isn't gonna end up as some cursed meme?"

"No memes."

"Not even a little one?"

She tilted her head. "Maybe a tasteful one."

He chuckled, strumming idly. "Then are you gonna use my face to catfish people online?"

Devon immediately bristled. "I would not catfish!"

Conrad gave her a look that said he absolutely did not believe her, and she relented with an exasperated huff. "Okay, that one time with Maeve was only to get back at her ex, alright? It was a team effort."

"Right," he deadpanned. "Because vengeance scams are a team sport now. Did the Stanford team win a medal for it?"

"It was noble, actually. We were righting a wrong."

"Yeah, sure. Next thing I know, you're using my photo for fake passport applications."

"Don't tempt me."

"Or as the cover model for some shady cryptocurrency ad."

Devon pretended to gag. "Ew. You think I'd waste your face on crypto bros?"

"Could be worse. You could stick my face on one of those bad romance novel covers. The ones where the male lead is always shirtless and has a horribly exaggerated tan."

She howled with laughter at that. "Conrad Fisher, what have you been reading in your spare time?"

"Hey, Cousins practically inspires this kind of stuff, and you forget that I've spent nearly every summer since forever here. All you have to do is pay a visit to the bookstore. They have a whole section dedicated."

"Thank you for letting me know. I'll have to check that out now."

"Didn't know that was your preferred choice of reading material, Watson," Conrad teased.

"It's not, but my sister has made it her life mission to consume as many bizarre books as she can in her lifetime and share every particularly disturbing morsel with me." Devon perked up impishly then. "Hey, maybe we should get you on one of those covers. Since you did suggest it after all."

He looked mock-serious. "If you do, can you at least make sure I have those photoshopped washboard abs?"

"You know how I feel about promoting unrealistic body image standards," she said primly.

"From you, I'd expect nothing less." He paused before continuing, "Man, surfing today was so much fun. I didn't realize how much I missed it."

"How was the talk with your brother?"

"Good. It was good. I tried doing that groundbreaking thing."

"Oh yeah?" Devon beamed. "Communication?"

"Yep."

"Truly ahead of your time, Fisher."

She didn't say anything else, and that's what he liked about her. She never pressed for more, always giving him the space to breathe and find the words himself. Most people tried to fill the silence with advice or pity, but she just waited for him to find his way. 

"I'm Jere's best man now," Conrad said after a while. "So I'm staying till the wedding."

 "Cool. I'm sure that means a lot to your brother."

"Yeah, and I apologized. And then he apologized. So I think we're okay. At least a little bit."

"Glad to hear it."

He smiled sidelong at her. "And thank you for telling me to make the first move."

"You gotta make all the first moves, Fisher."

The challenge in her tone made him realize that she wasn't just talking about his brother anymore. "All the first moves, huh? With everyone?" he asked.

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. "I don't know. You'd probably overthink it halfway through."

"Unfair. You act like I don't know how to take initiative."

"Oh, I'm sure you think you do," she teased. "But knowing you, you'd draw up a pros-and-cons list before making a move."

He nudged her foot with his. "I'm not allergic to risk."

Devon grinned, leaning forward with an unwavering gaze. "Aren't you?"

"Not anymore."

Her expression faltered, and she looked mildly surprised. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." He shrugged one shoulder. "Guess I've got better reasons not to be."

Her gaze lingered on him for a second longer than comfortable before she looked away, pretending to fuss with her camera again. "Careful, Fisher. You're starting to sound like one of those guys in a Nicholas Sparks movie."

"That bad, huh?"

"Oh, terrible," she said, but her tone was soft. "But I'll allow it."

Conrad sniggered, shaking his head. "Man, you're brutal."

"Someone's gotta keep your ego grounded."

"I'm starting to think you enjoy bullying me."

"I absolutely do," she said without hesitation.

"At least you're honest."

"It's one of my better flaws."

He looked at her then, watching strands of her hair come loose from her signature braid and catch the wind, her eyes bright in the fading light, and he felt something akin to peace. 

"Yeah," he said softly. "I think it might be."

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

Devon didn't know what she was expecting when her dad had told her he'd secured her an invitation to a party thrown by one of his friend's kids, but she was almost certain it wasn't this. His phrasing alone had set the bar low. Any sentence that started with securing an invitation and involved her dad usually ended in mild psychological trauma.

Most of her dad and Emma's social circle were country club regulars who said, "We summer in the Cape," and probably thought the proletariat was a type of cheese. So yes, she'd pre-judged the hell out of this thing before even showing up.

The house itself didn't disappoint—a sprawling coastal monstrosity that screamed money laundering, while the inside looked like someone had fed a rave and a fever dream into a blender. Neon lights throbbed against the walls, and the bass reverberated through the floor and right into her skull. For a brief moment, Devon considered faking an allergic reaction to LED lights just so she could go home, but Conrad was with her, and that meant she had to pretend to have her shit together. 

His actions today confused her, making her want to shake him and kiss him in equal measure, so she'd told herself this party would be a good distraction. A chance to scrub him from her brain, and smother the butterflies that erupted in her chest every time he so much as glanced at her. Because Conrad Fisher didn't just glance. He fucking looked like he was dissecting her soul, reading through every pathetic fantasy she'd ever had, and she was ninety percent sure her soul was currently making heart eyes at him.

Before she could chicken out again, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She checked it and immediately snorted, holding it out for Conrad to see.

"Is your dad seriously telling you to get drunk?" he asked incredulously.

Devon smirked. "I believe his exact words are something along the lines of 'drink if you want, and call me to pick you up when you want to come home.'"

"Responsible parenting at its finest."

"Right?" Her grin turned sharp and a little mean. "Looks like he's experiencing FOMO because he never got to parent angry, drunk teens, so now he's trying to make up for lost time."

Conrad huffed a laugh. "Joke's on him. You're just a sad, depressing drunk."

"Excuse you! I am an artistic drunk. Melancholy is part of the brand."

"Mm," he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Tragic poet energy. I must be rubbing off on you."

"Exactly. Very on-brand. Though to be fair, I was more volatile as a teen," she admitted, glancing around at the swarm of glittery strangers around them. "But never drunk, so he wasn't going to get an authentic experience anyway."

"Volatile?" Conrad repeated, amusement colouring his tone. "I can picture that. I still mourn poor Patrick V's fallen bloodline."

Devon elbowed him lightly. "Don't judge me. Some of us weren't born with the tortured soul thing baked in."

"Yeah, well, it's a tough gig, but someone's gotta do it."

Of course, her heart had to go and stutter at that, his unguarded smile hitting her right between her ribs. God, she was so screwed. This was supposed to be the night she got him out of her system, yet here he was, ruining her plans by just existing with his stupid hair, stupid eyes, and stupid quiet voice that somehow made every word sound like an almost-confession.

She sighed internally and glanced back at her phone. Maybe she really should get drunk. Not for her dad's sake, but for self-preservation. If she was going to survive Conrad Fisher in this lighting, she was going to need a drink.

Just then, someone shrieked her name, and before Devon could even process the incoming danger, a blur of perfume and sequins slammed into her with the force of a small meteor. She froze instantly. Unprompted physical affection was not her strong suit. Hell, prompted affection wasn't her strong suit either, but when the girl finally pulled away, she forced a polite, socially acceptable smile that hopefully didn't look like mild terror.

The girl who had tackled her was grinning from ear to ear, clearly three drinks past tipsy. A glass of something golden sloshed precariously in her hand as she leaned against a boy beside her. They had the same dark hair and the same bone structure, which meant they had to be siblings, except his eyes were far too clear for this time of night.

"You must be Devon!" the girl announced. "Don't you worry, we are going to take such good care of you!"

She knew her name. That probably meant Devon was two seconds away from being handed a glass of holy punch and a pamphlet about transcendence. Oh well, maybe there were some benefits to being inducted into a cult. 

"Um... thanks?"

The boy, clearly used to mopping up after his sister's chaos, sighed fondly and plucked the drink from her before it could baptize Devon's cardigan. "Sorry about my sister," he said with an amused smile. "She gets a little overexcited with new people. Our dad told us to keep an eye out for you."

Devon almost groaned aloud. Their dad? Her own father was apparently out there distributing her as a social charity project, saying things like, "Hi, this is my daughter, she's emotionally constipated and allergic to fun. Please introduce her to your offspring."

The boy extended a hand. "I'm William. And this," he gestured toward his still-swaying sister, "is my sister, Charlotte."

"Charlie!" the girl corrected cheerfully. "You can call me Charlie."

Before she could react, Charlie had already looped an arm through hers, tugging her deeper into the glowing chaos of the house. When Devon sent Conrad a startled look over her shoulder, the girl shook her head in exaggerated disapproval. "Your boyfriend will be fine!" she sing-songed. "Will'll take good care of him. Come on!"

"He's not my—" But she was already being towed through the crowd, an almost hazardous-looking cocktail shoved into her hand before she could finish. 

She held out for about exactly five minutes before Charlie's relentless sunshine and mile-a-minute chatter finally wore her down. The girl talked like a caffeinated podcast host with no pause button, and somewhere between "You have to try the lemon spritz!" and "Wait, are you an air sign? You give me air sign energy," Devon found herself smiling against her will.

Then Charlie handed her another drink.

Now, Devon wasn't exactly planning on drinking that much tonight, but the cocktail was cold, sweet, and deceptively innocent-looking, so she shrugged, thought well, it's summer, and downed it. Probably fine. She'd made worse decisions before breakfast. Except if she saw Conrad in her inebriated state, she might grab him by the collar and kiss him, and then she'd have to move to Mongolia in shame, so she'd try her best to keep her distance. 

At some point, Charlie led her into what could only be described as a living room the size of a small country. There, a circle of girls lounged across plush white couches, and Devon could tell immediately that this was a well-established friend group. Everyone laughed mid-sentence and finished each other's stories with the kind of synchronized chaos only achieved through years of shared inside jokes. It made her miss her soccer teammates back in California. 

Charlie plopped down beside one of them and pulled her into the empty seat next to her like a kid showing off her new pet. Devon was halfway through recalibrating her polite smile when she realized one of the girls was mid-story, something about an ex-boyfriend, a humiliating public breakup, and vengeance performance art involving fake pregnancy tests.

Once the laughter faded, Charlie threw an arm around her shoulders and beamed, "This is Devon, girls, say hi!"

The group seemed nice enough, and no one was giving her the up-and-down "why are you here?" look, which was a win in Devon's book. The novelty of her newness wore off quickly, and they returned to swapping summer plans while she sat back and catalogued them like she always did in new social settings. 

She was mentally sorting through personalities, matching tones, measuring speech patterns like she was disarming a bomb. Which version of herself would do best here?

By Devon's third drink—which, for the record, was not her fault because Charlie's persuasion tactics bordered on war crimes—she'd finally relaxed enough to slide into the group's conversation. Something about nightmare professors and impossible deadlines. Ah, academia, the shared trauma that bonded people better than blood pacts.

Just as she was starting to think she'd survive the night unscathed, Charlie suddenly gasped mid-sip and pointed across the room. "Girl, your boyfriend is obsessed with you. He's looked over here like six times. No, seven. Wait—" she squinted dramatically, "—eight. He's basically undressing you with his eyes."

Devon grimaced. "Who the hell—I don't have a boyfriend."

But her head dutifully snapped toward where Charlie was pointing, and sure enough, there was Conrad, leaning casually against the wall like he'd been plucked straight out of an indie film. He was talking to a group of guys, looking unfairly composed, and just as she looked at him—as if he'd been waiting for that exact moment—he glanced up. Their eyes met, he smiled, and every girl in the circle audibly combusted. 

A chorus of oooohs and ahhhhhs erupted around her like a live studio audience.

"He's not my boyfriend," Devon said quickly. 

Charlie raised a perfectly shaped brow. "Uh-huh. Does he know that? Because from where I'm sitting, he's picturing your future home and what kind of dog you're gonna adopt together."

"We're just friends."

"Famous last words," muttered a girl named Sophie, wiggling her fingers to flash a glittering engagement ring at the group. "James and I were 'just friends' up until last month, and now we're getting married next summer. So you never know."

Another girl, the group's designated truth-teller, smacked Sophie's shoulder. "Didn't your parents set that up? That doesn't count. Who even does arranged marriages anymore?"

"Shut up, Harper!" Sophie huffed. "Just because my mother ambushed me at brunch with a family friend doesn't mean it's arranged. James said he's been in love with me since high school!"

"Yeah, because your mom told him to."

Devon nearly choked on her drink, trying not to laugh.

"Okay, but that's kind of sweet," Charlie chimed in, leaning against her shoulder. "High school pining? Very Taylor Swift core. If a man told me that, I'd marry him immediately."

Devon made a face. "If a man told me that, I'd call a therapist. That's almost a decade of unprocessed emotion right there."

"You're funny. I like you," Charlie declared with a snicker. "I'm officially adopting you."

Meanwhile, Harper turned her attention back toward Sophie. "You cannot convince me your fiancé didn't get Stockholm Syndrome from your mother's dinner parties."

"How dare you? James loves me. He literally told me I'm the reason he believes in fate."

"Fate or fear? Because those are two very different F words." Harper downed her drink with an exaggerated sigh. "Oh well, at least you're someone's reason for something. My ex-girlfriend literally told me she couldn't 'emotionally commit' but would still like to use my Netflix account."

Devon raised her glass. "At least women have priorities."

The girls burst into laughter, and Sophie threw a pillow at her. "You're all so cynical. Not everyone's cursed in love!"

"Cynical?" Harper scoffed. "Please, I'm just realistic. Men are like avocado toast. They only look good on social media."

"Speak for yourself," Sophie said primly. "Some of us are marrying for love."

"Some of us," Charlie corrected with a wicked grin, "are marrying for a vacation home in Tuscany."

"Stop! That's not why! It's just a bonus."

Charlie doubled over, wheezing so hard she was nearly crying. "Oh my god, you guys, my stomach hurts."

"You started this entire conversation," Devon pointed out.

"Yeah," Harper agreed. "All because you wanted to gossip about Devon's boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend! We've been over this."

Sophie leaned forward mischievously, eager to be out of the line of fire. "Okay, but you didn't deny that he's obsessed with you."

"Oh no, you don't," Harper said with a cackle. "You're not running away from the James grilling. Have you guys set a date for the contract signing yet?"

"You're one dowry away from starring in a Jane Austen novel," Charlie giggled. 

"Did your dad have to trade three goats and a vineyard to secure the engagement, or was it a buy-one-get-one deal at the country club?" Harper said, the two girls piling onto each other's outlandish suggestions. 

"No, no, I bet the dowry was just a lifetime membership at the golf course."

"I already have that," Sophie said haughtily. "I wouldn't marry for fucking golf. You're just jealous because you'll still be swiping on Tinder when I'm sipping rosé in Tuscany."

"Touché," Harper said, raising her glass. "When that happens, please remember us peasants and send a postcard."

"And a vineyard invite. We'll come crash the honeymoon." Charlie turned toward Devon then. "Okay," she said, drawing out the word with drama. "If you're not dating that guy—"

"I'm not dating Conrad," Devon sighed.

Before Charlie could respond, Harper's head snapped up. "Wait. Conrad as in Conrad Fisher?"

She blinked, thrown off by the name recognition. "Uh... yeah? How'd you—"

"Oh, girl." Harper's tone shifted instantly. "If you're not dating him... is he still with that girl?"

"What girl?"

She shrugged, looking half-apologetic but definitely intrigued. "I don't remember her name. I think she used to live with them? My friend Nicole was sort of seeing him for a bit, a couple of years ago. He was her date to the deb ball—all very will-they-won't-they soap opera energy. She was trying to figure him out, but then it turned out he liked some other girl the whole time and was texting her while ghosting Nicole. It was, like, tragic and messy and typical man behaviour. She said he was a total fuckboy. So, uh," she winced, "maybe it's for the best."

Sophie's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh my god, was that the summer Nicole got played? I had no idea. I always did tell her she should have gotten with the Oxford guy. Summer flings never work out anyway."

Charlie rolled her eyes. "You weren't even there that summer, Sophie."

"You know my mother prefers the Caribbean sun. But I did miss all the drama, which was lame."

Harper nodded. "Yep, you missed a lot. That was a messy summer."

Meanwhile, Devon just glanced between the girls, completely lost. Whatever Conrad told her in regards to his summers spent in Cousins, it was always related to his mother, which was fair, of course. But the notion of someone branding him a fuckboy almost made her laugh out loud. It was the furthest thing from the person she knew him to be now, but she supposed it wasn't too far a stretch. She remembered him being popular enough back in high school.  

"Hold up, slow down," she said. "Deb ball?"

Charlie jumped in with a flourish of her hand. "Oh yeah, it's like this charity gala thing we all did. Very, look at me, I'm debuting into society like I'm about to marry a duke. Total college application fluff."

"I see."

"Anyway, don't look so bummed, girl. You could totally do better."

"Agreed," Harper said. "Guys like that peak in high school. The brooding thing only works until you hit twenty-one, then it's just a lifetime of unpaid therapy. You're no Bob the Builder."

Devon forced an awkward chuckle. "You're all being a little dramatic. He's a great friend. Super nice and all that jazz. And frankly, I couldn't care less who he dated. Or almost dated. Or whatever. It's not like—"

"—You're dating him," Charlie finished with a grin. 

"Yep."

"For the record, my brother is very much single."

Devon stiffened. "Oh god, please no. The last blind date I went on tried to make me quit school."

Charlie groaned, flopping into her side. "It's not a blind date. You already know what Will looks like. He's warm and would totally cook for you."

"Wow, you were just giving me hell for my thing with James, and now you're trying to marry off Devon to your brother? Hypocrisy much?" Sophie protested. 

"That's completely different. James is old-money boring. Will is new money charming."

"Warm and would cook for you?" Harper echoed with a scoff. "You might as well marry an oven then, if that's what you're into."

Charlie pointed her drink at her accusingly. "Jealousy doesn't look good on you, Harper."

"Oh, please, I wouldn't consider your brother even if I were into men."

"My brother's a gentleman!"

Sophie smirked. "He totally is. He helped me carry my shopping into the house last week and literally bowed."

"Sounds like chivalry's not dead," Devon muttered dryly. 

"See, perfect!" Charlie declared. "You and Will have great chemistry. I can feel it."

"I've said exactly two words to your brother."

"Yeah, and I saw how he looked at you."

"Charlie," Sophie drawled, "you think everyone's flirting with everyone. Weren't you just on about Devon and Conrad five minutes ago?"

Charlie sipped her drink, unbothered. "Yeah, well, it's called optimism."

"No, it's called delusion."

Before the argument could go further, the object of their conversation appeared on cue. 

"Oh, look who decided to show up," Charlie practically purred as she twirled her hair around a finger. "Will, are you currently seeing someone? Do you want to perhaps see someone?"

"Seeing someone? Like hallucinations, or a therapist?" Will deadpanned. "Because no to both."

His sister huffed dramatically, hands on her hips. "Oh, you're no fun."

"I'm not trying to be." He rolled his eyes and turned to leave again. "Come on, we're waiting for you in the pool. It's game time." And with that, he turned on his heel and marched off, leaving Charlie pouting.

The rest of the girls immediately stood, herding each other toward the backyard, while Devon, however, felt a pang of relief. This was exactly her cue to go home. Enough socializing for the night, and she was beginning to feel ill, from too many drinks or too many conflicting thoughts, she did not know. 

"Okay, I think I'm going to head out now," she said. "Pool's not really my thing, but you all have fun!"

"Oh, come on!" Harper groaned. "Stay!"

"You'll miss out on these hellions giving me more shit about James." Sophie winked conspiratorially. 

But Charlie's expression softened. "Yeah, of course. Do you need a ride? You'll get home safe, right?"

Devon waved them off. "Yeah, don't worry about it."

Sophie, of course, couldn't let her go that easily. "At least walk us to the pool. That way, you get to peruse the fine specimens here. Charlie's matchmaking attempts have clearly failed."

"If that means I'll get to go home, sure."

She followed them out of the elaborate glass doors leading to the pool area, but they'd barely taken two steps when the throng of partygoers pressed in, a mass of laughter and splashing limbs and too much perfume. As the crowd inched her closer to the massive body of water, she swore under her breath. She needed to get out of the press of bodies, because honestly, how embarrassing would it be to drown at a fucking pool party?

Then, of course, the universe decided to have a laugh at her expense. Just as Charlie was pulling her along, someone shoved past, and Devon stumbled. Her foot caught on something, and then she was plunging headfirst into the water.

The world exploded into cold chaos. Water flooded her nose, mouth, and eyes in a shocking, disorienting torrent. She gasped a lungful of the bitter, chlorinated liquid, coughing and spluttering immediately. Her legs kicked wildly, feet searching desperately for the bottom, finding nothing but empty, slippery nothingness. 

Finally, she broke through the surface, clawing desperately for anything solid, and then a pair of hands grabbed her wrist, yanking her upward. Relief shot through her in a wave so intense she almost forgot to breathe. The hands shifted to her arms, then her waist, helping her clamber out of the water, and without thinking, she latched onto them like a lifeline, shivering and spluttering, entirely dependent.

Once she managed to blink the sting from her eyes, the fog lifted enough for recognition to hit her. Conrad's eyes were wide and anxious, his hands trembling slightly as he pushed damp strands of hair from her face. His face was too close to hers, but he said nothing, and she clung to him a second longer than she probably should have.

Next to them, Charlie had dropped to her knees, hands clasped together, eyes wide. "Oh my god, are you okay?"

Devon managed a weak, water-choked smile and gave a thumbs up, which was heroic in intent but pathetic in execution. Then she doubled over onto her hands and knees, hacking up the water in her lungs. 

Despite her feeble attempts to pull herself out of his hold, Conrad kept a firm hand on her back. Sensing her discomfort at being a public spectacle, he helped her stand, and after another round of apologies from Charlie, he was steering her out. When his arm slipped around her waist, Devon let herself lean into him, more out of necessity than comfort, or so she told herself. Her legs felt like overcooked noodles, and her brain was a static blur.

She mumbled something about having made an impression and half-chuckled, though it came out rough, but he didn't laugh. His grip only tightened, his fingers pressing into her skin through the fabric of her shirt, and his jaw was set in that tense, unreadable way that made her feel suddenly small.

By the time they slipped past the gates and into the quiet stretch of street where he'd parked, the air felt too still. The night was humid, and Devon sucked in a deep breath that burned slightly against her throat. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a dizzy, floating sort of exhaustion. She tugged her dripping cardigan tighter around herself, her socks squelching uncomfortably in her shoes. It was a sensory nightmare. 

Conrad's hands were steady at her waist, as though letting go meant she might collapse or disappear, and when she finally looked up, he was watching her, concern etched deep into the lines of his face.

He tucked the wet strands of her hair gently behind her ears, his touch almost reverent. Then his palms cupped her cheeks, thumbs swiping the water from her skin, tilting her chin upward so she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

"Are you okay?" His voice came out rough, low with frustration and something else. "What even happened, Devon? I take my eyes off you for one minute, and you go and nearly die on me."

The mix of irritation and worry in his tone should've sobered her, but instead it made her grin. Maybe it was the alcohol still buzzing through her veins, or maybe it was just easier to make a joke than admit she was shaken. "Relax, Fisher," she croaked hoarsely. "You're not my babysitter. I wasn't gonna die."

"It sure as hell didn't look that way."

"Careful," she said, forcing a laugh, though her teeth were chattering. "You sound a little worried."

"Why wouldn't I worry?"

She tried to shake her head, but his hands were still framing her face, keeping her still. "Told you. Not my babysitter. If I do end up dying, you're absolved of all sins. Nobody's gonna hold you accountable. You'll still see the pearly gates."

"Can you just—" Conrad cut himself off abruptly. "Now's not the time for jokes. Of course I'd worry about you."

His words made the laughter in her throat die. For a moment, she could only look at him, the way the streetlight caught the edge of his jaw and how his eyes searched her face like he was memorizing every shiver.

Devon tilted her head, leaning close enough to practically feel the way his breath hitched. "And why's that?" she murmured. "Why are you this worried, huh?"

His fingers twitched against her skin, and for a second, neither of them breathed. "You know why."

No, she didn't fucking know why. Or at least, she didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to delude herself into believing something that couldn't possibly be true. 

"You're warm," she said finally. "Guess between the two of us, we'd make one normal-temperature human." When he didn't laugh, she pulled away, taking several steps away from him. "Seriously, though, I'm fine. You can stop with the whole 'my heart might explode if you die' routine."

"You never told me you couldn't swim?" he accused. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"

"Not exactly the type to broadcast to the world about my lack of vital life skills. You're acting like this is the first time I've flirted with near-death experiences."

"But I'm not the world, am I? I thought..." he trailed off hesitantly. "I thought we told each other stuff. And stop looking like that. This isn't funny. I don't do joking around when—"

"When your best friend gets an impromptu dunk tank experience?" Devon interrupted. "Yeah, I got it. Very intense. Please stop lecturing about my poor life choices."

She knew she was hurting him. She could see it, clear as daylight, in the way his eyes clouded over, and yet, because she was apparently a glutton for emotional self-sabotage, her mouth just kept going, spitting out nonsense like it was oxygen. She didn't even know why. Some kind of muscle memory, maybe. She had to turn everything into a punchline before it could turn into a confession.

She didn't know what to do with sincerity, especially Conrad's sincerity. It was too much, too raw, too real, and it made her want impossible things. Things she had no business wanting. So she did what she did best and nuked the whole moment. Better scorched earth than uncharted territory.

This new side of a bolder him should've been exhilarating, and it was, for about five seconds. Then the dread kicked in, because this was change. Devon didn't do change. She didn't even do mild readjustments. She wanted things to go back to the way they'd been, that sweet little in-between where she could tell herself she wasn't reading into things.

But now every look, every brush of his hand, every stupid word sent her spiralling, overthinking, second-guessing, dissecting. Was he toying with her? Was she some sort of weird social experiment? A rebound test drive before the main event?

By now, she had a very strong hunch about the girl Harper had mentioned earlier. It had to be Belly. The One Who Got Away, the leading lady of his family's soap opera. And that was totally fine. Devon didn't need to know every messy detail of his past. She wasn't entitled to it. She wasn't even sure she wanted it. And she wouldn't judge him for the actions of his teenage self. God knew, she'd done plenty of stupid shit herself back in high school. 

But the thought that this might just be some stupid game to him made her stomach twist. She really thought she knew him better than that. She thought he was incapable of being cruel, but maybe that was the trick. Maybe he didn't even realize he was doing it. Maybe he was just that kind of beautiful, unintentional heartbreak wrapped up in good intentions and boyish guilt.

Either way, she just felt like shit. Cold, miserable, and vaguely humiliated. And the worst part? He'd been right about her. She was a depressing drunk.

"Uhm... sorry... I think I should go home," she mumbled. 

Conrad's mouth pressed into a thin, flat line. "If you even suggest walking home, I swear I'm going to... Just get in the car, Devon. Please."

She wanted to protest, to tell him she could handle herself, but his tone was serious, and she was too tired to argue anymore. And even though he probably hated her guts now, he opened the door for her, helping her inside and turning the heat on full. 

Throughout the drive, Devon refused to look at him. She curled into herself, eyes fixed on the passing blur of streetlights, trying not to cry. She was ruining this. She was ruining it, and she couldn't seem to stop. Why couldn't she stop? 

When he reached over, tentatively brushing her shoulder, she flinched, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught the hurt flashing across his face. She wanted him to make it better, but she didn't know how to let him. All she knew was how to make it worse.

When they finally reached her dad's place, she whispered a quick, "Sorry about your seats."

Before he could respond or say a proper goodbye, she dashed out of the car, desperate to hide the mess of feelings in her chest and avoid seeing the heartbroken look on his face. 

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

After a shower hot enough to burn and possibly erase every humiliating trace of tonight from her skin, Devon felt no better. The universe, in its infinite sense of humour, decided her waterlogged phone was now a very expensive paperweight, and though she'd tried everything—towel, blow dryer, the power of desperate staring—it stayed lifeless. So she set it carefully on her dresser like a dead pet and sighed, feeling the burn in her throat. Her frustration wasn't entirely about the phone, but it was easier to get upset about that than about everything else.

Before the tears could make their grand debut, she tiptoed downstairs. The house was dim and quiet, and her dad was camped out in the living room with the TV flickering blue light across his face. Devon lingered in the shadow of the hallway, not quite ready to step into the open.

"Hey, uhm..." she whispered. "Can I borrow your phone?"

He looked up, startled. She never asked him for anything, but maybe the wobble in her voice gave her away, because he didn't ask questions. He simply gestured toward the coffee table where his phone sat and went back to pretending to watch his show. She mumbled something to express her gratitude and scurried back upstairs before he could say anything fatherly that might make her cry for real.

Back in her room, Devon curled up in bed like a wilted shrimp and dialled her mom's number. The phone rang three times before the familiar voice answered, warm, brisk, and so painfully familiar it nearly cracked her open.

"Devon? Is everything okay?"

She swallowed hard. "Hey, Mom, can I come stay with you for the rest of the summer?"

There was a pause, and then her mother's tone sharpened. "Why? What's wrong? I spoke to your father yesterday, and he said you were having a great time."

Devon stared at the walls, trying to find the right response. "I just..." She inhaled shakily. "Can't I just come see you?"

Now she could practically feel her frown through the phone. "Devon," her mother sighed, the sound halfway between pity and irritation. "You can't just run every time things get difficult. What did you do this time?"

"Why would you assume I did something?"

"Didn't you? Isn't that why you suddenly want to leave it all behind and come back to Boston?"

"That's not fair." She felt a tear trickle down her cheek. "Can't I just want to see you? Or does everything I do have to be an escape plan? And anyway, why would you even want me to stay here? This is the last place you should want me to be."

"Of course not," her mother scoffed. "I'm happy you're there with your dad. Spending time with him. Getting to know his family."

"But don't you... Don't you hate it? Sometimes I hate it." She didn't care that she was saying this in his house. That he might be somewhere downstairs, half-listening. Let him hear it. Let him know that he'd earned a lifetime of resentment. 

"I don't know who put it into you and your sister's heads that I hate your father."

"You should."

"Well, I don't. There's nothing to hate."

"But—"

"We just didn't work out, Devon. Plenty of people don't. I still wish the best for him. I want him to be happy."

Devon let out a brittle laugh. "You're a better person than me. If it were me, I'd probably set him on fire or something."

Her mother actually laughed at that, grating against her hollow mood. "Dakota says the same thing. What kind of ridiculous girls are you? I do not hate your father, and neither should you. Don't you know he's better than most? At least he tries to keep in touch and be involved in your lives. There are far worse fathers out there. Be grateful."

Before Devon could get a word out, the woman rolled right over her. "And while you're at it, could you tell your sister to at least return your father's calls? You've always been the mature one, and she listens to you more than she listens to me, so just convince her, will you? She's breaking your father's heart. He's really trying."

What else was there to do but agree? This conversation was a dead end. "Okay, Mom."

"Good girl. Love you. Enjoy the rest of your summer."

When the line went dead, Devon somehow felt worse, the call having wrung her out and leaving her emptier than before. Her mother meant well; she always did, but somehow every time they spoke, they misunderstood each other completely. 

Then, as if he'd been standing just outside the door, waiting for the sound of her mother's voice to fade, there came a soft knock, and before she could answer, her father stepped inside. He carried two large bowls, which he set down on her bedside table. Both were identical, piled high with vanilla ice cream and an absurd amount of toppings stacked precariously on top—wafers, chocolate chips, and candied cherries. One was drizzled with chocolate syrup, and the other with caramel. Devon didn't need to ask which one was for her. 

It was a tradition she hadn't thought about in years, back when her father would return late at night from his law school classes while her mother was already fast asleep, exhausted from handling newborn Dakota's endless shrieking. Back when Devon was still young enough to have a bedtime, which she defied valiantly to wait for him to come home. He'd step through the door long after dinner, loosen his tie, and announce, "Dinner of champions?" before heading straight to the freezer.

Those nights had been theirs, just the two of them spooning ice cream sundaes into their mouths until their stomachs hurt from sugar and laughter. They'd stay up way too late watching whatever movies his college buddies recommended, and even though Devon would be falling asleep during math class the next morning, she cherished those evenings more than anything. 

Now, seeing him try to revive a tradition she'd long ago buried made her face crumple, and a soft whimper slip past her lips. Her father's eyes widened at the sight, and he sat next to her gingerly. 

"Do you want to leave that badly?" he asked. "I heard you talking to your mom. If you'd like, I can book you a flight for tomorrow."

"Do you want me to leave?" The tears came faster then. 

"What? Of course not." His answer came too quickly, and he leaned forward with a gentle expression. "But I want you to be happy. And if you're miserable here—if leaving will fix that—then I'll support it."

Devon stared at the bowls again, the caramel one glistening like it was mocking her. Her spoon lay untouched, and the air smelled faintly of sugar and sorrow. "I don't think anything will fix that."

Her father raised his hand instinctively to smooth back her damp hair—an old reflex that used to calm her as a child, but now, she flinched away before his fingers could touch her. The movement was defensive, and she sat up abruptly, drawing her knees to her chest and glaring at him over the barrier of her legs. "I'm not a little kid," she muttered.

"No," he admitted, his hand falling back into his lap helplessly. "You're not. But you're still my kid. And to me, you'll always be my little girl."

Devon didn't want to go down that road again, so she said nothing, her eyes fixed instead on the faint glow of his phone, lying between them on the bed. The lock screen was a perfect family portrait—his wife, his kids, all of them smiling on some sunny vacation. Her mouth twisted into a sneer before she could stop herself.

Her father must have noticed, because he reached for the phone and, almost apologetically, swiped to the home screen. There, the wallpaper was an old photo of her and Dakota in their tiny Boston apartment, grinning through a haze of poor lighting and teenage acne. Their mother must have sent it in secret because she didn't even remember when it had been taken. 

"I know you think I don't love you—"

"I don't think it," she interrupted sullenly. "I know it."

He inhaled sharply, as if she'd struck him. "Devon... I—I don't know how to make what I did better," he said after a moment, his voice wavering, "but I'm trying."

"Yeah. So Mom keeps saying. I don't know why she's still your biggest defender."

A small, wistful smile tugged at her father's mouth. "Your mom's always been my biggest defender. She was my best friend before everything. You don't stop caring about your best friend just because they're not yours anymore."

"Some friend you turned out to be," Devon scoffed, shaking her head.

"She wanted me gone," he said, the words heavy with resignation. "And yeah. I wanted to be gone, too. Some people aren't meant to be anything more than friends. We ruined it by trying. We were stupid kids. But we forgot that there were other lives tangled up in ours. That's my biggest regret."

"Good to know."

"Your sister won't even speak to me. I haven't heard her voice in years. Haven't seen her face except in the pictures your mom sends sometimes. I'm grateful you at least gave me another chance."

Devon's eyes burned, and she pulled her knees closer, curling into herself. "I'm not."

He looked stricken. "Don't say that," he pleaded. "Please, don't say that."

Then, because she didn't know how to do anything else, and every emotion she had ever felt seemed to twist and curl into guilt, she apologized. "I didn't mean it. Sorry."

"That's okay. I deserve it." Then, after a while, he cleared his throat. "Do you think therapy might help? I've got a friend who could help get you set up. We could even find someone in California for you."

"You want to pay someone who'll listen to me bitch about you?"

She was trying to be cruel, but her father only chuckled wearily, as if the mere fact that she was speaking to him was enough. "If it'll help you feel better, I'd do anything."

"I don't think it'd help."

"Okay," he said simply without any lecture or pushback. Then he reached for the bedside table and pressed the bowl of ice cream into her hands. "In the meantime, this will definitely help."

Devon took a spoonful, the sugar almost dizzying against her salt-dry tongue, and when her father's eyes drifted across the room, she followed his gaze to the string lights coiled around the curtain rod, the bookshelf crammed with bright spines, the framed posters of constellations, travel postcards, and watercolour flowers. 

"You know," he said with a note of pride, "Emma handled the décor for every single room in this house except this one." He smiled faintly. "This one was all me. I wanted you to like it."

The room was a carefully curated attempt at nostalgia, or a shrine to someone she barely remembered being. The fairy lights were too warm, the colours too soft, and the trinkets too childish. 

Half the things here were what she'd once begged for, back when her parents had been broke college students juggling night classes, part-time jobs, and sleepless nights. He'd outgrown that version of their life, but Devon had lived the rest of her childhood in that same dingy apartment. It's where he'd left her, and a part of her felt permanently buried there, no matter where around the globe she moved.

"I do like it," she said, managing not to sound ungrateful. "It's great. Looks exactly like the room you set up for me in your Boston house."

"Also the only room in the house done by me," he admitted sheepishly. "I don't think Emma trusts my skills anywhere else. But I'm glad you appreciate my efforts."

"Yep, you really nailed seven-year-old me."

After another moment of silence, her dad continued ruefully, "You know, when I said to get drunk, I meant the fun kind. The dancing, laughing kind."

"Then you clearly don't know me very well. This is the only kind I'm capable of."

He frowned. "And you didn't call me? How'd you get home? I hope you didn't walk."

"Conrad dropped me off," she said, trying to keep her voice even. 

Her father perked up. "He didn't come inside? You could've invited him."

Devon's throat tightened, and before she could stop herself, fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. She let out a shaky laugh that sounded like a sob. "I think he hates my guts now. Which is fair. I think I hate my guts too."

"I doubt that. He seemed like a good kid. Respectable. The boys are big fans."

"Whatever," she mumbled, stabbing her spoon into her melting ice cream.

Her father sighed in exasperation. "Whatever happened, I'm sure it's not unforgivable. But not talking things out? Letting it fester? That's unforgivable."

"If you knew me at all, you'd know I can't talk things out to save my life."

"I know you better than you think," he pointed out. "You hate your old man, but you're just like him."

"Great," Devon said flatly. "So I inherited crappy communication skills from both my parents. Doomed from birth. Should've come with a warning label."

"Don't be dramatic. You inherited plenty of good things, too. You've got your mother's patience and her good heart. You've got my dashing looks." He gave an exaggerated wink. "Makes for one perfectly decent human being, if you ask me."

"Of course you'd say that. You're kind of obligated not to shit on the kids you created."

He shook his head earnestly. "No, I mean it. I'm proud of the person you've become... despite everything."

She wanted to snap back—yeah, no thanks to you—but she didn't, shovelling another spoonful of melted ice cream into her mouth and focusing on chewing.

"Just don't do what I did, okay?" her father advised. "Don't let go of your friends because you don't know how to apologize to them."

Devon stared down at her bowl. "Okay."

"Great," he said, clapping his hands and standing up. "Now, if you're done moping, let's go downstairs and finally have that Transformers marathon we've been talking about. Emma took the boys to her friend's, and they won't be back till tomorrow."

"Aren't there like seven movies?" She raised a skeptical eyebrow. 

"We can squeeze in at least three if you don't fall asleep on me." He reached over and took her empty bowl from her hands. "But maybe enough sugar for now. We should put some real food in you."

"Mom always said you did dinner in the wrong order."

"Dessert is the joy of any meal. Your mother never understood that."

When he left, Devon found herself following, and it wasn't entirely unbearable to do so. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

Conrad liked to think of himself as relatively stable and routine-driven. He woke up, went for a run, ate breakfast, texted Devon, maybe called her if he was lucky before attending to the rest of his tasks. For the last four years, that was just how his day worked, until it wasn't even conscious anymore. But now she'd gone silent, it felt like someone had just reached into his chest and unplugged something vital.

She'd been ghosting him for a whole goddamn week. He'd checked his phone so many times that the screen probably had his fingerprint burned into it, but there was nothing. Not even a sarcastic one-word reply, or one of her emoji-only answers that made him want to throw his phone across the room and smile at the same time.

He didn't know what the hell he'd done. Or no, that wasn't true. What he had done was slip up and almost tell her how he felt at that stupid party. Almost, but not quite, and because she was Devon, she'd decided to make her answer known but vanishing. 

Conrad slammed another shingle into place, the hammer's echo sharp and lonely against the salt-heavy air. The roof of the beach house tilted under him, a cruel metaphor for his life lately—unsteady, sunburned, one wrong move away from fatal catastrophe. But no matter how hard he tried to focus on the task at hand, all he could think about was that night. 

He'd watched from inside the house when she'd gone under, and he remembered pushing past a crowd of drunk, useless people who didn't even notice someone was drowning right next to them. He remembered his heart stopping when the water stayed still.

He didn't remember anything after that. Not until he held her shuddering, choking form in his arms on the pool deck, her skin cold and slick, her lips blue. She'd looked so fragile in that moment, it made his lungs seize as if he was the one drowning. Devon, who was all sharp edges and biting remarks, suddenly reduced to something mortal and terrifyingly human.

Her ignoring him felt like watching her sink all over again.

Then, as if he'd accidentally summoned her by sheer force of obsession, she stepped out onto the wooden deck below, and for a brief, stupid second, Conrad forgot how to breathe. He'd spent the past week replaying every possible way she could've looked at him last, every word he might've said wrong, every text she didn't reply to, and now, here she was, a ghost walking back into his guilty conscience.

His hammer slipped right out of his hand, clattering through the air in slow motion before smashing against the deck, right where she'd been standing a moment ago. Devon jumped back, narrowly avoiding getting brained by the falling tool, and Conrad's heart shot into his throat when he realized she'd stumbled too close to the edge of the pool.

He didn't even think, the words tearing out of him before he could stop them. "Will you fucking get away from there!" It came out meaner than he meant, but the image of her sinking under the water last weekend was still burned into his eyelids. He saw her flinch at his tone, her shoulders dropping, and he immediately felt guilty. 

"Yeah, yeah, sorry," she called up hesitantly. "You probably don't wanna see me. I'll go."

Conrad cursed under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. "No," he said, softer this time, trying to reel in his frustration. "That's not what I meant. I just—get away from the pool, okay? Don't want a repeat of last Sunday." He jerked his chin toward the open window behind him. "Just come up to my room. We can talk there."

He expected a sarcastic jab about him chucking tools at her, or a joke about workplace safety violations, but there was none. Just a quiet nod before she disappeared back into the house, while he stayed where he was, staring at the spot she'd just vacated. 

Despite the way his hands itched to grab the window frame and vault himself inside, he didn't go to her right away. Instead, he gave himself a whole hour, time to unclench his fists, calm his heartbeat, and remember how to talk to her without ruining everything.

Or rather, he made her wait an entire hour. Maybe it was petty, and he just wanted her to know what it felt like to be the one left hanging, replaying every conversation in a mental autopsy of what went wrong. Or maybe he just wasn't ready to see her yet and hear whatever excuse she'd cooked up for why she'd decided to disappear. 

When he finally slid back through the window, he spotted her instantly. Devon was sitting cross-legged on the floor by his bookshelf, a picture of restless contrition. Her hands were in her lap, fiddling with a box tied with a ribbon, while she examined the books on his lowest shelf. Her nails were a mess, the skin around them red and torn, like they always got during finals week. 

Conrad leaned against the windowsill, crossing his arms. "Why are you sitting on the floor?"

"Didn't wanna sit on your bed with my outside clothes on," she replied without looking at him. 

There was a perfectly good chair right next to her, but he didn't bother pointing it out because he was too tired for that kind of back-and-forth. However, before he could come up with anything else to say, she suddenly stood. 

"I'm sorry," she blurted, the words falling out like she'd been holding them in for days, and once they started, she couldn't stop. "I screwed up, okay? I said stupid shit and then was too chicken to fix it, but I'm sorry. And you're my best friend, and I don't want to ruin that, so don't let my stupid big mouth ruin it. I'm really, really sorry."

Conrad wasn't sure what he'd expected, but an actual, verbal, no-bullshit apology was not it. It was strange. He couldn't even remember the last time anyone had apologized to him. Most people just went quiet for a while and then showed up one day, acting like nothing had happened, and you had to play along because calling it out made you the asshole. You were supposed to take the unspoken truce and shut up about the hurt.

But Devon wasn't like most people. He could see the way she held her breath after every sentence, like she expected him to interrupt, or laugh it off or tell her she was being dramatic. And some old, bruised, self-protective part of him wanted to do exactly that, to pretend it hadn't mattered as much as it did.

But it had mattered. And just because she was apologizing didn't mean it hadn't hurt. Didn't mean he hadn't spent the last few days feeling like someone had carved a hole out of him and left him to bleed routine through the edges. So instead of saying thank you, or it's okay, or any of the dozen things that would have made this easier, he just grumbled, "Took you long enough."

Devon looked like she'd rather crawl under the floorboards than be standing there, and for some reason, that only made Conrad feel worse. But he didn't say anything else, because the alternative was letting her see how much he'd missed her. 

"My phone's been kinda useless this past week," she explained eventually, ducking her head. "And I know that's no excuse, but I just figured you wouldn't want to see me. Which, honestly, totally valid. I wouldn't wanna see me either. I was a total jerk to you. But then... not being able to talk to you was worse. So I had to tell you how utterly sorry I was. And if you still don't wanna talk to me, that's cool. I just had to say it."

Conrad ran a hand through his hair in aggravation. She hated that she felt the need to beat him to the punch and throw herself on the sword before he even had a chance to pick one up. "Is that why you think I'm mad at you?"

"Aren't you?"

He exhaled slowly. God, where was he even supposed to start? "I was so worried about you. How could you not tell me something that important?"

He saw the shift in her eyes, that old, stubborn armour snapping back into place when she crossed her arms like a shield. "It's just swimming. Not a big deal. Plenty of people don't know how."

"Jesus, Devon! I took you out on the boat that day. You could've—" he stopped himself, but the thought crashed through anyway, loud and awful. "If you'd fallen over, you could've died. That was open water, not someone's cozy pool."

She winced, and her voice was barely audible. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. And I'm sorry I lashed out afterwards. And I'm sorry it took me a week to get my head out of my ass and come tell you in person. But I'm just sorry, okay?"

This quiet, apologetic version of her felt wrong, and it was like seeing the sun extinguish or the tide stop moving. Then, without another word, she pressed the box she was holding into his hands. It was small, flat, and wide, with a yellow peony tucked under the ribbon, looking absurdly cheerful.

"If you got me another pen, I swear—"

"It's not a pen," Devon interrupted quickly, her tone somewhere between defensive and self-conscious. Her thumb was digging into the edge of her ring finger, peeling back a bit of skin until a bright bead of blood welled at the base of the nail. She didn't even seem to notice, which made his stomach twist. 

Conrad wanted to reach out and catch her hands in his, but he didn't. Instead, he set the flower aside on his desk and undid the ribbon. Inside the box was a neat stack of glossy photographs. The first one was of an ice cream parlour, the sign out front tilted slightly, the sunlight catching the soft pastel blue of the walls. It looked too idyllic to be real.

The next few were from his mom's memorial garden. The flowers were in full bloom, just the way she loved them, and in one of the shots, a bumblebee hovered over a cluster of white roses, perfectly framed in the corner. Then came the pier, the beach, the coffee shop by the water—all the places he'd taken Devon to on his grand Cousins tour.. All the places that used to feel like home to his mother. 

And between all those scenic landscapes were pictures of him. There he was, sitting on the curb outside the ice cream shop, a cone melting down his wrist while he laughed at something she must've said. There was another of him on the pier at sunset, and then at the café, looking more peaceful than he ever allowed himself to feel. The very last one, he definitely did remember. He was on the boat, sprawled across the bench with his guitar, eyes closed, half-dozing as his fingers moved lazily over the strings.

Each image looked like it belonged to someone else, someone easier to love and worth capturing. There were fifteen in total, and when he turned them over, he realized the backs weren't blank. There were three lines for an address and a little square for a stamp. She'd turned them all into postcards—his very own set of personalized postcards from the only place he'd ever truly felt at home.

Conrad didn't speak for a long time, not because he was angry, but because the right words escaped him completely. They didn't exist for something like this. 

"I may have also taken a week because finding a print shop in Cousins was near impossible," Devon said, trying to fill the silence. 

That startled a laugh out of him. "Were you trying to bribe me into forgiving you?"

Her eyes went wide, as if she hadn't expected him to joke. "Is it working?"

"Maybe."

She jabbed her thumb at the yellow peony. "Sorry, it's not a sunflower. I was going for nostalgia, but they didn't have them, unfortunately."

"No, that's okay. I love peonies. They were..."

"In your mom's wedding bouquet," she finished for him. "Yeah, I know. You told me."

"You remembered?" he asked, almost in awe. 

"Of course I did." She hesitated, brushing her sleeve over the faint blood smear at her fingertip. "I meant to give the postcards to you at the end of summer, when I had more, but I figured this would do on short notice."

Conrad really did laugh then, a proper one that cracked him open and let the light back in. "You know, you could've just bought me one of those plastic I heart Cousins keychains, and I'd have forgiven you. You didn't need to do all this."

Devon shook her head resolutely. "You deserve the kind of effort you put in for other people, and you deserve more than a cheap apology."

He didn't know what to say to that. He'd imagined a hundred versions of her apology, a thousand ways this could've gone—tears, yelling, another fight—but not this. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, staring down at the photos again. "You know," he muttered, half to himself, "you've got a really messed-up sense of timing."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means..." He exhaled, shaking his head. "You disappear for a week, ignore every text I send, make me think I did something to screw everything up, and then show up here with the most sentimental, borderline-romantic gift I've ever received. What the fuck, Devon?"

Her eyes went glossy, and she looked on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry."

"I know you did. I believe you." Conrad traced the edge of one of the pictures with his fingers. "You made me look better than I am."

"I couldn't make you look better than you are, even if I tried," she said sincerely, and when he looked at her, he thought this was the closest thing to a confession he'd ever get from her. 

There was too much he wanted—to pull her close, to let the walls drop completely—but instead, he placed the box on his desk and lifted one hand halfway, offering it in the smallest, safest gesture he could manage. "Come here, you."

But Devon ignored the offered handshake, stepping right into him, her arms winding around his waist, her cheek pressed against his chest. Conrad froze, every muscle caught between surprise and the aching relief of finally being touched by someone who saw him. His heart thudded, quick and unsteady beneath her ear, and for the second time today, he forgot how to breathe. 

He hadn't realized until now just how much he'd missed this—missed her, and his arms came up almost of their own accord, circling her loosely at first, then tighter when she didn't pull away. "Missed me that much, huh?" he teased, but his voice came out rough, too tight to be properly playful. Mostly because he was just grateful that she seemed to have longed for him just as much as he'd missed her. 

Her response came muffled through his shirt. "Shut up."

"Glad to see you back in your usual spirits."

Devon tilted her head up, her eyes searching his face with that earnest kind of vulnerability that always undid him. "So, we're cool now? I really am sorry. I swear it."

When she looked at him like that, there was nothing she could do that he wouldn't forgive her for. Every wall he'd tried to build cracked at the edges, letting her in again like sunlight slipping through blinds. "Sure," he said finally. "Yeah, we're cool. As long as you promise not to disappear on me again."

"I promise."

"And I... uh... sorry about the hammer from earlier."

Devon's grin returned then, back to her usual self. "It's okay. I've considered it and realized a hammer isn't a terrible way to go out. It could've been worse. It could've been a chainsaw."

"Why the fuck would I have a chainsaw up on the roof with me?"

"I don't know. You Fix-It Felix types do love your tools."

"Enough of your nonsense." He began to lead her out of his room and down the stairs. "Come on. Let's go for a drive."

"Should I trust you behind the wheel? Is this a ploy to drive me into the ocean or something?"

Conrad paused, his hands coming up to rest lightly on her shoulders as he gave her a gentle shake, his tone soft but edged with real concern. "Stop joking about dying. Please."

"Sorry."

He sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching. "And stop apologizing."

"Sorry—wait, shit—sorry."

He snorted, and she echoed his laugh, the sound echoing between them, sweet and ridiculous and healing in ways he hadn't expected. For the first time in weeks, Conrad felt as if the weight crushing his ribs had lifted.

As he grabbed his car keys, he glanced at her over his shoulder. "Hey, how'd you get in, anyway?"

"Oh, uh... your—Isabel let me in. On her way out."

"She's not my anything," he mumbled automatically, pushing open the door. "But we should really get you your own spare key."

"There's no need for that," she protested. "Also, where exactly are we going?"

"Out. We've got a tour to complete." His tone turned unintentionally bitter as he added, "Or don't tell me, you've given the tour guide position to what's-his-face from Sunday's party."

Devon caught it instantly and burst out laughing. "Wait, do you mean Charlie's brother? Will?"

"So you're on a nickname basis with him now?"

"Oh no, that's definitely not happening. I got the sense he's into one of Charlie's other friends. The one who's engaged to someone else, no less. Talk about messy." Then she gave him an odd, mournful look he couldn't decipher, and shook her head immediately. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. The heart wants what it wants, I guess. Even if the other person's going to be marrying someone else. It doesn't make him a bad person."

Conrad narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Why do I get the feeling that we're not talking about your boy Will anymore?"

"He's not my anything!"

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, half amused, half annoyed. "Are you disappointed?"

"Fuck no. Not tryna be a rebound. Besides, you know how I feel about dating people just to get over the person you can't have. It's just bad manners."

"Wow. Such strong moral integrity."

"I mean it! In fact, I respect you for not messing around with other people just to get over your ex."

They were halfway down the driveway when he stopped dead in his tracks, her words hanging in the air like a slap. "Wait, what?"

Devon stilled, too, her eyes widening as her brain caught up to her mouth. "Shit. Sorry. That was insensitive as fuck. I didn't mean it like that. I really am sorry about Isabel and your brother, though. That can't be easy for you."

Conrad fought the urge to fall to his knees in some dramatic rendition of a prayer. 

Is that really what she thought? That he was still caught up on Belly? That all this time, he hadn't moved on because of her, hung up on the ghost of something long gone?

That couldn't be further from the truth.

No, he hadn't dated anyone because of Devon. If he ever tried to move on, if he ever went out with someone else, it'd only ever be to get over her. And he couldn't do that, couldn't stand the thought of forcing himself to move past something he never even got to have in the first place.

He wanted to tell her that. Wanted to tell her that she was the reason every other girl felt like white noise, and that she'd ruined him for anyone who wasn't her, but his mouth wouldn't cooperate. His larynx locked up around the words, refusing to betray him like that. To deny what she'd said—to correct her—meant explaining why, and explaining why would unravel everything.

They'd only just fixed things, and if he said something now, if he pushed too soon, too fast, he could ruin it all. So instead of confessing or being honest, Conrad forced out a quiet, noncommittal, "It's not like that... but I'm managing."

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

Devon was feeling great, truly, positively radiant in the light of having fixed the disaster that was her friendship with Conrad Fisher. The world had aligned once more, the seas had parted, and she could finally breathe without feeling like someone noosed a bowling ball around her throat.

They'd made up. Things were good. Great, even.

The sun was warm, the car was cool, and Cousins looked like the sort of place that should have been painted in watercolour. Conrad was driving, which meant Devon got to stare out the window and pretend to be a mysterious indie girl in a coming-of-age film. Something soft and crooning played from the radio, the kind of old-timey love song people probably slow-danced to at prom—not that she would know, considering she'd skipped her own. 

Everything was perfectly fine, and if she kept sneaking glances at Conrad's arms every time he turned the steering wheel, well... that was between her and God. Because, seriously, who let him walk around looking like that in a plain white T-shirt? There should be laws against that. 

So yeah, she was feeling great, and she didn't even feel the sting in her fingertips until Conrad abruptly pulled the car over at the nearest street corner and turned to her with crossed arms, like an annoyed dad about to give her a talking-to.

"Okay," he said slowly, eyes narrowing. "What's wrong? I thought we sorted things out."

Devon blinked at him, caught off guard. "We did?" she said innocently. "I mean, I think we did? Did we not?"

Conrad frowned, reached across the console, and pried her hands apart, lifting one of them in the air, so the sunlight glinted off her ragged skin. "Then what's this?" 

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Force of habit."

"No. Not force of habit." His voice was gentle but firm, and that was worse somehow. "You only do this when you're worried about something. So what is it? What's wrong?"

It was peak Conrad Fisher behaviour, spotting a crack and immediately wanting to fix it, to make her say something honest when she'd spent her whole life avoiding that exact thing.

"Nothing's wrong. Consider it a side effect from earlier. Promise." She forced herself not to snap or crumble under the weight of her own stupid feelings. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him again or say something she'd spend another week trying to apologize for. 

Conrad exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Trying to get something out of you is like trying to rob a triple-locked vault."

"Someone's been doing an Ocean's 8 rewatch."

"Ocean's 11," he corrected instantly. "The original."

"Nope. Ocean's 8. Infinitely better cast. The things I would do for Cate Blanchett in a suit."

"I'm not about to debate the merits of good cinema with someone who doesn't appreciate a classic." He rolled his eyes, but he didn't let go of her hand. If anything, his grip stayed firm, keeping her fingers from resuming their nervous assault on her own skin. 

Devon was too distracted by the easy familiarity to notice what he was doing until he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned forward. Her muscles tensed immediately. "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer, just popped open the glove compartment, pulling out a small box of Band-Aids and a handful of alcohol swabs. 

"Of course, Dr. Fisher has a whole first aid kit in his car."

"I actually have a fully stocked kit in the back," he responded solemnly. "This is just for little things." With a gentle tug, he pulled her hand toward him, the motion making her shift in her seat. "This might hurt a little."

Devon raised a brow, using her usual flippant tone. "What is pain, if not proof of life?"

"Shut up. Please."

Despite her jokes, the moment the cold, stinging disinfectant touched her skin, she hissed and tried to yank her hand back. "Fuck, dude, that hurt!"

"Sorry!" He winced on her behalf, still dabbing carefully. "I just said it would."

"I didn't think you were being serious!"

"Why would you not think I was being serious?" He looked at her incredulously, like he couldn't believe she was real. Nonetheless, his touch gentled even more after that, and every time she tried to pull away, he followed, holding her steady. "Shh," he murmured soothingly. "You're okay. Just hold still a sec."

When he finished cleaning each fingertip, he tore open the box of Band-Aids and began wrapping them one by one. The little beige strips looked comically out of place against her lime green nails, and by the time he'd finished the tenth finger, she looked like she'd lost a brawl with a box of craft supplies.

Devon stared down at her hands and snorted, "There was never a man more suited to the medical profession than you."

Conrad didn't answer right away, his thumb tracing absently over the ridges of one of her rings, almost lost in the motion, like the gesture had become a reflex he hadn't realized he'd picked up. "I don't suppose you'll tell me what's got you like this," he said finally.

"It's just from before, I told you," she said. "But we're good now, so I'm good. Don't worry about it."

He didn't believe her, but she refused to let the moment turn heavy, so she lifted her other hand—the one not trapped in his—and wiggled her fingers at him. "Thanks for making me look like Salad Fingers."

Conrad huffed a laugh, the tension in his face softening, but he still didn't let go. "You were doing a fine job of that on your own."

"Don't you dare insult the nails!" Devon protested. "I get a free new set every week, so I'm not about to complain about Emma's colour choices." 

Then, she glanced out the window and caught sight of Isabel Conklin stepping out of some roadside shop. The bubble of warmth in her chest popped immediately, and she eased her hand from Conrad's grasp, slow enough to make it seem casual. The absence of his touch felt colder than she'd expected, but it was fine. She was fine. This was all fine.

Earlier, when she'd joked about it, Conrad had basically admitted to still being hung up over her. Well, he'd said he was managing, which, in Conrad speak, probably meant that he thought about her every time he closed his eyes. 

And really, what the hell was Devon supposed to do with that? This was one thing she couldn't fix for him. If Isabel wasn't about to marry his brother, she might've offered to wingman him, but wedding crashing wasn't her area of expertise. Besides, Isabel looked happy with the choice she'd made. Conrad would just have to suck it up and deal with it. People did that all the time, didn't they? Loving someone who didn't love them back. There were worse fates.

Devon told herself she was okay with it—because that's what rational, emotionally stable adults said when the person they loved wanted someone else. Conrad Fisher was a gem, truly. He deserved everything good this world could give him, and if that didn't include her, well, she'd make her peace with that.

If there was one thing her conversation with her dad had opened her eyes to, it was that the love you had for your friends was no cheap thing, just because it wasn't romantic. Conrad didn't need to be anything more than her friend for her to keep showing up for him.

She looked out the window again just in time to see Isabel struggling to balance a precarious armful of shopping bags on her bike frame, looking like she was seconds away from a meltdown. When Devon turned back, Conrad was watching too, his expression unreadable but troubled, so she opened her big mouth and said lightly, "You should give her a ride home. It can't possibly be comfortable to bike with all that stuff, and we're quite far from your house."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "I can just walk home. Or, you know, wander around. Look around. If you want to help her finish her errands, that's cool too. She seemed kind of frazzled when I saw her this morning."

She figured she was doing the right thing, being a decent human being and all, but apparently that was complicated when your decency involved offering your maybe-kind-of-sort-of crush the chance to chauffeur his ex-almost-flame around town. "Only if you want," she added quickly, hands flailing just a little. "Like, if it wouldn't make you uncomfortable or anything."

Conrad gave her a long, careful look. "Would that make you uncomfortable?"

"Why would I care?"

"You wouldn't?" 

He looked vaguely troubled, which made her wonder if she'd somehow managed to say the wrong thing again, which was impressive, given how few words she'd actually used. Before she could dig herself any deeper, she reached for the door handle. "Of course I wouldn't. She looks like she could really use some help. I'll just hop out then—"

"Stay put," Conrad interrupted. "You're not going anywhere. I swear, you bring up walking every other minute like it's a threat."

"Please, you've been passenger-princess-ing me too hard lately," Devon snickered. "I'm gonna lose my daily step routine if this continues."

"You can do your daily steps when we go back to California," he shot back. "Shut up and stay put. I'll get Belly sorted in the backseat."

He stepped out of the car, and Devon leaned against her window to watch. After a few minutes of talking and way too much rearranging of the damn bike, he finally managed to wedge it into the back, but then, surprisingly, Isabel slid into the driver's seat while Conrad folded himself in the back with the bike. 

He ended up right behind Devon, and she could feel him before she even saw him, his knee pressing lightly against the back of her seat, and the sound of his steady breathing. His hand came down on her shoulder, firm and steady. "Stay put, please," he implored, giving her a reassuring squeeze. 

"I'm not a puppy, dude."

"I know, but I'm fine back here, so you don't need to offer to swap. And Belly wanted to drive, so this works out fine."

"Cool, cool." Easy enough to pretend this wasn't the weirdest carpool arrangement in history."

Isabel set down the armful of things she was carrying with a polite smile and waved a quick greeting to Devon, which she returned. 

Then Conrad nudged the pastel bakery box she'd set on the center console. "Aren't you going to try one of your cupcakes?"

Isabel sighed, a sound too weary for someone whose life should have been filled with pre-wedding glow and champagne bubbles, but she peeled back the lid anyway, revealing two neat rows of dark chocolate peaks with a small constellation of edible pearls glinting under the sunlight. Devon thought they looked like the kind of thing you'd buy for a photoshoot, not eat. She also thought no one should look that miserable while planning their own wedding, and maybe that was another reason not to get married so young, but that was none of her business. 

The girl politely offered the open box toward Devon. "Want one?"

"I'd rather not hijack your wedding treats. I feel like that's bad luck or something."

"Or something," Isabel said softly, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth.

To fill the silence, Devon reached into her bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer, holding it out toward Isabel. When the girl gave her a confused look, Devon said, "Dr. Fisher here dragged me to a seminar on pathogens, and now I'm paranoid about every surface known to man. Just humour me."

From the back seat, Conrad groaned. "Do not blame me for that. You were predisposed to paranoia way before the seminar."

Isabel laughed reluctantly and let her squeeze a bright green dollop into her palms. The scent hit the air immediately, sweet and comforting, like sugar and cinnamon. "Oh my god," she said after rubbing it in, closing her eyes briefly. "This smells amazing. Like Christmas."

"Yeah, my little brother has tried to eat it, so you're probably right about that," Devon said. "I'm glad you like it. I'll bring you your own bottle next time I drop by."

Isabel's eyes widened, alarm flashing across her face. "Oh, no, you don't have to—really, it's fine!"

"I get them in bulk." She shrugged. "I'm fully stocked for at least the next seven years. I could survive an apocalypse with my stash. You'd be doing me a favour, honestly."

That earned her a genuine smile from the bride-to-be. "Well, thank you."

Then Conrad, trying to draw Isabel's attention to the cupcakes before she spiralled again, prompted softly, "So?"

She exhaled, staring down at the open box wearily. "I don't even know. One's seventy percent cacao, one's eighty. They're probably supposed to taste different, but they taste the same to me." She pressed the lid back halfway down, defeated. "I like milk chocolate. But none of it matters anyway, 'cause we can't afford a cake from that place. So I guess we'll just... get a sheet cake from Stop & Shop."

"No, no—you don't have to do that!" Conrad protested immediately, trying to think of alternatives. "What if you just did one layer? Regular milk chocolate frosting. That's got to be cheaper. And then instead of delivery, I'll pick it up myself."

Isabel glanced up at him, some of the melancholy lifting from her face. "You'd do that?"

"I've driven through worse traffic for less important things."

That almost drew a laugh from her, but then her phone started buzzing, and she picked up the call enthusiastically, "Oh, hey, are you on the road?"

Devon could hear Jeremiah's muffled voice through the speaker. "Hey, Bells, um—n-no. Bad news. I'm stuck at the office, and I probably won't get to Cousins until late."

Isabel's shoulders slumped. "Seriously? Jere, we were supposed to go to Michaels today. Their pre-Fourth promotion ends today."

More muffled apologies came through the line, and the girl's voice softened, resigned but still trying to salvage something. "Okay, I have good news. I think we can still get the cake from your preferred bakery, but with a slight change of plans. How about a one-tier chocolate cake with milk chocolate frosting—no cacao—but you can still keep the raspberry coulis."

There was a pause, and then Jeremiah's voice grew clearer, enough for Devon to hear every enunciated syllable. "Belly, cacao is the bean. It's what chocolate is made of. Look, the whole flavour profile depends on the bitterness of the dark chocolate and the sweet tartness of the raspberry. The cake is my one thing, and you said each of us gets one thing."

Devon bit the inside of her cheek, stifling a laugh. Oh, this was gold. He sounded exactly like Kelsey arguing about the difference between Himalayan and sea salt. Put the two of them in a room, and you'd have a brawl, probably.

Isabel's demeanour turned strained at his words, "Yeah, I know I said that, but we just have to be realistic. I mean, we can't spend seven hundred fifty dollars on a cake."

Whatever Jeremiah said next didn't help, and her face twisted slightly, the corners of her lips trembling before she hung up and let the phone drop limply into her lap. Silence filled the car like heavy fog, and Isabel squeezed her eyes tight as though holding back tears. 

"I'm sure it's killing Jere not to be here," Conrad spoke, trying to console her. 

Isabel's voice came out wobbly as tears streamed down her cheeks. "I know that it's stupid to get upset about not going to Michaels," she mumbled through the hiccup of a sob. "And I know that he's busting his ass at your dad's company. But I just... I'm stuck here making all of these decisions about things that I don't even really care about, and that we can't even afford."

She swiped at her tears, shaking her head miserably. "All that matters to me is making this commitment to each other in front of the people that we love. Well, most of them." Her lips twisted into a bitter little scoff. 

Devon winced, caught off guard by the rawness of it. The poor girl must really be going through it if she was breaking down in front of a complete stranger. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

Isabel shook her head. "I just feel like I'm carrying all of this by myself, you know? And I'm doing all of this alone."

"You're not alone," Conrad said resolutely. "Your mom will come around. I know it. And right now..." He exhaled through his nose, decision made. "We're going to Michaels. Fuck it."

"Wait, really?" Isabel's eyes darted between him and Devon. "I thought the two of you had plans."

Conrad shrugged. "It's okay. We can reschedule. Devon doesn't mind, do you?"

"Nope." Devon shook her head with what she hoped was a reassuring smile, because what else could she possibly say when the girl was two breaths away from a panic attack?

Isabel let out another shaky breath, her face still blotchy but softening. "Okay. Thanks"

Devon reached into her messenger bag, rummaging for a moment before pulling out a handful of silver-wrapped chocolate eclairs and dropping them into the girl's palm. "Sugar," she said. "The nice kind, not whatever dark-chocolate thief-of-joy stuff your cupcakes were."

That seemed to make her feel a little better, and she looked at Devon in surprise. "I'm beginning to get more and more curious about how much you actually carry in your Hermione Granger bag."

Devon beamed at the reference and nodded sagely. "Anything and everything. All the supplies I could ever need to Pavlov people into liking me."

"It might be working."

When they finally pulled into the Michaels parking lot, Devon could have kissed the pavement. Not because she loved craft stores—she did, deeply, embarrassingly so—but because the air in the car had gotten so thick with heartbreak and despair that she was fairly certain she'd aged five years just sitting through it.

The moment they stepped inside, she waved her hand. "You guys go do whatever you need to. I'll just look around. Text me when you're done." 

But, of course, Conrad Fisher, lifelong ruiner of freedom, had other plans. His fingers wrapped around her wrist before she could make a clean getaway. "Nope," he said, tugging her toward the aisle Isabel had wandered down. "I'm not letting you out of my sight here."

"What, why?"

He laughed, looking far too pleased with himself. "Because the last time you were at Michaels, you bought twenty-five skeins of yarn. You had nowhere to put them. You made me swear I'd never let you loose in a craft store again. I'm just doing my due diligence."

"Oh my god," she groaned, dragging out the words. "They were on sale. Half price. The whole haul cost me like twenty bucks. It was a steal."

"It was a hoard," he corrected. "And everything here's on sale, too. You're going to get way too many again, and then you'll complain when you have to pay for excess baggage."

She opened her mouth to argue, but then paused, mid-protest. "Hold up, they have yarn on sale here?" Her voice jumped half an octave, eyes lighting up. "Oh, I have to see what their Cousins collection looks like!"

"See? You're incorrigible. This is for your own good. I promise you, yarn from Cousins is not any different than yarn from California."

"You don't know that."

"I do actually."

He didn't let go, and by the time they'd made it to the back half of the store, somehow their hands had gotten even more tangled together. She hadn't even noticed until Isabel turned around from a vase display, her eyes dropping briefly to where their fingers were comfortably intertwined. 

"Um, I'm sorry that you're stuck doing this with me," Isabel apologized. "I know it's lame."

Devon shook her head quickly. "It's not. This is one of my favourite places." Then, shooting Conrad a menacing glare, she added, "Now if someone would let me go explore, I'd be ever so grateful. Please distract him while I make my getaway."

Conrad gave her a smug little half-grin that said not a chance, and Isabel's resulting chuckle was painfully wistful. Her eyes flicked toward their hands again, and that was enough for Devon to immediately untangle herself, pretending she suddenly had something fascinating to dig for in her messenger bag. Chapstick. Gum. Dignity. Anything.

"Uh, well," Isabel said after a beat, "we can just be done and go pay for the stuff."

"What? No. We came all this way, and—uh—there's this big sale going on, so let's just take a lap, see what's going on." Conrad marched toward the synthetic flower aisle confidently. "Look," he said, gesturing at the explosion of colours. "They're kind of nice, aren't they? Maybe for the porch?" 

He turned to Devon with that boyish grin she could never refuse. "Come work your magic, Watson. You're better at this than I am."

She gave him a two-fingered salute and appraised the aisle carefully, plucking a cluster of small blue flowers with yellow centers. "Maybe blue forget-me-nots, for remembrance. For your, uh, for Susannah. They could also be your something blue."

Conrad went very still behind her, and Devon decided to keep talking before the air got too thick with grief. She moved down the aisle, pulling stems and handing them to Conrad like he was her intern. "Then maybe white lilacs for youthful innocence, which, I guess, fits the whole young love, bright future vibe." She added a few delicate sprays to her growing arrangement. "Baby's breath, obviously, for everlasting love. Total classic. And, uh..." she reached for a branch of pink camellias, "these for longing. Every bride's dream Pinterest board."

"But if you want something slightly different..." Her fingers brushed over another row as she tossed together another arrangement. "Lavender for devotion, ivy for fidelity, and peonies for a happy marriage. Conrad said they were in Susannah's bouquet, so I figure your fiancé will appreciate it."

She handed the second bundle to Isabel with an awkward shrug. "I mean, your actual bouquet should still be real flowers, but this might work for the other arrangements. Centrepieces or whatever."

"Oh... wow, it's beautiful," the bride-to-be murmured, her eyes shining. 

Devon felt her cheeks warm and immediately deflected. "Well, yeah. I'm a person of many useless talents. Put me on HGTV." She twisted her rings around her fingers awkwardly. "I don't really know your wedding theme, so feel free to replace stuff with your own floral preferences."

Isabel sighed, cradling the little bouquet Devon had built like it was something sacred. "We don't really have a theme. Taylor's been doing most of the planning stuff, and the theme is... whatever we can afford, I guess. But oh, I feel so bad taking the whole thing apart for checkout. It's so pretty. I love it. And it's got lots of white, so it'll go with any theme, really."

"I can come by later and put it together for you before the actual wedding, if you like," Devon said without thinking. "Throw in some of that fancy netting and ribbon, and we could have something nicer."

"Oh, you'd do that? I mean, you don't have to. I'm sure you have your own stuff to deal with. But Taylor's been so busy lately, so it'd be such a help."

"Yep. Consider it done."

"Thank you!" Then Isabel tilted her head curiously. "Hey, how'd you know how to do all this, anyway?"

Before Devon could come up with something appropriately self-deprecating, Conrad jumped in. "She took a floriography course freshman year. She's an expert, apparently."

"I what?"

He grinned, unbothered by her confusion. "You told me at grad, remember?"

She absolutely did not, but also, she'd been about four mimosas deep, so who knew what she'd said that night. 

Just then, her phone buzzed in her pocket, saving her from having to comment on that disaster. "It's my dad," she told them, lifting the screen. "You two go ahead. I'll be along in a minute."

For once, Conrad didn't argue, following Isabel down the next aisle, the pair disappearing behind a display of fake ivy garlands. Devon should've turned away and minded her own business, but unfortunately, she looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of the look on Conrad's face—soft, woebegone, and filled with so much unspoken something that it nearly knocked the air out of her lungs. His gaze had that distant, dazed quality he got whenever his mind wandered into the past, and somehow she felt she knew what he was thinking. When Isabel turned around to tell him something, her smile was a literal sunbeam, and Devon thought it made sense that it would be impossible to get over someone like her. 

They looked like they'd walked straight out of a Shakespeare-inspired Hallmark movie—the groom who wasn't, and the bride who'd chosen someone else.

When she finally checked her phone, she almost laughed out loud. The text from her dad was just his usual blend of nosiness and unhelpful meddling.

Did you make up with that boy? Invite him over for dinner.

Devon stared at the message for a long moment, feeling a ridiculous urge to both cry and throw her phone into the nearest glue-gun display, and it took her a solid two minutes of deep breathing and pretending to examine a rack of decorative twine before she returned to third wheel the happy un-couple. 

Devon had decided that the only logical place for her on this trip back was the backseat, squeezed between an alarming number of shopping bags, a rogue fern, and a bike frame practically boring a hole in her thigh through her jeans. It was fine. Who didn't love mild circulatory failure on a sunny afternoon?

She'd put her headphones in, a universal sign that told the world she was not fit for human company, and sank low into the seat. Isabel and Conrad talked in the front, and Devon caught pieces of their conversation through the music. 

Every now and then, she could feel Conrad's eyes scrutinizing her from the rearview mirror, probably checking to make sure she hadn't suffocated under all the shopping bags. Or maybe he was making sure she hadn't escaped out the window. Either way, she refused to look back. They could have their nostalgia and rom-com catch-up session while she tried to nap her feelings into submission.

She didn't know how long she'd been out when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and Conrad's voice filtered through her half-asleep haze. "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty."

Devon cracked one bleary eye open and groaned. The door was open, sunlight poured in, and he was standing there smiling at her like she was someone precious. They were parked by a massive field—a farm, from the looks of it—and Isabel was already heading toward a cart piled high with baskets of peaches.

"Sorry for dragging you around today," Conrad said. "Belly just looked so sad, and without Jere or Taylor or even Laurel around, I didn't want her to do all this alone. But I guess I should've asked if you were okay with it."

Devon blinked at him, still half asleep and half irritated at how unfairly kind he sounded.
"Jesus, Fisher, I'm not a monster. No one should be planning their wedding alone."

He grinned at that, and it was so adorable that it made her heart ache. He looked like a kid who'd just been told he did a good job at something he wasn't sure about. "And thanks for being so considerate about everything," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Especially the flowers—for trying to include Mom. I'm sure it'll mean the world to Jere. And Belly looked really happy. And just—thanks for coming to Cousins in the first place. I was right. The best version of any day is if you're there."

It was ridiculous, the way those words hit her, like someone had reached inside her chest and wrung her heart out with both hands. So she did the only logical thing: faked a yawn so she could pretend that the tears that misted her eyes were mere exhaustion. 

"Your public displays of sentiment are appreciated, Fisher. And of course I came. You asked, so I had to. Simple as that. The only way I wouldn't have come is if I were dead."

Conrad ran a hand through his hair and grumbled, "What did we say about the death jokes?"

"That I'm allowed at least five before dinner time?" she returned innocently with a wink. 

"You're impossible." He shook his head fondly. "Why are you so tired anyway? It's barely even sunset."

Devon yawned— a real one this time—and slouched further into her seat. "Was up till four a.m. playing Mario Kart with my dad because Emma and the boys were out. Between the two of us, we don't make a lot of good grown-up decisions."

She was going for casual, but then her stomach betrayed her with a rumble so loud it might've registered on the Richter scale.

"You don't make good decisions about nutrition either," Conrad snickered. "When's the last time you ate something?"

"Uh... yesterday."

His face went through about seven stages of disbelief before landing on deeply appalled. "No breakfast?"

"I had to come see you in the morning, dude. If I'd had breakfast, I would've hurled all over your fancy carpet."

Now he looked downright disturbed, which was fair. It was not the most flattering admission she'd ever made. "You were that anxious to see me?" he demanded. "Jesus, Devon, I wasn't going to execute you. I was just a little upset. But we fixed it, right? No harm done."

"Disapproval is worse than an execution," she deadpanned. "You should know this about me by now."

"That I do," he muttered. "Come on now. Have a peach. You'll feel better."

Her eyes widened. "Wait, shit, aren't you allergic? Should you even be here?"

"I'm not gonna be the one eating one."

They walked over to the cart, where Isabel was already halfway through a peach, juice dripping down her wrist like something out of a rustic lifestyle ad. The stall smelled heavenly, all sun and sugar, and Devon dug out a couple of bills to drop them into the little mason jar for payments. 

"Oh, these look nice. I'll get some for Emma. She loves them, and she's been so kind this summer, doing my nails and everything." She glanced at Isabel to explain, "Emma's my stepmother."

"Oh my god," the girl gasped, stepping closer to examine Devon's hand. "Is that who did your nails? They're so pretty. I've been meaning to ask!"

She glanced down at the swirling limes painted onto her nails and nodded. "Yep, that's Emma. She's pretty great." Then, in a moment of what could only be described as peak Devon impulse, she added, "Oh, hey, if you want a set done for your wedding, I'm sure she'd be happy to do them for you. Then you can save your budget for that. She's always asking me to bring friends over so she can practice, but... I don't really have here."

Very smooth. Confess social bankruptcy to the bride-to-be.

Isabel looked genuinely touched, though, her expression softening. "Oh... I hadn't even considered getting my nails done for the wedding."

"No, you definitely should," Devon said quickly, because she couldn't bear that hint of sadness in her voice. "Maybe to match your dress or something. Let me know, and I can swing by to pick you up."

"Oh, that's okay, maybe Conrad can drop me off. I wouldn't want to be any more of a bother."

"Not a bother. But sure." And just like that, she'd volunteered herself for more time with Conrad and the girl he was in love with. Flawless decision-making, as always. If self-sabotage were an Olympic sport, she'd have gold medals, a sponsorship deal, and her face on a cereal box.

Then Isabel turned toward Conrad, peach juice dripping down her wrist like honey. "Oh, you're not having one?" 

Conrad gave her his usual soft smile—the one reserved just for her—and shook his head. "I'm allergic."

"What? Since when? I've definitely seen you eat a peach before. Peach pie, at least."

"Since always. I mean, I've had them before, but they make my mouth itchy."

Devon muttered under her breath, just loud enough to be heard, "And some people have the audacity to accuse me of flirting with death."

Conrad snorted, eyes glinting. "It's okay, though. Watson here carries an EpiPen on my behalf, so I'm always prepared for a surprise anaphylactic shock."

Devon rolled her eyes so hard she was surprised they didn't dislodge. "I do not carry it for you," she said flatly. Then, glancing at Isabel, she added, "My little brother has a peanut allergy and my best friend back in California is allergic to shellfish, so I kinda just carry one at all times. In case someone decides to spontaneously combust near me or whatever."

Isabel nodded, her expression softening. "And why aren't you eating one? Are you allergic too?"

"Nope. I just figured I shouldn't get my hands sticky and then touch the car or anything Conrad might come into contact with. Don't want to trigger anything."

The words were meant to be practical, but Isabel's gaze flickered guiltily as she lifted her dripping elbows helplessly. "Oh, this is going to get everywhere."

Wordlessly, Devon pulled out a wad of tissues and her sanitizer bottle from her messenger bag and handed them to her. 

A melancholy smile twitched at Isabel's lips, the one that made her look like she was chasing the echo of something lost. "Wow," she said softly, almost to herself. "You're a really thoughtful girlfriend."

Devon grimaced, her expression a mask of utter horror. She started shaking her head, hoping that if she moved fast enough, she could rewind time and delete the sentence from existence. "Oh, fuck no!" she blurted. "I'm not his girlfriend. Like, at all. Never in a million years. We're just friends."

The words tasted bitter on her tongue, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Conrad stiffen. He didn't say anything at first, but the shift in him was immediate, like she'd slapped him or something. His shoulders tightened, his jaw clenched, and the faint flush that rose to his neck looked like something between embarrassment and... hurt?

What the hell? Why did he look hurt? That wasn't fair. It wasn't like she'd said anything wrong. Wouldn't it be worse to let Isabel think they were something they weren't?

But the air had become stifling, and for once, Devon couldn't think of anything clever to say.

"Oh," Isabel said, eyes darting nervously between them. "I see."

Conrad's lips parted like he might say something, but then he just shook his head once, sharply. "I'll just go wait in the car," he mumbled, his voice controlled in that careful way that meant he was angry but trying too hard not to be.

Then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him, while Devon stood frozen in the aftermath, the taste of humiliation heavy in her throat. Her pulse thundered in her ears, loud and uneven. To destroy something she had just fixed that morning was almost impressive. Impressive if it wasn't so fucking comical. Whoeever was weaving the tapestry of her life must've really, really hated her. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

The drive back was a punishment, and Conrad felt like he had somehow landed in the fourth circle of hell, which was fair considering it was reserved for biblical greed, and hadn't he been so, so greedy, wanting things that were never meant for him. Whoever had said that his third-year elective reading of Dante's Inferno would be useless clearly didn't account for his ability to draw parallels to his own wretched life. 

The car was full of the sound of the engine, the static hum of the tires on asphalt, the whisper of wind through the window, yet it felt suffocatingly silent. Even Belly sat still in the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap, not daring to breathe too loudly. She must've sensed the tension radiating off him like heat, even as he tried his best to keep his eyes on the road, watching the dotted yellow lines slip by, one after another, like a lifeline he could follow out of his own thoughts. 

He didn't dare look up because every time his gaze flicked toward the rearview mirror, he saw her, and then all he could think about was that look on her face when Belly had said what she said. 

It was an innocent enough assumption, and it wasn't a lie. Devon was thoughtful. Maybe one of the most thoughtful people he knew, so sure, while she wasn't his girlfriend—yet—the statement was as good as true. 

But Devon hadn't just corrected her. She'd looked horrified, like the mere possibility of being with him was something she had to violently reject before it could taint her. No hesitation, not even a half-second to laugh it off or a polite, ha, no, not quite. Just that firm, immediate, fuck no.

Conrad could still hear it ringing in his ears, could still feel the way his stomach had dropped, like the world had opened under him and left him falling through it. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, until his knuckles turned bone-white, the veins in his arms standing out like blue cords under his skin.

Jesus Christ, get over yourself, he told himself. It's not that deep.

Except it was, because for the first time in a very long time, someone had made him feel. Made him want to laugh and say things that weren't weighed down with guilt or grief. Made him think that maybe there still existed a version of him that wasn't so fucking hollow.

But Devon had looked at him like she couldn't even imagine it. Like he wasn't someone worth imagining at all.

He'd thought maybe she liked him, at least a little. Between the teasing and the not-quite-but-almost flirting, and the way her eyes softened sometimes when she thought he wasn't looking. He'd told himself he was imagining things, but deep down, he'd hoped. 

Now, all he felt was the sharp, stupid sting of humiliation.

When he parked in the driveway of the beach house, Belly practically leapt out before the car had even fully stopped, muttering something about getting the peaches inside. He didn't blame her. His mood had curdled, and no one in their right mind would want to sit in it.

Devon didn't move for a long time, until eventually she cleared her throat. "Uh, I guess I'll head out now. You're already home, so I don't mean to bother you for a ride. You've been driving around all day anyway." Her voice was careful, testing the air like someone who knew there were landmines underfoot.

There was a long pause, and then she added, "Although my dad said to invite you to dinner. If you're up for it."

Conrad stared straight ahead, his hands aching from how tightly he was still gripping the steering wheel. What a fucking joke? Dinner with her family, like she hadn't just ripped the ground out from under him.

"Do you want me there?" he finally asked bitterly. 

"What?" Devon demanded, almost indignantly. "Well, duh? I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

That made him angrier. Not really at her, but at himself. For caring. For hoping. For letting himself believe that someone like her—bright, infuriatingly sharp-tongued and unbearably thoughtful Devon Watson—could ever look at him and see more than the wreckage.

He wanted to tell her that it had hurt, and the sound of her saying never in a million years was going to replay in his head for years, but he didn't. 

"What did I do this time?" she sighed when he didn't answer. "If this is about Isabel's assumption, that's not fair to put that on me. How was I supposed to know what she was thinking? It's your fault for being all touchy-feely when we're not—and giving everyone the wrong impression."

Now that definitely felt like a slap, and something inside him reared its ugly head as his eyes hardened. "Don't worry," he muttered. "We wouldn't want that, would we? Won't happen again."

"Why are you being like this? Whatever it is, I'm sorry, okay?"

"No, you're not. You can't be if you don't even know what for."

There it was, the old him again. The angry, self-destructive version that shut everyone out before they could leave. He hated that he could feel himself regressing, shrinking back into the boy who lashed out just to feel in control, but it was already happening. The walls were up, the words slipping out faster than he could stop them.

"And I didn't mean what I said earlier," he blurted out before he could think better of it.

Devon's voice became strained. "What?"

"I take it back," he said, each word harsher than the last. "I should never have asked you to come here with me. It's made everything worse. You should've just stayed in California."

You make everything worse.

That's what she would hear, but he didn't quite mean it like that. Just that maybe everything would've been easier if she'd stayed behind and he hadn't tried to bring pieces of his new life into the ruins of his old one. California Devon didn't know the version of him that existed here in Cousins, the one burdened by grief, guilt, and all the ghosts that haunted this house. She didn't know the Conrad who kept breaking things just to prove they couldn't last.

He expected her to fight back, to throw his cruelty in his face or tell him off the way she usually did. She'd have every right to, and he almost wanted her to, if only so the anger could burn away the shame. But when he finally turned around to look at her, she wasn't angry.

Her lips were pressed into a tight line, and her throat was working like she was forcing back words that wanted to come out but couldn't. Despite the darkness, he could see the shimmer of tears in her eyes as she gave a sharp little shake of her head and whispered, "Good to know that's how you really feel."

When she got out of the car, the door slammed so hard it rattled through Conrad's bones. For a moment, he just sat there, dazed, staring at the place where she had been seconds ago, and then instinct—or desperation—kicked in, and he was scrambling out of the car, his hands clumsy on the handle, his pulse hammering in his throat.

"Devon, wait—"

She spun around so fast it startled him, and her eyes were furious, shining in the streetlight like wet glass. "Don't," she hissed, every syllable trembling with restraint. "I don't want to talk to you right now and say something I'll regret. Something you clearly haven't thought to do."

Conrad froze, halfway between apology and panic. "Shit, it's late. Let me take you home, at least."

She let out a short, bitter laugh that scraped against his lungs like gravel. "I'd rather be dead in a ditch somewhere than spend another minute with you."

He didn't have the courage to call after her after that, even though he wanted to. He wanted to say he didn't mean it. That she was the only thing that had made this summer remotely bearable. But saying it now would sound like begging, and he was already drowning in enough humiliation for one day.

He stood there long after she disappeared into the dark, the night air cool against his skin, but doing nothing to ease the heat burning through him. Everything inside him was shaking, the same old storm he'd spent years trying to bury, clawing its way back out. He thought about all the ways he could've stopped this, how he could've kept his mouth shut and not let the bitterness twist his words into blades. But it was too late for that now. It was always too late with him.

When he finally made his way back into the house, it felt colder. Even the walls seemed to judge him, and the air smelled of memories—of summers that used to feel infinite. He shut the door softly behind him, as if loud noises might summon ghosts, and his body moved on autopilot as he went upstairs. Keys tossed onto the desk, shoes kicked under the bed, the lights left off. 

He sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. They were trembling. He'd done damage before, but this felt irreversible, like he'd crossed a line he couldn't even see until he was already on the other side of it.

He'd done it again, destroyed something that had only ever tried to be good to him. Devon had let him forget for a little while that he was beyond repair, and he'd repaid her by taking every insecurity and hurling it at her like shrapnel.

But maybe this was better. Maybe she was better off without him. He could tell himself that over and over until it sounded like the truth and the ache dulled into something manageable. Maybe this was what he deserved.

Conrad had been staring at the ceiling long enough for numbness to replace the shaking in his hands when a knock sounded at the door. He didn't respond. He'd already torched one relationship today; he wasn't exactly looking for seconds. Maybe if he just stayed still and kept pretending to be dead, whoever was at the door would go away.

The door creaked open anyway, and Jeremiah stood there looking dishevelled. His hair was rumpled, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows,  and his tie hanging loose. He had a pizza box in one hand and a six-pack of beer shoved into the crook of his arm.

"Hey. Want some company?" he said way too cheerfully. "Belly said you hadn't eaten yet, so I made a run to our favourite pizza place."

Conrad shrugged. "Well, you're already here."

His brother stepped inside and kicked the door shut with his foot, plopping onto the mattress and setting the pizza between them like a peace offering. Conrad kept his arms crossed for about nine seconds before his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.

Jeremiah raised a brow and handed him a slice, not willing to let him play martyr tonight. "Belly told me you took her to Michaels today," he said lightly. "Said your friend was super helpful. Thanks. Best co–best man ever."

He couldn't tell if it was genuine or a joke. With Jere, it was always a gamble, but a spark of irritation flared low in his gut. "You should've been there to take her yourself," he mumbled before he could stop himself.

And yeah, it wasn't really fair of him to say that. Jere hadn't known that Devon being dragged along would unravel everything. But still, if he'd just shown up like a normal fiancé, Conrad wouldn't have needed to be the stand-in. He could've kept his morning with Devon and avoided the peach farm aftermath. Hell, maybe he'd still have her.

Then again, maybe losing her was inevitable. He would've wrecked it eventually, if not today. 

Jeremiah's shoulders lowered with a sigh. "Okay," he said, tone gentle but edged with tension. "You're mad at me. Which, considering I haven't seen you all week, feels a little unfair, but I'm willing to let it slide and blame it on you being hangry."

He passed Conrad a beer, which Conrad cracked open, wishing he could disappear inside the can.

"I had to stay late at work. I'm trying to make a good impression on Dad." If Jere noticed his resulting scowl, he pretended not to. "Which I know you neither care about nor have to try with, but it matters to me. And while I was finishing a report on a company we were about to do a deal with, I caught them being shady with their numbers. Dad was actually impressed. So he's all in for the wedding now."

"I see."

Conrad was happy for him, truly, he was, even if, deep down, he still thought the wedding was a spectacularly bad idea, but honestly, who was he to give relationship advice?

"Congrats, man," he said, clapping his brother lightly on the shoulder. "I'm glad it worked out."

Jeremiah brightened immediately. "And he's going to pay for it, which is a relief. But I, uh... haven't told Belly yet. Because, you know, Dad. Always with the conditionals. He said he wants to do it at the country club, and maybe invite some of the people from work."

He didn't even bother hiding the eye roll this time. "Trust Dad to turn his own kid's wedding into a networking circus."

"Yeah, but it's what you do in the corporate world, you know? And I was just happy he's trying with me."

Conrad exhaled. He needed to rein it in. "No, you're right," he amended quickly. "I'm sorry. It's been a long day. I'm not in the right headspace. But I am happy for you, dude. Really. I'm glad things are working out with you and Dad." He paused. "Just don't let him guilt-trip you into doing everything his way. This wedding is about you and Belly, not random coworkers who don't give a shit about you beyond how well you function as a cog in the corporate machine."

Jeremiah nodded, absorbing that. "Dad also said his secretary, Kayleigh, would help with the planning, so hopefully that'll lessen Belly's load. She can focus on her GREs."

Conrad flinched before he could stop himself. He was already in a piss-poor mood, but hearing the name of the woman their father had cheated with while their mom was sick made a spike of rage lance through him. And now, that woman would be here, front and center, helping plan his brother's wedding. A place that should have belonged to their mother, and their mother alone.

How fucking dare he?

For a wild moment, he wanted to just tell Jere everything. Let him share both the hurt and the hate, so that he'd at least stop chasing Adam Fisher like some eager dog begging for scraps of approval. 

His teeth clenched, but he held himself back. For all of Jere's flaws, he had loved their mom. That was indisputable. If Conrad told him now, he would blow up, confront Adam, and torch the whole thing. And that would ruin the wedding.

He couldn't do that. He refused to be the one to set everything on fire. Because the promises you made on your mother's deathbed were absolute. She'd told him with her dying breath that she knew Jeremiah would be okay because he would have Conrad to look after him. And while he believed their mom had severely overestimated his abilities as the perfect big brother, he had made the promise anyway, and it had brought her peace. Which meant he had to keep it. 

Maybe later, after the wedding, when he had a better grip on himself, he would tell Jere the whole truth. Maybe then he wouldn't risk saying the wrong, irreparable thing.

So he forced a smile despite the tightness in his chest. "That's great, Jere. I'm glad it's all going according to plan."

His brother's voice turned teasing, and Conrad felt a cold dread in his stomach because he knew exactly who he was going to bring up. 

"So, Kayleigh was asking about the seating arrangements and stuff, so I told her to put Devon down as your plus-one," Jeremiah said. "I figured you were gonna tell me to eventually, so I got the ball rolling for you. And if you want, we can invite her to the bachelor party, too. She can be part of the groom's side. You don't have to worry about her being lonely, 'cuz my coworker, Denise—who I'm pretty sure Steven has a major thing for—is gonna be there too, and they'd probably get along. It'll be great."

Conrad simply tipped back his beer can and drained it. Then he cracked open a second, finishing that one too before he bothered speaking. "I don't think she'll come. Like ever, really."

Jeremiah's grin faded. "Oh. Shit, man, what happened?"

The honesty came easier than it should have. "Fucked shit up. Like always. What's new?"

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really."

His brother's face fell, a small disappointment he didn't voice, but he nudged another slice of pizza toward Conrad, and they sat like that for a while, chewing, not speaking. 

Eventually, Jere broke the silence again. "I'm really glad you're here, Con. I know I didn't say it before, but I really am. I just wish Laurel would come around, too. If she were here, then it would feel a little like Mom's here too."

"You know how Laurel feels about the whole thing."

"That we're immature and stupid for getting married. We've been dating for four years. I don't see what the big deal is." He paused, then looked at Conrad, his expression laced with something fragile. "You think that too, don't you?"

Conrad took a breath and chose his words carefully. "Do I worry for you? Yes. It's a big commitment. But if you're absolutely sure this will make you happy, then go ahead. Who am I to stand in the way? It's not my life to live."

"So that's a yes to thinking we're childish and immature, then?" his brother scoffed, equal parts defensive and wounded.

"You're my little brother, Jere. You could be fucking eighty and I'd still think you're childish and immature."

That earned a laugh, and then Jeremiah stood, mumbling something about going to convince Belly about a country club wedding. He even dusted crumbs off the bed on his way out, gathering the empty pizza box and crushed beer cans, which meant Conrad must've looked exactly as pathetic as he felt.

When the door finally clicked shut, the silence rushed in, loud and familiar. Conrad let himself curl up on his side like a kicked dog and pressed a hand to his chest, right over that stupid, traitorous spot that always hurt when he reminisced too hard. A dull ache bubbled up under his ribs, the kind that never really went away, just lying dormant in wait. 

It had been months since that pain felt this sharp, and more than anything in the world, he wished his mother were here to do something about it. He wished he could talk to her, or talk to anyone really, but there was no one.

Adam was about as useful as gasoline on a dumpster fire. Maybe worse, actually. At least gasoline got the burning over with quickly. As for Laurel, she probably had her own shit to deal with, and he didn't think he had any claim to go knocking on her door asking to be mothered. Steven hadn't been close to him in a long time; whatever they'd once been had dissolved into a polite, brittle distance.

Agnes and the rest of his Stanford friends were half a country away, and the one person who might have—

He shut that thought down so fast it left a ringing behind his eyes.

That left only Jere, but to Jere, he was supposed to be the unshakable one. He thought about that promise again—his mother's hand holding his, her voice fraying at the edges, telling him to take care of his brother. Taking care of your brother included not trauma dumping on him when he was already stressed out over his wedding plans. 

Conrad Fisher was a lot of things—fuck-up, failure, disappointment—but never a liar, especially not to family. In the past, he'd kept his promise the only way he knew how: by leaving. Because, among the many things he was, coward sat pretty high on the list. Running was the only thing he'd ever been good at.

But now he was here, he had to show up.

He could start by getting Laurel back into the picture. If he talked to her, maybe he could convince her to support the wedding. For both Belly and Jere's sakes, because neither of them deserved to go through it with the only adults present being Adam and his fucking home-wrecking secretary.

Conrad curled smaller, hand still on his chest, breathing through old wounds that never healed right. He wanted them all to be happy, and hopefully, if he gave himself a list of tasks to focus on, he wouldn't feel so sick of himself. 

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

At some point during her walk of shame back to the house, Devon had broken into a run. She didn't remember deciding to, but one second she was speed-walking with her jaw clenched so tight it hurt, and the next her legs were burning, her breath tearing out of her chest in ragged bursts. It didn't matter that she was wearing the wrong shoes, thin-soled sandals more suited for brunches, not sprinting across asphalt like she was reenacting a Nike commercial. It didn't even matter that her toes already throbbed or that she'd for sure have blisters in the morning. 

She ran because if she didn't, she'd scream. Or cry. Probably both.

She blew straight past her house and didn't even notice until she was three blocks away. Everything looked the same here, all clapboard, picket fences, and postcard serenity, and she must've been doing incoherent laps around the neighbourhood. Nonetheless, her body kept moving, as if speed alone could outrun her thoughts.

It was an old trick her coach at Stanford had taught her when she'd first joined the team: If losing control, run until you can't think anymore.

So she ran until her lungs burned and a stitch stabbed under her ribs, forcing her to slow, then stumble, then stop entirely. When she finally dragged herself to a halt, she was standing in the middle of the beach, hands braced on her knees, wheezing. The waves crashed to one side, indifferent and loud, drowning out the blood roaring in her ears, and she doubled over, sucking in air. At least the choking tightness in her chest now was due to exertion, not heartbreak. 

Her legs felt like lead, so she just let gravity win and collapsed back onto the sand right at the edge of the shore. If the tide came in and soaked her, whatever. She sprawled out without caring that she'd have to shake sand out of her hair in the morning. Future Devon could deal with it.

Here, without the constant glow of city lights, the sky was lit up with stars, and she latched onto them like they were lifelines, counting them one by one, over and over, anything to keep her focus upward and not inward.

She absolutely refused to cry, especially not over a man of all things. It didn't matter that he'd been one of her best friends. That he'd known her better than most people on earth. That he'd been one of the most important people in her life. At the end of the day, a man was still a man, and eventually he'd open his mouth and remind you what a fucking disappointment that usually meant.

So no, she wouldn't shed a single tear over Conrad Fisher.

That was the plan, anyway, but when she blinked, tears slid up into her hairline, dampening the sand beneath her temples. Stupid fucking feelings. She wondered if the psychology department at Stanford still did lobotomies. 

Eventually, her phone rang, distracting her from her doom spiral, and for a moment, she considered ignoring it—pretending she was asleep, dead, abducted by aliens, or literally anything that meant she didn't have to speak to another human being.

But a distraction sounded nice. Necessary, even. So she scrubbed furiously at her face with shaky hands, and angled her phone above her head to squint at the caller ID, not bothering to sit up. It was a video call request from Maeve, and she accepted, grateful it was dark enough that the camera couldn't pick up the evidence of her emotional implosion. 

Maeve's voice burst through instantly. "You will not believe the news I have to share!"

Devon swallowed, forcing her voice to behave. "Uh, let me guess, Elon Musk adopted you? You've been recruited for MI6? You discovered you're actually French royalty?"

"Nothing that dramatic, don't worry." 

She lifted her hand, wiggling her fingers wildly, and it took Devon a second to process what she was seeing, what that spark of light on her finger meant. Her jaw immediately dropped, and a breathless sound escaped her. "Oh my god," she whispered. "My best friend's getting married."

Maeve grinned so wide it practically blinded the camera. "Hell yeah, I'm getting married."

"Wow. This seems to be a summer for weddings."

"Well, the actual wedding probably won't be until next year, but I just had to tell you."

Smiling wasn't too hard after that, and Devon's lungs loosened just a little as she let her friend's joy wash over her like warm water, soothing the singed edges of her own heart. "When did it happen?" 

"Ten minutes ago." Maeve flipped the camera around to show the marble counters, ornate mirrors, and ridiculous flower arrangements of some fancy hotel bathroom.

"You interrupted your engagement dinner to call me and tell me about it?" Devon demanded in awe. 

Maeve appeared again on screen, rolling her eyes. "Girl, I would've called you while Henry was still on his knee, but that felt a little mean. So I'm sorry you had to wait an entire ten minutes until I could politely excuse myself to the bathroom."

"Glad to know your priorities are straight."

"Exactly."

"I'm happy for you, M," Devon told her sincerely. "So, so happy. You deserve the world."

Maeve's expression flickered, going soft around the edges, eyes suddenly shiny. "Oh, you're going to make me ruin my makeup." She sniffed and fanned her face dramatically. "Okay, listen, I'll call you tomorrow and give you every detail, but I just had to tell you. And also to tell you to clear your schedule because, duh, you've got maid of honour duties."

She felt her throat tighten, not painful like earlier, but warm and bittersweet. Somewhere deep inside her, beneath the humiliation, the sadness, the shameful sting of Conrad's words, joy bloomed. "I would've been offended if you hadn't asked me."

"Okay, okay, enough moping," Maeve chided. "Can't exactly go back to Henry with smeared mascara and tell him that my best friend's reaction to my proposal made me more emotional than the actual proposal."

"At least he'll be aware of where he stands in the social hierarchy of your life," Devon deadpanned." 

"Anyways, I think I'm going to tell the other girls over a group call tomorrow. So you'll have to hear some of it again."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

"And I was thinking, we could do bridesmaid dresses in different colours? Like jewel tones? You'd be emerald, obviously. It'd bring out your eyes. And maybe ruby for Gwen, and sapphire for Kelsey," Maeve continued, obliviously thrilled. "Oh! And I should send out those little bridesmaid proposal boxes. Champagne, candles, sentimental letters, maybe matching pyjama sets? What do you think the team would like?"

"Wow, perks already?" Devon raised a brow. 

"Naturally. I take care of my people."

"Okay, M, take a breath. You have plenty of time. I'll take care of it. You don't have to be team captain on your own bloody wedding day."

Maeve stopped her anxious pacing, looking at the camera, on the verge of tears again. "Now you're really going to make me cry."

"Please don't." 

"Okay, but at least we're good for catering, which is such a relief. Kelsey's already called dibs on catering all of our weddings."

"Which seems a little overenthusiastic considering some of us are destined to die alone."

"Oh, please, you're not dying alone," Maeve scoffed. "And I can't wait for your turn. Then I'll get to be the unhinged bridesmaid making bad speeches."

"Statistically, someone has to take that role. I volunteer as tribute. I can start a commune for jaded ex–soccer players."

"No. Absolutely the fuck not! Anyway, don't you have that doctor guy? Who, by the way, I'm assuming will be your date, so I won't bother trying to set you up with any of the groomsmen."

Devon's smile faded immediately. "Ah, well..." She cleared her throat, forcing down the sudden lump swelling at the back of it. "I appreciate your willingness to let go of your matchmaking ways."

Maeve narrowed her eyes, instantly tuning in like a bloodhound to her less-than-cheerful response. "Babe, are you alright?"

"Yep." She nodded way too quickly and gave a thumbs-up. "Just allergies. Too much sand and all that."

"Sand?" 

"Yes. It's coarse and rough and irritating and—"

"Shut up," Maeve laughed, but she was still squinting, suspicious. "Seriously. You look like you've been crying."

Devon forced a shrug. "I mean, you just gave me emotional news. You can't expect me not to be emotional."

"Yeah, but you can tell me if something's wrong, right. I am literally contractually obligated to listen to you as your best friend."

"I know," she murmured. And though she really wanted to spill everything, Maeve was in a hotel bathroom with a ring on her finger and a fiancé waiting for her. Devon wasn't going to ruin that. "But you should go. Seriously. Henry's probably wondering if you made a run for it."

Maeve sighed dramatically. "Fine. But only because my future husband is probably giving himself a panic attack." She paused, then added softly, "Also, just so you know, I'm not trying to matchmake you because your match is already made. And it's way better than anything I could cook up."

The words punched straight through her ribs before she could brace, and her response slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it. "Well, he also told me he hates me. And that I make everything in his life worse and he wishes he never had to see me again, so... maybe not."

Maeve froze, her eyes flying wide open. "Girl, what the fuck—"

"Tell Henry congrats," Devon interrupted quickly. "And that if he ever breaks your heart, we'll use Kelsey's mafia connections to hire someone and make him regret being born."

"Dev—"

But she'd already hit the End Call before Maeve could utter another word. The screen went black, leaving Devon alone with nothing but the sound of her own ragged breathing and the faint ache of a heart she couldn't put back together.

She sat up and dropped her phone into her lap, her hands coming up hard over her face, palms grinding against her eyes as if pressure alone could squeeze the tears back into her skull. It didn't work. Nothing worked.

She sucked in a shaking breath.
Then another.
Then another, but the air stuck halfway down her gullet like she'd swallowed a stone.

Dissociating wasn't working. Ignoring the problem until it went away wasn't working either. Nothing was working. She was trapped and hyperconscious of every awful thing inside her, while the problem just sat shoulder-to-shoulder with her, breathing in sync with her misery.

She was here, in this body, and it hurt.

The ocean gave no sympathy either. A tall, sudden wave slapped the shore and drenched her from head to toe, and it felt like an insult. That was the last straw, and a sob tore through her. Then another and another and another, until suddenly she was shaking. She buried her face in her sleeve and cried hard, the messiness clawing up her throat until she wanted to retch.

Their last disagreement had been all her fault, she knew that much. She could take responsibility for stupid decisions and poor choices, but this time had been trying so hard to do everything right.

So what had she done to make Conrad hate her so much?

She'd been nice to Belly, not that it had been difficult—the girl was sweet and overwhelmed and clearly juggling a lot. She had tried to be non-intrusive and even offered to leave early so she wouldn't be third-wheeling some reunion she had no part in.

What more could he want from her? What imaginary line had she crossed anyway?

As for the peach farm debacle, how the fuck was that her fault? Did he loathe her so deeply that the mere suggestion they were something was enough to make him crush her self-worth like it meant nothing?

But maybe it had always been like this. Maybe she'd just been too stupid to see it.

Every time he told her he enjoyed her company—every late-night conversation, every laugh shared in her kitchen or on his couch, every moment she let herself believe she mattered to him—maybe all of that had been a lie. Because clearly he couldn't stand her. He'd said as much.

You make everything worse.

The words ricocheted inside her skull, hitting every tender edge, and her vision tunnelled, the beach, the water, the night, all shrinking into a narrow strip of colourless blur. Her breath came in wet, hiccuping gasps, and her face was streaked with tears and seawater, but she didn't care. She could barely think past the rush in her ears.

She'd managed to ruin one of the most important friendships of her life, and she didn't even know how. But somewhere beneath the misery, a small, bruised truth whispered that she did indeed ruin things and that maybe Conrad was doing what was best, distancing himself before she had a chance to permanently wreck his life. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

Several days later, Conrad found himself sitting in a too-bright diner, the Formica table sticky beneath his palms, and a half-cold mug of coffee shaking just slightly when he adjusted his grip. Across from him, Laurel stared at him, and she was impossible to hide from.

He tried not to fidget, but it didn't work. She always had a way of seeing straight through him, through all the half-truths and poorly-constructed barricades he used to keep everyone else at arm's length. He could lie to Jere and Belly and his dad and everyone else, but never Laurel.

She was the one person he hadn't fully walked away from, even when he'd tried to disappear in California and pretended like distance could equal healing. Laurel never let him disappear, and now, sitting here in front of her pinched, knowing expression, he remembered how much he'd missed her. He could be quiet around her. No expectation to perform, or pressure to entertain. Just stillness.

When he cleared his throat, the words refused to form, and it felt like trying to swallow glass.

"So... what's up?" she prompted eventually. 

He'd called her here, so it was on him to explain. "I want to talk to you about the wedding," he said finally. "And why I think you should go."

Laurel scoffed, leaning back. "Belly seems to be doing just fine without me. John will give in to her the way he always does. I'm pretty sure Steven's agreed to be Jere's groomsman, only he's too chickenshit to tell me. Adam's footing the bill, and Taylor's the wedding planner."

He flinched imperceptibly at that, but it was enough for her to notice. "Not anymore. Dad asked the woman he cheated on Mom with to take over."

Laurel's face twisted in disgust. "Kayleigh?"

He nodded.

"You've got to be fսcking kidding me." She paused, narrowing her eyes at him. "Wait, how did you know about that?"

"I've known for a long time. I heard them fighting about it years ago."

Laurel exhaled sharply, rubbing at her temple. "I cannot believe you kept that secret bottled up for so long."

"Who, me?" He shot her a crooked, self-deprecating half-smile, more crack than humour. "It's, like, my thing."

"Yeah, no—you're right. It is your thing."

He wished it wasn't. Because what good had it ever done? Keeping things locked up never saved anyone. It just rotted inside him until it spilled out in the ugliest ways. When the truth finally surfaced, late and unwelcome, he was always the villain for not saying anything sooner, even though he only stayed silent to protect people—protecting them from uglier truths, or from his feelings.

How well had that gone? Stellar track record.

Laurel's eyes were still on him, both perceptive and gentle, while he tried to keep his expression blank. Inside, though, he felt like someone had scooped out his chest and left him hollow. He was so tired of holding everything alone. So tired of pretending it didn't hurt.

But what else could he do? Burden Laurel with more grief? Dump more weight onto a woman who'd already buried the love of her life and was still trying to do good by everyone left behind. 

Conrad cleared his throat, though it didn't do much to loosen the knot lodged somewhere between his trachea and his sanity. "Look, I didn't ask you to come here to talk about that. Let's talk about the wedding. I think you should be a part of it."

Laurel raised an eyebrow. "You think Belly and Jeremiah should get married?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what do you think?"

"I think that they love each other. And that they're gonna go through with this regardless of what anyone thinks." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Belly really needs her mom right now. She's all alone. She doesn't have Jere, since he's doing his internship in Boston."

Laurel's reaction was immediate and frustrated. "Jeremiah is not thinking this through. He's not taking it seriously enough."

"Well, he's serious about her. This wedding is happening, Laurel. I think they could both use a parental figure who actually cares about them."

As she considered his statement, she simply stared through him like she was peeling him open, cell by cell. "Are we speaking honestly with each other here?"

Conrad huffed a hollow laugh. "Don't we always?"

"Yes. That we do." She didn't look away, not even to blink. "So, tell me. What's your interest in all of this?"

"I just want my brother to be happy. For both of them to be happy."

"And what about you, Conrad? When do you get to be happy?"

Never.

The answer was instinctive, and bone-deep. Never, because somehow every good thing slipped through his fingers the moment he touched it. Never, because whatever he was made of—grief and cartilage and bad wiring—couldn't hold joy for more than a breath. But saying that out loud would be embarrassing. So he forced a shrug, aiming for detached but landing somewhere near broken. "I'll be happy when the wedding's over and I'm back at Stanford."

Such an obvious lie, he almost laughed.

Stanford was a minefield, one with Devon's fingerprints on every surface. Every coffee shop where she'd dragged him to "fix his caffeine standards." Every library table she'd claimed for their late-night study sessions, fingers tapping her knees as she quizzed him on pathways and processes. Every stretch of campus green where they'd passed out after midterms and that tiny basement convenience store they'd frequent at 2 a.m. because "studying requires snacks, Fisher."

Even his apartment wasn't safe.

The couch, where she'd sprawled out, legs thrown casually over his lap that one time he convinced her to watch the extended Lord of the Rings trilogy, and she'd fallen asleep during The Two Towers and drooled on his hoodie. The kitchen, where she'd insisted he learn her mom's recipes for real food, and even his bedroom, where she'd flopped on his bed and practiced med school interview questions with him while he got dressed, teasing him for his doctor voice.

She was everywhere, in every damn memory, corner, and molecule. There was no world in which he could return to Stanford and feel relief. No version of his life where he could exist in the same spaces as her and not feel like his ribs were caving inward.

There was no happiness for Conrad Fisher as long as Devon Watson existed, and he could not be hers.

The next day was already a losing battle. Belly had asked to take his car to her bridal shower, and because he couldn't say no, now he was on a two-hour train ride to meet his father and brother in Boston. He stared out the window the whole time, trying not to stare at his phone. 

He'd been typing out draft after draft in his notes app. A hundred apologies, explanations, and confessions.

I'm sorry.
I didn't mean—
You matter more than you know.
I'm an idiot, please—
I miss you.
I love—

Nothing sounded right. Nothing sounded enough. Nothing would undo what he'd done.

So he didn't send any of them, collecting regrets like scraps of trash he couldn't bear to let go of. It had been a little over a week since they last spoke, but this time it was all his fault. And because he didn't know how to fix it, he was handling it by doing what he did best. By running away, building the isolation back brick by brick, and praying no one would notice him bleeding alone in the dark.

The suit fitting later was just noise. Fabric swatches, fussing tailors, and measuring tapes. He stood there like a mannequin while Jere and Adam talked about colours and button styles, and it felt like a scene from someone else's life. He nodded when expected, lifted his arms when told, but he didn't remember half of it.

Lunch was worse because conversation was expected. They sat in some fancy restaurant that his father's secretary had made reservations for them at, and Conrad stared at the menu, trying to focus on the letters.

Adam closed his menu with a satisfied smack, breaking the silence. "Gotta go filet, rare, with the blue cheese butter. Mmm."

Before Conrad could stop himself, bitterness spilled out. "You know heart disease runs in the family, right?"

Was it concern or venom that drove the statement? He didn't really know. 

"Oh. Really?" His father tilted his head, his voice taking on a syrupy drawl. "Are you still studying medicine? 'Cause I thought you dropped out to become an electrician. Jere told me you're ripping into every wall of the beach house."

"I'm still studying medicine."

Adam gave him a long, unimpressed look, then rolled his eyes. "Oh, okay. Well, you can't blame me for wondering, because you do have a tendency to quit everything as soon as you find out I'm proud of you."

Conrad took it silently, like he'd always learned to, but inside, something cracked. Was his father actually proud of him, or was it just another accessory to flaunt—his doctor son, just another flattering reflection of himself?

He shrugged, pretending none of it mattered. "Oh, come on, Dad. You know I stopped caring what you think of me a long time ago."

Adam scoffed theatrically. "Nice way to talk to your old man." He turned immediately to Jeremiah, as if Conrad wasn't sitting right there. "So, do you know what's got a bug up his ass?"

Jere's eyes cut toward him with concern. He was getting better at reading him, and these past few weeks together had stitched them unevenly closer, looser threads but threads all the same. Jere knew exactly what was wrong, but he couldn't say it, because to some degree, both brothers knew that Adam Fisher was an emotional desert.

Jeremiah cleared his throat, forcing a laugh that barely held itself together. "No. He, uh... never tells me anything."

Adam smirked. "No surprise there."

Another excruciating pause settled over the table, so Conrad thought, fuck it. If his father wanted something to pick at, he'd give him something. Maybe it would sting less if he controlled the wound.

"I got fired," he announced. "That's why I'm still in Cousins. That's why I... didn't go back to Stanford."

Adam's eyebrows shot up. "Fired?"

Conrad kept going because if he stopped, he would choke on it. "I made a big mistake, and my boss thought it would be best if I took some time to clear my head." He swallowed hard. "So that's what I'm doing. That's what I'm trying to do."

He waited for the inevitable lecture, for his father to weaponize the same pride he gave and withheld depending on how he felt. He could already hear the rehearsed rhythms of parental indictment.

You ruined your chance.
How could you do this?
Shame on you. 

However, before Adam could open his mouth, Jere cut in, "Good on you, Con." His expression was supportive in that open, guileless way only he could manage.

To everyone's surprise, their dad nodded slowly. "Agreed."

Conrad stared, unsure he'd heard correctly.
Agreed?
His father agreed?

It wasn't quite understanding—he didn't think that word had a place here, but there was acceptance. Or the closest approximation of it that Adam was capable of.

Then the older man opened his mouth, and the moment dissolved like mist. "Well, if we're all sharing things," he said cheerfully, "I have some news for you boys. I'm seeing somebody, and I want to bring her to the wedding. She's great. Kind, beautiful, and helpful, and you both already know her."

Fuck no. He wouldn't dare. He couldn't—

Adam beamed, pleased with himself. "It's Kayleigh."

Just like that, any fragile goodwill Conrad had begun to entertain evaporated, because what the fuck.

"Are you serious?" he managed.

"Yeah. It's—it's, you know, it's been four years since your mom passed, and... Kayleigh's really important to me."

The mention of their mom knocked the air out of him, and he met Jeremiah's wounded eyes. It was a hurt they both tried to swallow because acknowledging it would mean drowning.

His brother blinked fast, pulling himself together before Conrad could. "Hey, I'm—I'm glad you found someone that makes you happy, Dad."

Conrad tried to remain silent because every word in him felt poisoned, and he didn't trust himself to speak. But then, he heard himself ask the question before he could stop it, an arrow he knew would hit something ugly. "So, when did this thing with you and Kayleigh start, Dad?"

Adam barely blinked. "We've liked each other for a long time. It's just not until recently that the timing was right for us to give it a real try."

Recently.

The word tasted foul in his mouth. He didn't know why he asked—like his father would ever tell the truth. Adam Fisher's version of honesty bent conveniently toward whatever made him look clean.

Recently, my ass.

Recently as in the last five years? Recently, as in while his mom was dying of cancer? Recently, as in at her funeral, maybe? Recently, like a secret held between strangers who pretended it didn't rot them from the inside?

He wanted to push, to peel the skin off the lie and watch his father squirm. He wanted to ask if Susannah had known, if she'd gone to her grave pretending not to notice, if she'd chosen denial over heartbreak, if he'd made her choose.

But across the table, Jere's eyes caught his, silently begging him not to, and that dreaded promise tightened like a noose around his neck: Do not ruin Jere's wedding.

That included all the staged smiles leading up to it, and all the suffocating moments like this where he had to swallow his own rage whole.

Keep yourself together.
Keep yourself together.
Keep. Yourself. Together.

Conrad shoved the raw fury back down into the pit he'd dug in his chest for moments exactly like this, and said nothing. He sat there, hands still on the table, digging crescents into his palms, and let the rest of lunch pass in a blur. 

What else was there to do but endure? He was trapped in a body that only knew how to endure, and even though he felt so angry he could scream, he was so empty that he couldn't make a single sound.

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

Babysitting two kids—both under thirteen—turned out to be a surprisingly effective way for Devon to avoid thinking about her own life, which was currently on fire and emotionally radioactive. Emma and her dad had left early that morning for an all-day boating trip, which meant she was alone with the boys, and it was supposed to be easy enough. 

The boys didn't emerge from their rooms until 1 p.m., and the moment they realized how late it was, cereal was promptly out of the question.

"Scrambled eggs," Jasper had declared, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. "We require scrambled eggs."

She had thought about just enforcing cereal like Emma had told her to, but they were looking at her with such expectant, pleading eyes that they reminded her of puppies, so naturally she caved. Which was how she now found herself in the kitchen trying to politely decline their deranged culinary suggestions.

Jasper was at least semi-contained since she'd set him up at the counter, grating cheese.
Oliver, meanwhile, orbited her legs like a hyperactive planet. "What if," he mused thoughtfully, "we put bananas in it?"

Devon stared at him, aghast. "No."

"Why?"

"Because scrambled eggs are not dessert."

"What about cucumbers?" Jasper asked. 

Devon made a face. "Why?"

"For hydration!"

She shook her head. "Then drink water, you muppet."

"What about blueberries? Blueberries are full of—"

"No," she said immediately.

Jasper raised his grater like a pointer. "You didn't let me finish."

"I didn't need to."

"You're the worst chef," Oliver huffed.

"I'm not a chef," she reminded him. "I'm a desperate babysitter keeping you from starvation."

"Starvation," Jasper repeated gravely, "would be better than boring eggs."

"You're getting cheese eggs," Devon told them firmly. "No fruit. No vegetables. No surprises."

"What about bell peppers, then?"

Oliver perked up. "I like bell peppers."

"Oh my God," she sighed. "Fine, bell peppers it is."

Devon cracked eggs into the bowl, whisking them with a distracted rhythm, grateful to have something to do that kept her thoughts from spiralling into that familiar dark place. 

"Should we add mango?" Oliver piped up.

"No," she said without turning.

"Lettuce?"

"Oliver."

"Pineapple?"

"Please stop talking."

He snickered but quieted, hovering beside her like a deviant sous-chef.

Jasper turned to look at her. "Do you think if we got famous for our eggs, we could open a restaurant?"

"Absolutely not," Devon told him. "And who's we? I'm doing all the heavy lifting here."

"I'm grating cheese! That's basically seventy percent of the work."

"We would also immediately get shut down by the health department," she added.

"For what crime?" Jasper protested. 

Oliver gasped, "Is cheese a crime?"

"No." Devon Gently pushed him away from her legs and pointed at the island stools. "Now, please go sit over there while I turn the stove on."

The little boy obeyed dutifully, but kept his endless chatter. "Are peppers a crime?"

"No."

"Is love a crime?"

"...What?"

Oliver grabbed a fistful of cheese from his brother's station and stuffed it in his mouth, mumbling, "Because I love this cheese."

Jasper smacked his brother's hand from grabbing more and carried over the plate of shredded cheese to Devon. "Ignore him. He's experiencing his first love."

"With cheese?" Devon sputtered.

Oliver nodded solemnly. "We're very happy."

After several more relentless sales pitches, her brothers managed to convince her to add mushrooms and onions to the mix, and the result looked a little like a Frankenstein omelette. Not that it mattered, because the second she plated it, both boys promptly buried their servings under an avalanche of more cheese and cracked pepper, so much that any hint of mushroom might as well have been a myth.

Devon snapped an obligatory picture of her creation and sent it to the group chat she shared with her former teammates. It had been Kelsey's idea, something they'd started back during their first year, to encourage cooking and not defaulting to takeout. Predictably, Kelsey posted three times a day, every day, while Maeve posted roughly once every solar eclipse. Everyone else fell somewhere in the middle, whenever they remembered and weren't actively drowning in life.

As soon as Devon's image went through, the chat erupted.

KELSEY: Is that an omelette, or did a cow explode on your plate?
MAEVE: cheese is a food group <3 i'd eat it, send some over
KELSEY: You'd eat drywall.
MAEVE: if it were made of cake, sure
GWEN: whatever that is looks sentient 

Devon choked on a laugh, across the island, Oliver shovelled a suspiciously large bite into his mouth and chewed, eyes narrowing in analytic concentration.

"Well?" she asked.

"Could use bananas," he said. 

"Absolutely not."

"But—"

"No."

Jasper poked at his omelette thoughtfully. "I think we could start a breakfast truck. We'd make bank."

"Also no."

Oliver brightened. "We could smuggle chickens."

Devon shook her head with amusement. "Where did that even come from?"

"Just imagine raising secret chickens!"

"This is why Mom won't let you watch crime documentaries with Dad anymore," Jasper scoffed. 

Oliver ignored his brother and squinted at Devon. "Do you think chickens could ride in a backpack?"

"No—" She paused, considered, then shook her head vigorously. "Actually, you know what? I'm not entertaining that."

Both boys dissolved into giggles, talking with their mouths full and debating whether they could convince her to make pancakes for tomorrow morning. Once they were done, they dutifully helped clean up, which mostly consisted of Devon doing the dishes and the boys peppering her with more questions about the most absurd things. 

By the end, she was exhausted enough to consider faking a sudden, debilitating headache, but apparently, the morning's festivities had only just begun. They insisted on spending the day in her room—because, according to Oliver, it room was prettier—and Jasper went to fetch their stash of board games. 

Once inside, it took another twenty minutes just to get Oliver to sit down because he had a fascination for the collection of multicoloured glass animals that resided on her shelf. 

"They're not toys," Jasper warned, plucking a tiny glass frog from his brother's hand before he could stage its heroic demise.

"It looked like it wanted to jump," Oliver insisted, reaching for a glass fox next.

"Don't touch Dee's stuff, you'll break it like you break mine."

Devon chuckled. "It's okay, I don't mind."

"You should," Jasper grumbled. "If he thinks it's okay to touch your stuff, then he'll touch mine too, and I don't want that."

"Fair enough." She turned toward Oliver. "Come on, Ollie, let's play Monopoly."

The moment she lowered herself to the floor, he immediately hopped into her lap and locked his arms around her like she might otherwise escape. "I'm on Dee's team," he declared triumphantly. 

Jasper glared at them. "What? Not fair. I wanted to be on her team!"

"Too slow," Oliver sing-songed. "We're the cool team."

"We won't have a game if everyone's on my team, kiddos."

Jasper huffed. "Fine, I'll be my own team. I'm a superior strategist. When I win," he pointed right at her, "you have to do something for me."

She raised a brow. "Like what? Sell my soul? It's not worth much. Maybe two pennies and a pack of gum."

The boy grinned mischievously. "I'll decide when I win."

"You're a kid. You don't get to be ominous until at least twenty."

"You can be ominous at any age," Oliver said. "I'm ominous."

"Yeah, you bite people," Jasper snorted.

"That was one time!" 

"Was not!"

"Was!"

Devon exhaled through her nose, trying not to laugh. "Can we please just start the game?"

"Yes," Oliver answered, grabbing the colourful plastic game tokens. "I want the race car."

"You always want the race car," Jasper complained.

"Yeah, because it's the fastest."

"I promise you, it doesn't move any faster on the board," Devon told him. 

"That's what you think," Oliver scowled. "Jasper can be the shoe because he smells like a shoe."

"Then you smell like feet! And armpits"

"Boys," Devon warned, "do I get to talk today?"

"No," both snapped at once.

"Cool. Good chat."

More bickering followed, mostly about which stack of Monopoly money was aesthetically pleasing, because Oliver insisted the orange bills "looked weird" next to the blue ones, but finally—through a combination of threats, bribery, and Devon separating them physically—they arranged themselves around the board.

Playing the game with them turned out to be no less a circus. They broke the rules so often, she wasn't sure the game even qualified as Monopoly anymore. Within five minutes, Oliver had declared himself Team Captain, making every decision as though he were CEO of a major corporation. 

He was... unfortunately... terrible at it. When given a chance to buy property, he simply turned up his nose, saying, "We don't need real estate. We're nomadic."

Devon blinked. "But if we don't buy anything—"

"We're free!" Oliver interrupted, grabbing the dice again. "Next!"

They continued along the board, paying rent to Jasper every other turn because he'd snatched up everything like a hedge fund goblin. 

"You're losing money," Jasper sniggered, his voice theatrically deep. "You should be scared."

"I'm not scared," his brother replied. "It's just money."

"It's literally the whole game," Devon pointed out. 

Oliver clapped a hand to her mouth. "Shhh. This is why I'm the team captain."

"You're corrupt!" Jasper shouted.

"Am not!" Then he turned to Devon, poking her cheek, as if questioning her lack of passion for the subject at hand. "Dee, why aren't you saying anything. You look sad."

Before she could respond, Jasper muttered, "Because you're squashing her, you elephant."

"I am not an elephant!" Oliver bellowed, springing off her lap and tackling his brother—who screamed dramatically—and attempted to sit on him in revenge. "Now I'll squash you!"

Devon stood to pry him off, shaking with laughter. "Get—off—your brother!" she croaked, hauling the boy upright, and he dangled in her arms like a loose marionette, giggling uncontrollably.

Jasper lay there panting, arms spread. "You're a way better babysitter than our babysitter back home," he announced. "She's always talking to her friends and never plays with us."

"That's because Dee doesn't have any friends."

"Ow. Rude. I have plenty of friends."

Oliver shook his head solemnly. "Where? I've never seen them."

"They're busy."

"Mom says friends you can't see are imaginary friends. And since they're not real, you shouldn't tell people about them, or they'll think you're crazy. They'll put you in the loony bin."

"They're not imaginary friends!" Devon protested.

"Then how come I haven't seen them, huh?"

"Because they live in California."

"We've visited California. Never saw 'em."

"Oh my god, you children are ruthless."

Jasper raised a thoughtful hand like he was in school. "Oh, wait, we did meet one of your friends. The guy who took us out for ice cream. He was nice. He let me have three scoops."

"Nooo," Oliver wailed, smacking his own forehead like he'd just said the sky was green. "That's Dee's boyfriend."

Devon actually choked. Even though the word should have hit too close to home, the sheer absurdity of the way he said it made her dissolve into cackles. "Conrad's not my—" she wheezed, "—boyfriend."

"Is he not a boy? Is he secretly a girl?"

"What? No."

"Then he's your boyfriend."

"He is not."

"You're always holding hands," Oliver said, deeply offended that she didn't understand basic logic. "My friend Noah in school is boyfriends with Stacy and they're always holding hands and they always share lunch."

Devon gaped. "You're seven. Why are people dating in your class?"

Jasper fake gagged into the rug he was still spreadeagled on. "Because they're dumb. Everyone knows dating is gross."

"Oh, oh!" Oliver interrupted, raising a finger. "I haven't seen your boyfriend in such a long time. Is he imaginary, too?"

"He can't be imaginary if you've seen him, you muppet. And again, not my boyfriend."

Oliver frowned. "Is he not your friend, then?"

That made her smile falter, but she forced her tone into something casual. "Not anymore."

Jasper pushed himself upright, leaning his chin in his palms. "That's stupid. Friends are forever."

"I wish."

"Our teacher says if you make a mistake," he continued matter-of-factly, "you apologize. Then you'll be friends again."

Oliver nodded aggressively. "Yeah. Easy. You say sorry, he says sorry, then we all get ice cream again. I'll get mint chip this time."

Thankfully, she didn't have to come up with a response to that because there was a loud QUAAACK from her desk where she'd left her phone, and both boys immediately dissolved into unholy cackles.

"I like the sound," Jasper smirked. 

Devon narrowed her eyes. "Was that your doing?"

"No, I'm innocent."

"No, he's not," Oliver shook his head. "I saw him playing with your phone. He changed your sound to a duck."

Devon dragged a hand over her face. "This is what I get for giving you my password that one time."

"It was an emergency! I needed your password to play more Cookie Cats!"

Before she could argue with him, the duck sound went off again, and she grabbed her phone, waving at her brothers vaguely. "Clean up the Monopoly crime scene," she ordered, flopping onto the bed. "Someone's gonna trip."

Oliver saluted and immediately did not follow instructions, kicking the top hat game piece across the room, but Devon ignored him and opened her phone. The text was from an unknown number, but the sender had made themselves obvious in their overenthusiastic and aggressively friendly style. 

hey this is jeremiah fisher!
belly told me u saved the day with flowers @ michaels the other day lol. so bummed i wasnt there to see!! any chance u could swing by tmrw & help with decor @ the house? belly said u promised. it'd mean the world!!

Devon dropped the phone like it burned. First of all, how the hell had the guy gotten her number? She was pretty sure the only Fisher who possessed it was Conrad, and Conrad was likely not in the mood to give it out. And second of all, there was no way she was going back to that house.

Shit, why'd Jeremiah have to go and mention her promise? Now she'd feel like a monster if she didn't go. A liar and a heartless beast who crushed lonely, overwhelmed brides' dreams. 

What was she even supposed to do—send a text like:
sorry your brother has blacklisted me from his presence so i cant help xoxo

Jasper suddenly leaned over her, upside down, hair brushing her nose. "Are you dying?"

"Yes. Nobody talk to me. I've passed away."

Oliver climbed onto the bed next to her and patted her shoulder. "Don't worry," he said kindly. "We'll tell Mom you got eaten by a duck." He followed his proclamation by biting her arm.

Devon jerked upright. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Making it believable that you got eaten by a duck."

Jasper stared at him like he was an evolutionary disappointment. "Ducks don't have teeth, moron."

"Don't call me a moron, you moron." Then Oliver turned back to Devon with a solemn nod.
"Sorry if I hurt you, Dee. I forgot that you're old and have fragile bones like Dad."

"And the hits just keep on coming today. Someone give me a break from the savages," she groaned. 

"You're so old you're gonna turn into dust!"

Jasper jumped in to contribute as well. "You're so old your birthday candles cost more than the cake."

"What does that even mean?" Devon scowled. 

"You're so old," Oliver cackled, "your joints make noises like—" He proceeded to creak and snap like a haunted rocking chair.

"You're so old," Jasper added, "that your Social Security number is one."

"That's not how that works! And I'm twenty-two. That's not old."

Oliver shook his head. "Back in your day, you probably used dinosaurs as Uber."

"Your first cellphone was a rock."

"You remember the Big Bang. You were probably there."

"She was the one who lit the fuse," Jasper suggested. 

Devon threw her arms up. "I'm telling your mom to ban your internet access!"

In response, both boys dove on top of her with a screech.

"You're going to break my bones!" Devon complained from under the dogpile.

"See? She admitted she's old!" Oliver gasped.

"Someone call the retirement home."

Devon didn't bother fighting them anymore. At this point, it was a losing battle.

By the time her dad and Emma returned later in the evening, Devon's brothers had been shooed downstairs to watch TV, while she remained sprawled on her bed, half-buried beneath the mountain of yarn she'd lugged from California. Honestly, it was embarrassing how much she'd brought, and though she hated to admit it, she was glad she hadn't caved to the idea of getting more. 

There was a knock on the door, and her dad leaned in the doorway with a teasing expression. "Boys hog the TV again?"

Devon lifted the tangled mass of red, white, and green in her hands. "It's okay, I had stuff to do."

He stepped inside and perched in her desk chair, brow raised. "What're you working on?"

"It's, Emma's birthday is in September, right? But I wanted to finish her present while I'm here, so I can give it to her." An embarrassed flush crawled up her cheeks, and she ducked her head. 

"Oh?" Her dad's expression practically melted. "I'm sure she'll love it. What is it?"

"A blanket." She shook it out, and it nearly covered her entire bed—deep reds braided with mossy greens. "She said she liked mushrooms, so here we are. But you can't tell her."

He nodded solemnly, hand over heart. "Of course."

"Also, we have a conundrum. So, uh... I need advice."

Her dad straightened, visibly startled, as if she had announced she was moving to the moon. It was a valid reaction. She had never asked him for anything before, but right now, he was the only sane person around.

Talking to her mom about matters of the heart never went well, and Dakota would simply tell her it was time to forsake men altogether and start asking women out, which was another valid proposition, which she had considered.

And she had only just finished erasing Maeve's suspicion yesterday after that abrupt slip-up during her proposal dinner. So that left dear old dad. God help them both.

He began to unbutton his cuffs and roll them up like she'd asked him to help change a tire, which made Devon laugh despite herself. "It's not that deep," she told him. "Just... Conrad's brother asked me to drop by their place."

"And you need advice about that because...?" he prompted.

"I don't want to go. Obviously."

"You still haven't told me why you haven't made up with that boy yet. Didn't we spend hours hunting for that photography shop so you could print out your postcards? What happened? Did he not like them?"

Devon groaned and flopped back onto the bed. Now she was really embarrassed, because your father was the last person you could tell about the humiliating tale of how the guy you liked basically punted your heart across the yard like a football. So she tried to give him the most watered-down version in existence.

"I, uh... did give them to him."

"Okay, so what's the problem?"

"He, uh..." She swallowed anxiously. "I think he hates me now. Like for sure this time."

Her dad's expression grew pained on her behalf. "After you worked so hard on that. Well, that's not very nice."

"No, no," she said quickly, sitting up and waving her hands. "Not related to the postcards. I think. I hope, at least. No, it was after."

Her dad raised an eyebrow, skeptical in the way that meant he was now deciding whether this was real or dramatic nonsense. "Did he say that? That he hated you?"

"Basically."

"In those exact words?"

Devon winced. "Pretty much. What he said definitely meant the same thing. He hates me and never wants to see me again. And this time I'm pretty sure it wasn't my fault. I stayed out of his way all day. I was minding my own business."

Oh fuck, this sounded worse out loud. She wanted to backtrack, pretend she'd said none of that, but the words had already slipped out like a confession under duress.

Her dad frowned, and Devon hurried on before he could dismiss her. "So obviously I can't go to their house. That's like double humiliating and shameless. Someone tells you they never want to see you again, and then you show your stupid face anyway. Ughhhh, maybe I should change my identity and move to Mongolia."

"Then don't go if it makes you that uncomfortable."

"That's the problem. I kinda promised the bride I would at some point. This was pre-humiliation, of course. How was I supposed to know? And she just looked so miserable and lonely that day, I figured I would lend a helping hand. Now it's come to bite me in the ass."

Her dad nodded thoughtfully. "Kindness comes back to you, yes, but never in a bad way. You were trying to be kind. I see no problem with that." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "If you made a promise to the poor girl, you should keep it. Don't be the sort of person who goes back on their word because of someone else's actions."

Devon let out a wounded sound. "Now you're making me feel bad. It wasn't even the bride who texted me to come. It's her fiancé, who wasn't even there that day—total jerk move, by the way. How can you not be around for your own wedding planning?"

"Maybe he had his reasons. Don't be so quick to judge someone's circumstance."

Of course, he had to be reasonable. Why couldn't he just say, "run for the hills, screw the promise, fake your death," like a normal supportive parent?

Her dad chuckled, catching her expression. "Also, I would never defend a boy over my own daughter, but you did say the two of you were good friends. Sometimes friends say the wrong things and hurt each other, but that doesn't mean they mean to. Everything just holds more weight because it's someone dear to you." He smiled wistfully. "I've found that there's nothing a good apology can't fix."

"I've already apologized," Devon grumbled. 

"Good girl," he said, without hesitation. "Your actions are a reflection of who you are as a person, and the other person's are a reflection of them. That's that. Don't let someone else turn you into a coward. I've never known my girl to be a coward."

Something writhed in her chest, warm and aching. Why did he have to believe in her like that? Now she felt obligated to do the actual polite thing, which sucked. Why couldn't she be an ostrich? Bury her head in the sand and never deal with anything?

"You really think I should go?" she asked. 

"I think you already know what's right. You just don't like it."

Just then, Emma poked her head into the room, looking equal parts amused and alarmed. "John, Oliver's got his hand stuck in the pickle jar again. We require your expertise."

Devon's father pushed up from the chair with a suffering sigh and shot her a fond look. "The duties of a dad are never done. Gotta go kiddo, but you'll figure it out. Let me know if you need a ride."

When he left to perform his nightly ritual of jar extraction, Emma lingered in the doorway. "Devon, honey," she said, "you should come down too. We'll have dinner as soon as we can get your brother free from his pickle addiction."

She paused, then added with a smile, "Also, thank you for looking after the boys and cleaning up around the house today. They said they had a lot of fun. Even showed me pictures of the grand eggscapade. That was sweet of you. You could have just enforced cereal."

Devon shrugged. "It's okay. I didn't mind. It was fun."

"It was still very good of you. Come on down, then."

She disappeared down the hall, but Devon remained a while longer to stow away her crochet project. Her phone chimed again, and when she checked, it was yet another message from Jeremiah. 

Damn, did the guy not give up? At this point, someone would think he was being paid, because he had all the persistence of a telemarketer or a Jehovah's Witness. The new message was a slightly reworded version of the first, like he thought maybe the original got lost in the void.

To be fair, she had left him on read while she spiralled, but still. 

Maybe she should do the reasonable thing and completely ignore everything her father had just said. Book a flight back to California and deal with anything but deal with this. Because if she saw Conrad again, she didn't know if she'd burst into tears or say something really mean, both of which would be terrible.

Either way, it would not end well, and she was done opening herself up for more disappointment. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

The day was already a dumpster fire, and it was barely eight A.M.

Conrad usually liked mornings, quiet things that they were, when the world felt too sleepy to demand anything from him, but this one was hell-bent on proving that he didn't deserve nice things.

It was Jere's bachelor party weekend, which meant he had to magically transform into Best Man Extraordinaire, keeper of the itinerary, holder of the fake enthusiasm—and he'd thought maybe surfing at dawn would knock him into alignment. 

Instead, Poseidon punted him into the sand like a disposable grocery bag, and he wiped out so spectacularly that even the seagulls paused to judge him. He came out of it alive, but with a gash carved into his thigh that throbbed with every step, and as he limped back toward the house, he cursed his luck. 

When the Fisher residence came into view, so did Jeremiah's red Jeep pulling away from the driveway. Conrad caught a glimpse of Belly in the passenger seat and wondered where they were going at such an hour. Then he rolled his eyes because, of course, it was obvious. They were probably sneaking in alone time before the wedding chaos hit full throttle. Good for them, honestly. At least he'd get the house all to himself to properly wallow and bleed in solitude. 

But when he trudged closer, he saw the last person he ever expected standing there on his porch steps. Under normal circumstances, Devon being here would've made his entire day. His whole month. Maybe even his entire stupid life. But right now, all he felt was dread and panic. It had been a little more than two weeks since the fight, maybe more. He'd tried not to count the days, which of course meant he counted every single one.

His attention snagged on her throat before anything else, hunting for something before he realized he was looking for it at all. She wasn't wearing his necklace, the one she never took off. It always sat just above her collarbone, catching the light and his attention like a magnet every time they hung out. She'd often toy with it absentmindedly when she read, when she was thinking too hard, or when he made her nervous, but now it was gone.

The pain knifed through him so fast he swayed for a second, and it was worse than the throbbing in his leg. She looked like herself, but not. A version of her that didn't have room for him anymore.

Conrad dragged his gaze over the rest of her, too, like a starving man who'd stumbled onto water in the desert, terrified she'd dissolve the moment he blinked. His brain, wholly useless, started cataloguing her piece by piece.

Her hair was pulled up in that same claw clip that looked like it was holding on for dear life, exactly like the first time he'd seen her in that Medical Anthropology elective. Her jeans were familiar too—dark denim with wildflowers embroidered on the back pockets. She'd found them that one time she'd dragged him thrifting. 

Everything about her was a memory. Everything hurt.

Then she looked up, her eyes widening with alarm, and she began to storm toward him. Conrad braced for the verbal lashing he absolutely, one hundred percent deserved. Maybe she'd yell, or maybe she'd shove him, but honestly, he'd take it. Anything was better than the silence. At least then she'd be talking to him.

But when she reached him, her focus wasn't on his face, it was on his leg. She was already digging through her satchel, pulling out a wad of napkins that looked like they'd been hoarded from various cafés. Then she crouched down, pressing them against his injury.

He stiffened at the contact.

"Shit, dude, what happened?" she asked a little frantically.

She sounded worried, like nothing had happened between them and he hadn't been absolutely awful, and it made him feel deeply ashamed. He forced a shrug, aiming for nonchalance, but landing somewhere closer to pathetic. "Got cut by a fin while surfing. It's fine."

She pressed the napkins harder, and instinctively, he covered them with his hand, his fingers brushing against hers as he nudged her away. "I'm fine. You don't have to..."

Devon shot him a look that said, and reluctantly stood. "Do you need help?"

He wanted to say no. He should have said no. He didn't deserve her worrying hands or gentle voice or anything that felt like care, but his thigh pulsed, his vision dipped, and he found himself nodding with a grimace.

Devon nodded once, all businesslike and stern, and when he reached for her hand, she didn't pull away. Together, they made their way inside and toward the bathroom, him half-limping, half-floating, dizzy from blood loss, pain, and the crushing fact that he was holding her hand again. He didn't deserve a single second of this, but he held on regardless. 

Once inside, Conrad hissed the moment she lowered him onto the edge of the tub, her hands steady at his waist as she guided his leg over the rim. The movement sent lightning up his thigh, and he clenched his jaw so tight his teeth nearly ground to dust. 

Devon's eyes flew to his face, horrified. "Shit, sorry!"

He shook his head, trying to breathe through the pain while she rummaged through the drawers. "Uh. Where do you keep your first aid kit?" she asked. 

Conrad swallowed, nodding toward the cabinet. "Left side. Top shelf."

She moved quickly then, pulling down the kit and settling on the edge of the tub across from him, their knees nearly touching. He noticed that her cuticles had gone back to the ragged state they'd been in the last time he'd seen her, which meant she hadn't let them heal. Her hands shook when she reached for the wad of café napkins pressed against his leg, and the sight hit him like another wave of guilt.

Right, blood made her squeamish. She'd once seen his anatomy textbook open on a page with cross-sections of muscle and made the most dramatic gagging noise known to mankind, declaring that she could never be a doctor because she'd probably pass out at the first sight of any injury.

He'd laughed then, but now he just felt sick. He shouldn't be letting her do this. 

His hand tightened around the napkins, refusing to let her take over. "Sorry," he muttered. "You should just go. I'll handle it myself." It would've sounded almost credible if not for the pathetic little whimper that escaped him at the end.

Devon's expression shifted, a sharp, stubborn expression settling over her face. "I know I have a tendency to ruin your life and make shit worse," she snapped, "but you're in no condition to handle it."

Her patient actions were a contrast to her harsh words, and when she pried his grip loose, he didn't have it in him to protest. Maybe because he was too tired to fight, or maybe because he just wanted to feel her touch again, even if it was for something as macabre as this. 

The angry gash wept blood, and Devon's breath hitched, but she didn't look away. It was so painfully her, brave even when terrified. Then she reached for the handheld shower, turning the water on, testing the temperature against her wrist before she brought it to him.

Warm water flowed over his skin, and her touch followed, careful as if he were something breakable. He watched the furrow in her brow and the way she breathed shakily through the sight of his blood just to take care of him, and something inside him cracked wide open. He'd never felt so unworthy of another's devotion, and he'd never wanted someone so badly.

She reached for the bottle of antiseptic next, and her expression softened. "This will hurt," she warned.

Conrad nodded, bracing—poorly, apparently—because the moment the iodine hit the wound, he doubled over, forehead pressing into her shoulder. His hand clutched at the hem of her shirt, then at her waist, fingers digging in like she was the only solid thing tethering him to consciousness. A broken sound slipped out of him, half groan, half plea.

"Sorry," Devon whispered immediately. "I'm sorry." The apology was rushed and breathless, like she would've taken the pain for him if she could.

Her touch gentled even further as she cleaned the wound carefully, then pressed fresh gauze over it and wrapped it swiftly. Her hands lingered on his knee when she finished, warmth soaking into him. "There," she murmured. "All done. You'll be okay. Um... unless you need stitches. I can't tell. It looked kinda deep."

Conrad shook his head against her shoulder, still clinging, refusing to let go just yet. "It's okay," he breathed. "It wasn't that deep."

He stayed folded into her a while longer, trying to calm his racing heart. The sting in his leg pulsed, but the scent of her perfume threaded through him and eased something wild inside. A loose strand of her hair brushed his cheek, and he closed his eyes, selfishly letting the softness anchor him.

Eventually, he lifted his head and he looked up through dripping lashes to find her looking purposely away from him, head slightly tilted, jaw clenched. He could tell that she was still mad at him, judging by the set of her mouth and the stiffness in her posture.

He nearly laughed then. Only Devon could simultaneously patch him up and burn him alive with disapproval at the same time. The duality practically defined her. His hair dripped into his eyes and blurred his vision, but he didn't bother wiping it away. He was too busy looking at her, memorizing her, and when her gaze finally met his, he forgot how to breathe.

The sunlight streaming through the window hit her eyes just right, turning them mossy and alive, the colours shifting as she blinked. For a moment, Conrad let himself imagine that everything was fine between them, that he could lean forward and beg her for forgiveness without offending her further. 

But then she stood abruptly, putting the first aid kit away before scrubbing his blood off her palms in the sink. When she was done, Devon braced her hands on her hips and turned back toward his hunched form. "Come on. You need to get some rest."

Conrad shook his head immediately. "Jere's bachelor party is tonight. I can't—I have to..."

"Your brother said no one's coming until late afternoon. You have plenty of time. Rest."

Her fingers curled around his again, and he leaned his weight into her as he stood, his entire body protesting in agony. Her other hand braced his bare back, the heat of her touch sending a shiver down his spine, but he tried his best not to react outwardly. 

They stumbled up the stairs clumsily, a graceless two-person tangle, until they reached his room, where she guided him to sit on his bed, easing him back against the pillows, straightening them with unbearable care. Then she stepped back, suddenly awkward, like she didn't know what to do with her hands. "Do you, um... need a towel or something? A snack? A shirt?"

He nodded, pointing toward the t-shirt thrown over his desk chair. She handed it to him, then slipped away downstairs and returned with a towel and a glass of water. He drank it because she wanted him to, because she'd gone to get it, and because he would've taken poison from her if offered this kindly.

That's when he noticed that the left side of her button-up was damp and plastered to her ribs, and he winced. "Sorry, I got you all wet."

"It's fine," she replied calmly, but a flush crawled up her neck anyway, warm and telling.

"Why are you here, then?" Conrad asked, sinking back into the pillows.

Devon's face hardened instantly, pulling into a scowl. "I know you can't stand the sight of me, but I'm not just here to shamelessly flaunt my presence in front of you. Your brother is the one who called me over. Something about wanting me to do flower arrangements."

Of course, Jere had. What the hell had he been thinking?

"He shouldn't have," Conrad said. "They're not even doing the wedding at the house anymore. It's at the country club."

He felt the sudden urge to tell her everything then. How his father wanted to parade his mistress around like she belonged anywhere near their family. How he and Jeremiah were finally trying to stitch themselves back together, and it was all thanks to her. How he'd even managed to talk to Laurel without wanting to puke his guts out.

All these little victories and fragile attempts at healing, but none of them mattered if he couldn't fix what he'd ruined with her.

"Well, you certainly sound like you don't want me here," Devon sneered, already turning to the door. "Fucking fantastic. Well, you can tell your brother—"

Panic shot through him, and he grabbed her wrist, tugging her back toward him. "No, don't go," he blurted, heart pounding. "Please."

She froze, but didn't respond. 

"I'm sorry," he continued hastily. "I haven't apologized for... for acting like a dick that night. That was uncalled for. I—"

She pulled her hand away from him with a weary expression. "You tend to get emotional when you're hurt," she said quietly. "This is just like that one time you got sick. An apology isn't an apology if you feel obligated to give one just because I helped you out. I may be upset with you, but that didn't mean I was going to let you bleed to death. So just please shut up and get some rest. Don't say things you'll take back later or regret. I'm really not in the mood to deal with this."

Without giving him a chance to respond, she walked out, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Conrad feeling empty. Every instinct screamed at him to get up, to hobble after her, to not let her disappear again, but his body refused to cooperate, nausea and fatigue dragging him down into the sheets until all he could do was stare at the ceiling despondently. 

Despite everything, sleep claimed him, and when Conrad woke several hours later, he could hear voices coming through the floorboards. Belly and Jeremiah's college friends had probably arrived, and he forced himself upright, grimacing as fresh pain lanced through his leg. 

Every step down the stairs felt like someone was jabbing a fork into his thigh, but he kept going. Most of the sounds were coming from the kitchen, but his brother wasn't with them. Instead, he was slouched on the sofa, sitting right next to Devon and staring intently at something on her phone. 

Conrad stared like he'd forgotten how to function, and he moved before he could think better of it, coming to stand in front of them. "You're still here?" The relief in his voice was embarrassingly obvious. "I was scared you'd left."

Devon gave a tiny shrug, sliding her phone into her pocket before standing. She had barely moved two steps before Jeremiah called out, "Hey, could you send me that picture? Please."

She glanced at Conrad, brief and unreadable, then back at Jere. "Uh... sure. If you really want."

Then she disappeared into the kitchen, and the moment she was gone, Conrad felt every bone in his body give up at once, making him drop into the spot she'd vacated. 

Jeremiah's eyes immediately went to the bandage around his leg. "Shit, man, she told me you got hurt. You gonna be okay?"

He nodded stiffly, unable to say anything else. 

"And," his brother continued, "you should be happy we came back when we did, just in time to catch your girl before she fled. I have no idea what you said to drive her away again, but you have no idea how hard it was to convince her to stay for the rest of the party."

Conrad frowned, dragging a hand through his hair. "Why? What are you trying to do?"

Jeremiah blinked at him like he was stupid. "You look awful, Con."

"Why would you assume it's because of her?"

"Isn't it? You're my brother. I like to think I know you at least a little. You've been absolutely miserable lately, and it started before we went to see Dad in Boston, so I know it has nothing to do with him. And I..." He sighed. "I remember that day I asked you to be my best man. When I came in, I saw you two being all flirty on Mom's couch. So of course, you looking like you want to set everything—including yourself—on fire has to do with her."

"We weren't—"

"And I don't want my brother to be depressed on my wedding day. So here," he gestured toward the kitchen, "I'm giving you an opportunity to fix it. I'd rather you not have to fake a smile when you're standing next to me on my big day."

Conrad pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "You meddle way too much."

"You can just say thank you."

"No thanks."

Jere just grinned, unbothered. "And Devon's great. She's been super helpful today."

He pointed toward the dining table, and there sat a massive floral arrangement, way fancier than anything she'd whipped up at Michaels, draped with ribbons and pearls, tucked neatly into a basket Conrad vaguely recognized from some childhood easter themed party.

"I found the basket in Mom's old stuff," Jeremiah explained. "Looks nice, doesn't it?"

"You didn't have to make her do all that. The wedding's not even going to be held here."

His brother snickered. "I've only known your girl half a day, and I already know you can't make her do anything against her will."

Conrad rolled his eyes. "Will you stop calling her that. She's not my—"

"Besides, decorating feels nice," Jere interrupted cheerfully. "The place hasn't looked this nice since... since Mom." He paused. "And of course, thank you for all the work you've done on the house. It almost feels like home again."

He had nothing to say in response to that. Truth be told, he'd been fixing up the house mostly as an excuse to have something to do with his hands. Keep himself busy to avoid thinking about all the things he shouldn't be thinking about. But it was true. It hadn't been this well-loved since their mom had been around to do it. 

Jere's phone buzzed, and he brightened. "Oh, she sent it!"

Conrad's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What was she showing you?"

"Your graduation pictures. Only 'cause I begged."

He angled the screen toward him, and Conrad's breath caught. He remembered that day too vividly: Devon positioning him under a maple tree, tilting his chin to catch the light, and laughing when he tried too hard to look serious. She'd taken dozens of photos, and this one had been her favourite—his mouth turned up in a half-smile, his eyes not quite haunted, and the bouquet of sunflowers and daisies awkwardly clutched to his chest.

His brother's expression turned apologetic. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. For... everything. But especially for making you feel like you couldn't invite me to your grad. I'm sorry I didn't try harder to reach out. I would've liked to be there."

Conrad swallowed thickly. "It's okay," he said, though he knew it wasn't. "I'm sorry too. I should've said something."

They had both stopped trying at some point, and they were both at fault for it. He was too weary of everything else to hold on the the oldest grudge. 

"You looked nice," Jeremiah said. "Mom would've been very proud."

Conrad had thought he never wanted to hear those words again, but hearing them from Jere was actually nice. It didn't feel like the end of the world. 

"What did Devon tell you, anyway?"

Jere only winked. "That's a secret." When he rose and offered him his hand, Conrad let him pull him up, and Jere slung an arm around him like he'd been doing it his whole life. "Come on. Let's go outside," he said. "You woke up just in time for lunch."

He half-guided, half-steered him through the house until sunlight opened around them. The backyard buzzed—Jere's friends laughing too loudly, shoving each other near the grill, half-drunk already. Someone had a speaker blasting music, beer pong balls bounced off the patio, and Belly and her friends lounged near the pool.

Devon was there too, sitting at the edge of the pool, too close to the water for comfort. Her jeans were rolled to her calves, feet swaying lazily through the blue. The damp stain Conrad had left on her shoulder earlier had dried, only a faint ghost against the fabric, but seeing it made heat pulse through him, sharp and aching. He could still see himself collapsed against her, her fingers curled around him like she was afraid he might fall.

Relief hit him hard, seeing her still within reach, if only physically. However, her proximity to the water made every muscle in his body lock. He had the sudden, desperate urge to tell her to move back, but she wouldn't appreciate that, not from him. They were back to being nothing, so he said nothing.

He only kept watch, eyes tracking the way she leaned back on her hands or the curve of her mouth when she smiled. He didn't even bother trying to hide it.

Jere's friends were roughhousing near the pool, splashing, hauling each other in with loud guffaws, blindly reckless. Every shove made his heart stutter, and he kept waiting for someone to lose their footing and crash into her.

Then he caught her name on someone's tongue. It was the short guy with the obnoxious laugh who nudged Jere and asked, loud enough for all the guys to hear, "So who's the chick by the pool?"

Heat crept up Conrad's neck before he could stop it. He supposed it made sense for them to be asking about Devon. She was the only one they didn't know from Finch already, but that didn't make hearing the question any easier.

"She looks kind of mean, though," the guy continued, eyes twinkling with mischief. 

Someone else snorted and clapped him on the shoulder. "We all know you're into that, Ethan."

"Good weekend to get some, though, huh?" Ethaan said, smirking. "Is she single?"

Conrad scowled, and his hands twitched at his sides. She wasn't some trophy to jerk off over in front of your friends, he thought with irritation, wanting very much to say something, but not knowing what. 

Jere glanced at him, his expression knowing. "I don't know," he told Ethan. "Ask my brother. She's his friend from Stanford."

The words left him before he could think. "Yeah, she has someone back in California." The sound of his own voice startled him, and his stomach dropped when he saw Jere's face shift with recognition.

Conrad's cheeks heated, but Jere didn't tease him outright. He just laughed, throwing his hands up at the group. "Well, there you go," he said, voice full of amusement. "It's not like you could handle a woman from the West Coast anyway."

"West Coast, huh?" Ethan whistled. "Damn, she's outta our league already."

While the guys continued to shove each other around, Conrad spiralled. Why the hell had he just said that?

Part of him wanted to slap himself. Another part... well, that part knew exactly why. Because he couldn't stand the idea of Jere's knucklehead friends trying to make a move on her. It was for the same reason he sulked every time she had a date back in California, the same reason he tried to psychically manifest those dates into ending in catastrophic disaster. 

The thought of her taking a chance with one of these guys—even a passing glance or a playful chat at the bar—made him ill. Damn it. He was jealous and selfish. He hated that part of himself, hated that it existed, and hated that it was him. Mostly, he hated that it was true. Everything about her—the way she moved, the way she laughed, the way she existed entirely too brightly—made him feel like he couldn't breathe if anyone else even tried.

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

The sun was warm, and the water soothing on her legs, but Devon kept catching herself thinking about the heat that wasn't from the sun. She kept thinking about that morning, that inconvenient, infuriating, too-close encounter with Conrad that still lingered under her skin, no matter how hard she tried to shove it down. Her stomach gave an unnecessary little flutter at the memory, and then she pinched the bridge of her nose, wishing she could erase it entirely.

The sight of him bleeding and miserable had been alarming, almost nauseating, and she was supposed to be keeping her distance, but of course, she hadn't. She'd hovered over him, trying to fix him, and also trying not to melt when he pressed into her shoulder, looking utterly pathetic.

Her eyes drifted over to him now, leaned back in the lounge chair, looking like a storm cloud had permanently set up camp over his face while Jeremiah's friends talked to him. 

Ah yes, speaking of Jeremiah Fisher. The little fucker had a talent for manipulation bordering on sinister. Somehow, she'd let him convince her to stay. Some combination of begging, pleading, and that little twinkle in his eye when he told her he wanted to know about his brother's life at Stanford and that she was the only person to ask. But she supposed the guy wasn't all bad. He was fairly easy to talk to, mostly because he did all the talking.

This morning, as she'd fussed over the flowers, he'd hovered around like a curious puppy, and she'd indulged him just enough, regaling him about Conrad's adventures in California. She hadn't minded, and really, that was the problem. Being here and interacting with these people made it impossible to keep them in that "villain" box she liked to stick people in from a distance. Isabel and Jeremiah, individually, seemed fine. Sweet, even, and Devon realized she was struggling to hold onto the vague grudge she'd felt toward them for no reason.

Isabel's voice cut through the haze. "Sorry about Jere again. I have no idea why he roped you into coming today. We're not even having the wedding at the house anymore."

Devon raised an eyebrow, noting the subtle disappointment in the girl's tone. That change of venue probably hadn't been her choice. Well, that explained that. "It's okay. I don't mind."

"I'm glad you're staying for the rest of the night, though!" Isabel turned to her friends in the pool—Taylor and Anika, whom she had already introduced. "Right, guys?"

Anika nodded. "Speaking of, what are we even doing? This is my first bachelorette."

"Me too, actually." Isabel shrugged. "Taylor's in charge today."

"My God, what would you people do without me?" Taylor groaned. "Prepare yourselves for Belly's last hurrah. It's a debauchery-filled bar crawl meticulously constructed by me." She grinned. "We're getting lit, bitches, is what's happening."

Anika glanced toward the herd of boys across the lawn. "Okay, but which of these guys is single? 'Cause I need to at least make out with somebody this weekend. Please?"

Devon blinked. At least the girl was honest about what she wanted. Godspeed sister. 

"Hmm, uh, I think... Ethan?" Isabel mused, tapping her chin. "Blake is Jere's ex, and Redbird's got dibs."

Anika's jaw dropped. "Hold up, you're okay with Jere having his ex at his bachelor party?"

"My God, Belly does not have a leg to stand on," Taylor cackled. "Her ex is the best man, remember?"

"Yeah, but that's, like, ancient history," Isabel said breezily.

Anika wrinkled her nose. "Right, this group is messy." Then she suddenly turned suspicious, eyes narrowing at Taylor. "What, have you hooked up with Conrad, too?"

Devon's eyebrows shot up so far they nearly launched themselves into orbit.
I'm sorry—"too"? TOO?
What the actual fuck was this incest-adjacent friendship circle? Did they all just kiss each other like a rotating extracurricular activity? Mess didn't begin to cover it; this was a human compost heap.

"Oh my God, no," Taylor protested. "But I did make out with Jeremy once, the summer before seventh grade—"

"What?" Devon blurted, unable to stop herself.

"Because Steven dared me to!"

Isabel chimed in with a laugh, "And I had to stand guard outside the door."

The girls burst into giggles like this was a charming childhood anecdote instead of a red flag so large it could shade the entire beach. Meanwhile, Devon just stared, eyebrows climbing even higher. So was girl code a thing with this group? What happened to not making a play for the guys your friends had been with? All she knew was that Maeve and the rest of her friends would have a field day, and the group chat would feast tonight. 

Anika tossed her hair, her eyes on one guy in particular. "You guys never told me how hot Conrad is. I'd go for him if he wasn't Belly's first love."

Isabel glanced at Devon—almost discreet, but not discreet enough—and in a tone of forced casual curiosity asked, "Does he have someone back in California?"

Devon stiffened so hard she might have cracked a vertebra. "Nope. Single as a nun."

The bride-to-be perked up, turning back to her friend with a grin that was one shade too bright to be normal. "Yeah, see? You should do it then. Totally."

But Devon caught Taylor behind her, giving Anika a sharp shake of the head, mouthing, DO NOT!

Well, that told her everything she needed to know. Whatever mess existed between Conrad and Isabel was not dead, buried, or even mildly asleep. If she thought her own life had drama, these people were full-time telenovela. 

When the girls started teasing Taylor about Isabel's brother, her phone buzzed, dragging her attention away from whatever new layer of pseudo-incestual soap opera these people would manage to unearth.

It was Charlie. Sweet, well-meaning, aggressively friendly Charlie, who had insisted on taking her out for coffee to "celebrate your continued existence" after the near-drowning incident. And since Devon didn't really have anyone else to hang out with since the Great Conrad Fuck-Up™, she had agreed. 

CHARLIE:
hey!! what are you doing rn
my brother's home and he said he could teach you to swim today if you wanted??

DEVON:
tempting offer but i'm headed to boston tomorrow. raincheck on embarrassing myself in front of your family

CHARLIE:
omg boooo
but ok then we'll just come to YOU in cali!

DEVON:
we?

CHARLIE:
me + harper + sophie!! 
we could make it a group date!!
plus sophie's fiancé works there sometimes soooo we could totally stalk him while we're there

DEVON:
Yes, perfect. Come commit first-degree fiancé surveillance in my state. I'm sure the police will appreciate our dedication.

CHARLIE:
lol rude
but don't worry, i do have an itinerary!
we'll need:
- brunch somewhere stupidly aesthetic
- a beach day
- a museum so sophie can feel cultured
- stalking james (jk... unless 👀)
- and we HAVE to go shopping in that one outdoor mall you live near

DEVON:
i'm down for like maybe 4 of those things

CHARLIE:
double boo! but fineee, gonna keep brainstorming!! we're gonna make cali our bitch!!!

Devon smiled at her phone. Well, at least the spare bedroom in her apartment wouldn't stay a graveyard of laundry baskets and abandoned Amazon boxes anymore. After Maeve moved out, the room had turned into an accidental shrine of "I'll deal with this later." Now it was about to become the guest suite for a travelling circus.

She put her phone down, and her fingers drifted instinctively toward her collarbone, where her sunflower pendant usually rested, but of course it wasn't there. The clasp had caught on her hair while she was getting dressed that morning, and she'd yanked too hard. The chain had broken clean through, which was an omen, if she'd ever seen one. Proof from the universe that she and Conrad were a doomed ship with holes already in the hull.

The next line item on the itinerary was a choreographed dance routine. Isabel and her friends retreated upstairs to practice their own, while Devon was left to bear witness to whatever war crime the groomsmen were about to unleash. 

At least she wasn't alone. One of Jeremiah's coworkers, Denise, had arrived with Steven Conklin, and the two girls had been ushered into seats of honour like unwilling judges at a very cursed talent show.

Denise held her phone up, the speaker blasting a slow, crooning, somewhat inappropriate song that absolutely should not be anywhere near a celebration of eternal love. Something about sex having meaning, which made it a wedding classic, clearly. 

But the music was nowhere as ridiculous as the dancing. They snapped their fingers and winked with too much derranged commitment, directing every move at her and Denise, gyrating and rubbing their hands together like they were auditioning for the world's saddest Magic Mike spinoff.

Denise was no help, snickering so hard she could barely keep the phone steady, and while Devon tried her best to keep a straight face, she was done the moment the chorus hit. All six boys simultaneously dropped into a squat and started moving their hips in slow, hypnotic circles, like some prehistoric mating ritual gone terribly wrong.

A snort escaped her. Then a full laugh. Then she slapped a hand over her mouth as she wheezed, "Oh God, this is a humiliation ritual."

Denise choked on a laugh beside her, gasping, "I can't—oh my God!"

Then her gaze snagged on Conrad. He was doing the moves despite the obvious pain he was in, and every shift in balance made his injured leg tremble, not that he'd ever admit it. If there was a stupid hill to die on, Conrad Fisher climbed it willingly, planted a flag, and declared it his moral duty.

Still, there was something almost endearing in the way he tried to soldier through this disaster of choreography. If she weren't still mad at him, Devon might've even felt bad.

When he caught her laughing, his lips twitched reflexively, fighting a smile at her reaction, and Devon scowled instantly. His smile vanished like she'd slapped it off him, and he avoided her gaze for the rest of the dance. 

The boys ended it by pointing and prowling in a circle around the girls. Then they lined up again and dropped into what was probably intended to be a body roll but very quickly devolved into something between a slow-motion push-up and an unfortunate chiropractic emergency.

Denise cut the music and clapped slowly. "Nice job, guys," she deadpanned. "Panties dropped. Significantly."

Devon snorted. Oh, she liked this girl. "Well," she added, "if your preferred majors don't work out, at least you know you have options now."

One of Jeremiah's friends—the one whose confidence was inversely proportional to his talent—winked at her. "So you're saying we should be male strippers?"

"Do not put words in my mouth, dude."

He grinned like she'd made a joke. "I mean, I'd consider it. If you were in the audience."

"No thanks. I need to go bleach out my eyeballs now. Do not want a repeat of... whatever that was."

"Oh come on," he laughed. "You'd make it rain for us."

"Sure. With holy water. To cleanse the sin from this house."

"Aw, where's the fun in that?" Jeremiah cut in with a dramatic pout. "You'll have to put up with it at the wedding at least."

Devon stiffened. Ah yes, the wedding she was very much not attending because she would be in Boston, living her best life far, far away from gyrating clowns. She opened her mouth to change the subject, but Redbird—Devon refused to believe that was his birth name—announced something about needing a beer, and the herd of himbos dispersed.

The other guy who had been talking to her before stepped forward again, already constructing a second attempt at flirting. "I'm just saying," he continued, "with a little more practice, we could really give Magic Mike a run for their money."

"Magic Mike... minus the magic. And the Mike. Just... random male civilians thrusting at unsuspecting victims."

"Ouch. Brutal." He clutched his chest. "You wound me."

"I'm providing constructive criticism," Devon said flatly. "Step one: never do that again."

He took a step closer, flashing a grin he clearly believed was charming. "You sure? Looked like you were enjoying the show."

"Free entertainment, dude. Same way I enjoy a circus."

"Bet you were cheering internally, though. Maybe even hoping we'd rip our shirts off."

Devon raised a brow. "Not unless you wanted the coroner involved. I think one more pelvic thrust and someone's spine was going to detach."

He leaned against the wall right next to her. "You're funny. I like funny."

"At least one of us is having a great time, I guess."

As he kept talking, Devon's eyes drifted toward Conrad, who had managed to relocate from the dance circle to the couch in the corner. He was half-sprawled, his hands gripping a cushion and jaw clenched. He looked like he was pretending very hard not to listen while staring straight at her conversation.

Jeremiah's friend misinterpreted her pause as interest in him. "So," he said, lowering his voice dramatically, "how about I give you a private show next time?"

Devon blinked back at him. "Please don't say that sentence again. Ever. In any context."

"That a yes?"

"No."

He smirked, unfazed. "I like a challenge."

"Good for you."

"I could grow on you."

"Like mold. Yes. Exactly my concern."

Before the guy could get out a syllable, Jeremiah smacked him upside the head and dragged him into the kitchen under the pretext of getting him a beer, but Devon swore she heard him whisper, "Come on, man, I know what you're trying to do. She's got a boyfriend, remember?"

Devon's jaw dropped.

She had a WHAT?
Since WHEN?
Did someone issue her a boyfriend while she wasn't looking? Did they do that now? 

She turned to Denise, hoping for a distraction, but the girl seemed occupied. Steven still hadn't fully recovered from whatever fever dream of a dance they'd just performed, and instead of standing like a functioning adult, he crawled across the floor and collapsed with his head in Denise's lap like a mortally wounded soldier.

Denise only chuckled, brushing his hair back with her fingers in a gesture way too tender for work acquaintances. "You okay?" she asked him in a teasing voice. 

Devon nodded appreciatively, her own woes forgotten briefly.
Alright, damn girl, walk him like a dog. Good for you.

Steven eventually peeled himself up and shuffled off, and Denise caught the expression on her face. "What?" she demanded, suspicion in one arched brow.

Devon smoothed her features into the world's most unconvincing mask of innocence. "Absolutely nothing."

The girl snorted, and the sound was so infectious that Devon almost joined in without meaning to. "No, no," she insisted, pointing a finger. "You definitely have something to say."

Devon held up a solemn hand. "Oh no, I promise I don't."

Silence stretched just a hair too long until Denise rescued them and stretched out a hand for her to shake. "I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Denise. I work with those knuckleheads." She jerked her chin toward Jeremiah and Steven, who were loudly arguing over whether the dance routine counted as cardio.

"I'm Devon." 

There was nothing else to add. How was she connected to the family? Well, she wasn't. Saying that she was Conrad's emotional support pet rock would probably sound insane. She could still feel the weight of his stare from across the room. He seemed pissed, probably waiting for her to get lost. 

Honestly, she was wondering the same thing. She just needed an exit strategy. 

"So," she turned back to Denise, "what do you do? Besides wrangling emotionally fragile groomsmen, I mean."

Denise snickered. "Oh, no, I don't—"

"No, no, it's great. To own a man who crawls on command. Icon behaviour honestly."

Denise laughed even harder. "Oh, you definitely get it. But uhm... no, that's just my weekend hobby. Monday through Friday, I sell my soul in finance."

"Like stocks and spreadsheets and pretending the economy isn't an elaborate scam?"

"That's the one," she replied proudly. "Very fun, very sexy job. I crunch numbers while men try to explain crypto to me."

"You have the patience of a saint. I could never. Finance bros scare me."

"Oh, they should," Denise said. "Every day is a TED Talk from a man who thinks Patagonia vests are personality."

Devon winced and placed a hand over her heart. "I'm so sorry for your suffering. They'll award you the Nobel Peace Prize for your sacrifice."

"What about you? What fresh hell do you contribute to society?"

"Forensic psychology." Devon shrugged. "It would be way cooler if my current job wasn't TA-ing for undergrad psych courses, which is 80% answering emails like 'Hey, can you bump my 42% to a 90? I tried super hard.'"

"Yikes."

"Yep. But it's okay. I, too, was once a desperate student."

"Amen to that." 

Devon didn't even know how she got roped into spending the rest of the evening with Jeremiah and his groomsmen. He clearly had an ulterior motive, but she couldn't figure out what it was. Was he just morally opposed to letting her go home and wallow like a normal person? Did he secretly get paid commission for every hour she stayed miserable? Probably.

All she knew was that she really needed to learn how to say no. Unfortunately, chronic people-pleasing was her greatest weakness. 

At least Denise was fun company until Steven herded her away to talk about video games and whatnot, and Devon didn't have the heart to third-wheel a budding situationship. So she'd spent the last hour planted at the bar counter, nursing her third drink and people watching, while also trying not to notice Conrad, who was seated a few seats down from her, also doing the same thing. 

Maybe this is why she stayed, against her better judgment. A form of self-torture, maybe. Even though she couldn't talk to him or fix the gaping wound between them, at least she could exist near him. Savour the last scraps of proximity before she disappeared again. By tomorrow evening, she'd be gone, and then back to Stanford after summer was over. It would be easier to pretend she didn't care when she didn't have to see him. 

This was her way of things. Leave first, before the other person can. Break her own heart before they did.

When the group spilled out of the bar and made their way to their next location, Devon followed. They saw Isabel and her bridesmaids stumbling and giggling a few storefronts ahead, two of the girls slipping into the candy store behind them while the bride waited outside. 

Then Isabel turned and froze. A breath caught in her throat, visible even from where Devon stood, like someone had just pulled a thread from the center of her chest and unravelled everything holding her together. Devon knew instantly who she was looking at. It wasn't Jeremiah because he hadn't yet rounded the corner. 

The only word that could have described the look on her face was devastation. A look you reserved for the person you thought would be your forever. 

Devon looked away quickly because it felt like she was intruding on an intimate moment. This wedding was a ticking time bomb. That was what happened when you built futures on unfinished heartbreak.

Behind her, Jeremiah rounded the corner, and before Devon could blink, he had swept Isabel into a dramatic dip-kiss straight out of some cheesy Netflix rom-com. The couple exchanged words before his groomsmen dragged Jeremiah away. 

Isabel asked Conrad to stay behind though, and Devon slowed her steps, instinctively backing away. No way she needed a front row seat to whatever tragic Greek drama they were starring in.

Thankfully, the universe threw her a lifeline.

"Devon!" Denise's voice rang through the humid air as she and Steven approached. She beamed and looped her arm through Devon's the moment they reached her. "You look like you need rescuing."

"Your kindness is appreciated," Devon said. "Now they'll give you two Nobel Prizes."

Steven stuffed his hands in his pockets, giving her a warm smile. "How're you finding Cousins so far? Did Connie give you the grand tour?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, it was cool. Definitely not as entertaining as Jeremiah regaling me with tales from your Dramione fanfiction era."

Steven choked on air. "He did not!"

"I'm afraid he did."

Denise gasped, delighted. "Dramione? Like... Draco and Hermione from HarryPotter? Oh, this is already the best night of my life."

Steven buried his face in his hands. "Jesus Christ. I swore I deleted those—"

"Nothing to be embarrassed about," Devon assured him. "I respect the craft. My little sister dabbles."

"Now I absolutely have to read your stuff, Conklin," Denise added. "For posterity and leverage."

Steven stared at her in horror. "No. Absolutely not. Those were dark times. Puberty was a disease..." He sputtered as he trailed off, blushing while Denise stared him down. "So what other dark secrets is Jere out there exposing?" he asked finally, trying to change the subject.

"Oh, nothing concerning," Devon said lightly. "Just your rich fictional inner world."

His groan was practically operatic.

"You know," Denise cut in, "this is actually perfect. I've always suspected Conklin had a dramatic streak. Now I have proof."

"I don't have a dramatic streak. I have... imagination."

"So," Devon mused, "was it a slow burn? Or did they fall into each other's arms by chapter three?"

He was saved from having to answer because they had finally reached Isabel. Conrad was thankfully nowhere to be seen, but her friends had returned. 

"Oh, how's the bachelor party going?" Taylor drawled, lips curled with amusement. "Are you guys just doing Jägerbombs at every dive in Cousins?"

Denise gave a bright laugh. "Yeah, pretty much. Pure sophistication."

Taylor latched onto both their arms and pulled them to her side. "Well, that's no fun. So I'm going to steal you. We are going to a tiki bar and dance our asses off!"

Steven turned defensive instantly. "You cannot just poach people from the groom's side."

Taylor raised both brows, waiting. "Um... I think it's up to them."

"We did a bunch of gummies," Anika piped up. "And we got a bunch of candy. You'll have way more fun with us."

Devon exchanged a look with Denise, and there was a mutual agreement of why the hell now? So of course they went, 

The tiki bar was loud, crowded and sticky with spilled sugary drinks. Ten minutes in, Denise slipped away to text Steven, and when she didn't return, Devon decided to call it a night. Standing there, drowning in flashing lights and bass that rattled her ribs, she realized she would rather be anywhere else, so she slipped into the bathroom and ducked into a stall to text Charlie. 

She wasn't exactly ready to go to an empty house yet, and her father had said something about them going out to dinner with one of his friends. 

Then the bathroom door swung open and two familiar voices filtered in. Isabel's breathing was ragged—short inhales, shaky exhales—panic dripping from every sound, and Devon could barely make out what she was saying. Regardless, she stayed put because emerging right now would be awkward as fuck. 

"Oh, shit," Taylor was saying guiltily. "I should not have given you that gummy."

"It's just... it's just the wedding," Isabel choked out. "It's all happening so fast."

"Yeah, but this is Jeremiah we're talking about. You've known him your entire life. This is your dream wedding."

There was a painful pause, and then Isabel's voice burst out in a torrent of anguish. "No! No, it's not my dream wedding. I never... I never even had a dream wedding, not like this—not with the dresses and the flowers and the..." Her breath hitched. "I just—I never pictured any of it. And I-I-I..."

Devon had the sinking suspicion that she did not want to stay to hear the rest of it. 

"I only ever pictured Conrad."

Silence crashed over the space, and Taylor swore, but the rest of their conversation was lost to Devon. 

Well. Shit.

Not even curiosity could compel her to listen further, because what more was there to hear? She already had confirmation of a theory she never wanted to be right about in the first place. But this was good. There was a comfort in knowing it went both ways. 

Imagine if she had actually confessed something—God forbid—during the million opportunities she'd had over the years in California. Imagine the humiliation. 

No thanks. Better the devil you know than hope flaring up just to be stomped out.

She felt a tiny pang of sympathy for poor Jeremiah, though. Really, she did. She'd rather have no shot at all than live in that agonizing limbo of thinking you might, only to find out that you never did. Either he was getting left at the altar, or worse, this train wreck of a wedding would barrel ahead, and they'd trap themselves forever in a union built on a lie.

Nonetheless, it was messy as fuck. The bride, head over heels with her ex. That had to count for some sort of emotional cheating. Why not just figure out your feelings before jumping into a relationship you clearly weren't ready for? And wasn't the wedding tomorrow? Was this a bad rom-com waiting to happen? Bride runs off with the best man, who's also the groom's brother? Honestly, worse than keeping up with the Kardashians.

Anyways, it was not Devon's business.
Everything was cool.
Everything was so cool.

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

Jere's bachelor party should have been one of the happiest nights of his life, and Conrad should have been laughing, joining in on the ridiculous dancing and drinking. He should have been happy. Instead, he felt like shit. 

Devon being here was just salt in the wound, a comfort and torture in equal measure, because at least she was here, close enough to hear her laugh again, even if that laugh wasn't for him anymore. But every time he tried to talk to her, she shot him that scowl, so he retreated like a coward. Over and over. 

And watching his brother's idiot friend flirt with her? Pure agony. Every wink and stupid joke, every time they made her smile, his fists clenched, and Jeremiah would shoot him a knowing expression like he knew exactly what was making his blood boil. 

Somehow, Conrad made it through the day without falling apart, but then Jere's drunk ass spilled his drink all over him, which is how he ended up in the bathroom, trying to rid his shirt of that telltale smell of liquor. 

He stared at his reflection in the mirror and wondered for the hundredth time that week why he felt so stagnant. Time was moving without him. Everyone else was running toward futures—marriages, careers, happiness—while he stood stuck in quicksand. 

In the past, this time-stopping quality of Cousins had been a blessing, a way to make summers feel vast and infinite while he was surrounded by the people he loved, but now it was stifling. The world spun and spun while Conrad lagged behind, afraid that when he looked up, the people he cared about would be too far gone to chase.

When he stepped back out, Jeremiah's friends were still loud and obnoxious. Steven had ditched them all to go hang out with his new girl, which left Conrad as the only sober adult in a room full of children in men's bodies.

That was when Redbird opened his big mouth, loud enough to be heard across the room. "Jere, you didn't tell your boys about you and the iconic Lacie Barone? Didn't you hook up with her in Cabo during spring break!"

Conrad's heart plummeted.  

"No way," another guy chimed in.

"Yeah," Redbird crowed. "He was away from Belly for like, what, two seconds and already hooking up with the hottest chick in Finch? Locked us out of the room, man. We were banging on the door. And all we heard was—" he broke off with an obscene moan of Jeremiah's name. 

Meanwhile, Jeremiah himself had clearly indulged in one too many drinks and without another word, he shoved past them, bumping into Conrad's shoulder on his way to the bathroom. 

His friends continued their asinine banter, but Conrad didn't move. He couldn't. His brother had cheated. There was nothing to feel but disbelief and nauseating fury. Because Jere wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to be anything like their father.

He was Susannah's mirror image, her sunshine boy wrapped in freckles and laughter. He wasn't supposed to be someone who could ruin a relationship with such carelessness. 

Conrad's hands shook. He hated that he knew exactly how deep the wound of betrayal carved itself. He had watched that wound bleed through their family home, listening as their mother shattered herself against the jagged rocks of their father's choices. He had seen what the heartbreak did. And Belly didn't deserve that. Even after everything, she was still the girl who used to chase fireflies barefoot with him in the backyard, and she deserved someone who would honour her. 

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pang of guilt. Was it his fault? If he had told Jeremiah about their father's affair instead of burying it, or if he had stayed, if he had been here, if he hadn't been such a coward, could he have stopped this from happening?

Everything was crumbling, and somehow it all looped back to him. His failures. His silence. His absence.

Conrad didn't even remember leaving the bar. One moment, he was drowning in the braying laughter of Jere's drunk friends, and the next, he found himself on the beach, perched on a wooden lookout facing the blackened sea. The ocean churned like it shared his rage, and the wind tasted like rain and endings.

He dragged a hand over his face, breathing unsteadily. What the hell was he supposed to do? Tell Belly? Confront Jere? Keep another secret that would rot him from the inside out? He had no answers, just the ache in his bones and the bitter realization that the people he loved most were capable of destroying each other.

Just then, he heard the voice of the last person he wanted to see.

"Jere?" Belly called out from below.

He considered staying silent and letting her walk past, but she'd already spotted him, and her frown said enough.

"Jere was supposed to meet me here," she said. 

"Oh. He's not here," Conrad replied roughly. Then, before he could think better of it, "But come sit with me for a second."

She hesitated, turning halfway as if already leaving. "No, I should head back."

"Come on," he breathed, the plea slipping out before he could stop it. "Just for a minute."

Something in his tone must have given him away, because she sighed and climbed up to join him on the weathered bench. 

"Are Jere and the other guys back at the house?" she asked. 

Conrad gave a huff that wasn't quite a laugh. "There or in a gutter somewhere, yeah. Your fiancé was pretty wasted tonight." It came out bitter and full of vitriol. "Good ol' Jeremiah can't handle his liquor, still."

"It was his bachelor party," she countered immediately. "Relax. I'm gonna go back to the house—"

"Belly, I have to tell you something."

That got her attention. "What?" she asked carefully.

Conrad forced the words out before the wind could swallow them. "Jere cheated on you when he was in Cabo."

Belly's shoulders went rigid. "I already knew about that."

"You know?" 

"Yeah. I know."

"And you're still marrying him? Now? That was a few months ago, Belly, what the fuck?" He could barely wrap his head around it.

She exhaled, long and tired, as if she'd spend way too long trying to justify it to herself too. "He made a mistake, and he hates himself for it, and I forgave him. We're good. Everything's fine now."

It sounded rehearsed, repeated over and over until it lost all meaning. It was something you were supposed to take at face value, but Conrad had never been one to believe things to be as they appeared. "Are you kidding me?" he burst out. "Knowing is one thing, but you're defending him?"

"Well, it's not really your business!" 

"It is my business," Conrad snapped. "Because that piece of shit is my brother, and as much as I care about him, he needs to be held accountable for his actions. And you, of all people, are not the kind of person who would take that from a guy."

Belly let out a disbelieving scoff. "I put up with a lot worse from you."

Conrad didn't have a response to that, mostly because when she said it, he felt something inside him audibly crack. It was an unfair statement to make, especially considering that he hadn't so much thought of another girl when he'd been with her. Every moment, every breath, every terrified beat of his heart back then had belonged to Belly, even when he was barely holding himself together. 

If his only crime had been his grief—if being devastated and scared and withdrawn because his mother was dying, was what she counted as "worse" than cheating—then what the fuck?

For so long, he'd carried the blame for their falling out. He'd convinced himself he'd ruined everything, that he hadn't communicated enough, hadn't laughed enough, hadn't been enough. That he'd been too depressed, too much of a burden, too full of sadness to sustain something bright and alive like her.

But now, hearing her say that felt like being stabbed with a truth he didn't want to believe. It was she who never really understood him. In fact, she hadn't even tried. Because if she had, how could she stand here and defend Jeremiah, the person who had broken her trust in the ugliest way? Yet she had no grace to spare for a boy drowning while his mother slipped away.

Conrad was so tired of everything. Tired of apologizing for existing, tired of shrinking himself down so others didn't have to witness the mess of him, tired of carrying guilt that didn't even belong to him. 

"I never so much as looked at another girl while we were together." His tone was cold and clipped. "But by all means, if you honestly believe putting up with someone grieving their dying mother is worse than putting up with someone who cheated on you, then I wish you a happy marriage."

He didn't wait to see how she reacted, swinging his legs off the perch to drop down to the sand, leaving Isabel Cinklin sitting there beneath the storm-dark sky. It was a little unfortunate that their first real conversation in years had to go like this, but it was cathartic to finally put to rest something that had died long ago. Cathartic in the way near-drowning experiences were, leaving you gasping for breath and clinging to composure that kept slipping away. 

Conrad wandered the neighbourhood for a while, unsure where to go. He didn't know where his feet were taking him, only that they needed to move, to outrun the spiral clawing up his throat. Streetlights bled halos into the night as he walked past shuttered shops and sleepy porches, his pulse a frantic drum in his ears. The world tilted and stretched, sounds muffled like they were pressing through cotton.

He couldn't go back to the house, obviously, and he felt like a kid again, trying to muffle his gasps into his sleeve so no one would ever know something was wrong. He wanted to be alone, but he also didn't. Maybe he just wanted someone who could see the real him without flinching.

There was only one person who came to mind, of course. His north star. 

He didn't remember turning down her street. One blink and he was already there, his knuckles scraping lightly against her door before he even realized he'd lifted his hand, and when it took too long for her to answer, he considered fleeing. Because how shameless would she think him to be if he just showed up like this?

Then the door opened, and there she stood, a ghost pulled straight from his memories, except far more miserable than he had ever seen her. Devon's eyes were rimmed with red, and when she registered his presence, a myriad of emotions flickered across her face—shock, frustration, hurt—before settling into a deadened sort of exhaustion.

She didn't speak, or scowl, or tell him to get lost, which made it worse. She simply stepped aside and let him into the silent house. Inside, it was utterly dark, with only a faint moonlight filtering in through the drawn curtains. 

She'd probably been crying alone in the dark, and it made Conrad feel like shit. She had always helped make him feel better when he was a wreck, and yet he couldn't be there for her in her time of need. What a pathetic excuse of a friend he was. 

Without a word, she padded ahead, bare feet whispering against tile, and led him to the kitchen where a kettle steamed on the counter. She must've been in the middle of making tea for herself, but she slid the freshly poured mug toward him, setting the kettle to boil again without looking at him.

Conrad stared at the cup. It was chamomile, the same kind she made back in California whenever she was having a bad day. He remembered sitting at her dining table while she pushed one toward him with a mumbled "you look like shit," and pretending not to notice how her hands trembled from her own battles.

He wanted to say thank you. He wanted to say sorry. He wanted to tell her everything, but her back stayed to him, shoulders locked stiff as if facing him would unravel her. 

When she poured out her own tea, she took her cup and made her way to the back door, stepping out into the night air like she needed to distance herself. Conrad followed, of course, because being alone in someone else's house was weird, but also because he couldn't bear the distance. 

Her backyard stretched wide beneath a navy sky, the grass silvered by moonlight, and a porch swing hung near the stairs. Devon sank into it without a glance back, folding one leg beneath her, and when Conrad settled down next to her, she didn't move. 

The silence stretched, and his mug felt scorching against his fingers, but it was a punishment he didn't mind taking. Then, with a breath that scraped his lungs raw, he finally spoke. "I'm sorry."

His voice sounded smaller than he expected, but once the dam cracked, the words flooded. "You don't make things worse. You make things better," he said, staring at the grass because he didn't deserve to meet her eyes. "You make everything better. I don't think you even realize it, but you walk into a room and suddenly breathing feels easier."

No response. 

"You've never made me feel like a burden. Not once. You... you taught me that I don't have to lock myself up with the worst parts of my head. That grief doesn't mean I have to be alone." His voice wavered, but he soldiered on. "You've always accepted me, even when I say shit I don't mean. And God, Devon, I'm so fucking sorry for what I said. I was angry and scared, and I took it out on you." He finally turned toward her. "I didn't mean it. Any of it. Please."

Devon's spine was stiff, and when she met his gaze, a single tear slid down her cheek. She didn't even seem aware of it. "Yeah," she whispered. "You were a dick. You made me feel like shit."

Conrad flinched. It was true, but it destroyed him anyway. "I know. And I want to do better. I will do better. Just—" he swallowed the tremor in his throat. "Please let me make it up to you. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you'll let me."

There it was, the first half of the confession burning in his throat. 

Devon squeezed her eyes shut, and a breath shuddered out of her, uneven and faltering. He could practically see the gears turning in her head, and he hoped that whatever decision she was weighing, it would come out in his favour. 

 When she opened her eyes again, she forced a watery smile. "Well, you owe me a lifetime of free donuts then, I guess."

The sheer absurdity of her asking for something as mundane made him let out a huff of disbelief. 

"Done," he murmured.

"And just so you know, I will be cashing that in." 

"Wouldn't have it any other way." 

Conrad set his mug onto the porch railing and gently pried hers from her hands to place it beside his. Then, before his courage could fail him, he reached out and wrapped his hands around her shoulders. He expected her to pull away, to shove him and tell him he'd lost the right to comfort her, but she only stiffened momentarily. 

Then she collapsed into him, and he pulled her tight against his chest, like he could anchor her heartbeat with his own. Her forehead pressed into his collarbone, warm breath hiccupping against his throat, and his chin rested atop her head, fitting there like it always had a place.

The swing rocked gently beneath them, and the night smelled like chamomile and the faint citrus of her shampoo—a scent he'd memorized years ago without meaning to.

"Um... I'm going to Boston tomorrow, by the way," Devon said after several minutes. 

Conrad's entire body went still, and the air in his lungs stalled. "What?" He pulled back just enough to see her face. "Why?"

She didn't quite meet his eyes, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "I was running away."

"Oh." His hands slid down to her arms, holding her gently but firmly, grounding himself in her presence because he suddenly felt like the ground was tilting beneath him. "Well... you don't need to anymore. Right?" His voice cracked on the desperation he tried to mask. "Stay."

Devon shook her head. "My dad's going back to work. And being here alone with everyone else might be awkward, so I'm just going to head back with him. Spend the rest of the summer with my mom."

Conrad knew he didn't have the right to ask her to stay. He knew it would be selfish, but he also knew that once she left, Cousins would feel lonelier than ever. 

"How's your leg by the way?" she asked, rushing to fill the silence. "Today was... a lot. You should be in bed."

"I'm fine."

"Conrad," she said gently, with that uncanny precision she always had when it came to him, "what's actually wrong?"

"I'm not—"

"You are."

The truth rose like a tide he couldn't fight. "I... found out that my brother cheated," he confessed raggedly. "On Belly. Months ago."

Devon's eyes widened. "Oh, shit. Did you tell her?"

His silence answered for him.

"Jesus Christ, you told her." She blew out a shaky breath. "Well, that's good, right? I mean, she deserves to know?"

He only managed a miserable nod, and that's when everything started to go wrong. He could see the pieces of some puzzle slotting together in Devon's mind, but he wasn't sure what picture they were forming. 

"Is that why you're so messed up right now? Did you..." Her eyes narrowed as if the thought hurt. "Did you tell her you loved her? And now you're here because she told you to get lost?" She huffed a humourless laugh. "You can't tell a girl that the night before her wedding and expect her to elope with you or something."

"What?" Conrad stared at her like she'd grown a second head, cold dread unfurling in the pit of his stomach. "Why would I tell her that? What are you talking about?"

All the colour drained from Devon's face, and she stood to put some distance between them again. "Because you love her," she said quietly. "Isn't that the whole point of this? All summer. You love her."

Conrad lurched to his feet instantly. "Why would you think that?" 

"Because... you've been spiralling ever since you found out she's marrying your brother." Her tone was painfully obvious, as if she couldn't understand how he couldn't see it. "You went nonverbal the day of your mom's memorial lunch—"

"Yeah, but I told you why," he interrupted, almost desperate. "That was because of my brother. Because Jere asked Steven to be his best man before he told me anything about it—before I even knew about the engagement."

Devon shook her head, eyes shimmering with memories he hadn't even noticed she'd been keeping. "And that day we were running errands..."

"What about that day?"

"I don't know... You got so mad when she assumed we were a—" she couldn't even say the word, "—a thing. And then you got mad at me for not denying it hard enough, which, like, what else did you want me to say?"

This was getting worse by the minute, and being in it felt like sitting in a car heading off the edge of a cliff. "Is that why you think I reacted the way I did?" 

"Didn't you?"

It was the worst possible timing, the wrong night, the wrong storm, but it was happening anyway. The secret he had been trying to keep for years was coming out. He'd imagined telling her under different circumstances, with flowers, maybe over dinner or something nice. But right now, he couldn't stand another second of her believing he had ever loved anyone the way he loved her.

Conrad took a cautious step closer. "That's not true. None of that's true. If I've been in love with anyone all summer, it's you."

Devon's eyes snapped up to his, wide and terrified. "No."

"Yes." The word came out like a vow. "We might as well have it out. This whole time, it's been you." 

"Stop it. Don't say that." She looked almost horrified. 

"I mean it. You're my—my lighthouse." Conrad blinked tears back hard. "I need you. I'd be lost without you. I was lost without you." The truth shivered through him, breaking open the part of his heart he had kept barricaded since the moment she walked into his life. "My biggest mistake before was not saying it until it was too late. Please... tell me it's not too late."

"I didn't save you," Devon said flatly. "You did that yourself. You were the one who went to therapy. You climbed out of that darkness. Don't give me credit for the work you put in."

"Damn it, that's not what I'm trying to say."

"I know what you're trying to say."

"Then why are you—"

"Deflecting?" A sad smile tugged at her mouth. "You forget, that's what I'm best at."

Silence draped itself over them like a thick, suffocating fog. Conrad could feel his pulse hammering beneath his skin, loud enough that he wondered if she could hear it too. But Devon's gaze was fixed somewhere just beyond his shoulder, as if looking directly at him would shatter the last of her composure.

"I won't fight for you," she muttered eventually.

The words hit him like an aftershock, unexpected and devastating, and his voice came out almost childlike. "Why not?" He shook his head right after. "What does that even mean? Why would you have to fight anyone? There's no one else."

"I'd have to fight you for you," Devon hissed. "Do you realize how ridiculous that is? I won't do it. I won't fight for someone who isn't even sure about what they want."

"I am sure."

"No, you're not. And look, I don't care about being someone's first love. I know all that is bullshit." She wiped angrily at a tear that escaped anyway. "People are complicated. They've loved before. They'll love again. That's life. But I refuse to be the one you settle for because you can't have someone else. Because suddenly this wedding feels way too real, and you're finding it hard to come to terms with it."

Conrad winced, panic and shame and fear festering in his very bones. Where was all of this even coming from? Had she been feeling this way the whole time? Why did she refuse to listen to what he was trying to say?

"So what is this? You don't want to be lonely anymore? You need a date for the wedding?" Devon's voice broke, but she kept going. "You're settling, Conrad. And you deserve so much more than that."

He wanted to interrupt, but he couldn't speak. 

"You deserve someone who makes you feel alive. Someone you really love. And I'm sorry it didn't work out with Belly. I truly am. But you deserve a whole love. You deserve the person you want, not some consolation prize."

"There's no one else. There hasn't been for a very long time. Since graduation, really, but probably before too, if I'm being honest. Graduation was just when it really hit me that I can't imagine my life without you in it." He stepped closer, words trembling with reverence. "You believed in me when no one else did. All this time, it's been you. No one else. I thought you knew."

"And no, I didn't plan on telling you like this," he continued. "I wanted to tell you when it all felt less messy. In California... away from everything here. I wanted to sort my shit out first. Be someone worthy of you. But I guess these things have a way of coming out when you least expect them to."

When Devon still didn't say anything, Conrad could feel panic start to surge like ice water in his lungs. He scrubbed a frustrated hand through his hair, voice trembling. "If there's someone else, all you have to do is say it. If that's why—"

Her response was a sharp crack through the air. "No, you fucking—there's nobody else."

"Then... why?"

"Because you're settling."

"Why are you so insistent on telling me how I feel? That's not fair."

It had begun to rain now, as if the sky wept on his behalf, the light drizzle thickening into pouring sheets, dripping into their clothes, their eyelashes, their wounds, but neither moved to seek shelter. 

"Say the word and I'll never bring it up again," Conrad pleaded. 

"What do you want me to say?" Devon took a shuddering breath. "That I... care about you, so, so much? That I'm terrified of losing you? That if I let things change and lose my best friend, I'd never be able to forgive myself? That when you're mad at me and we don't talk, it—" her hand pressed flat to her chest, as though steadying a fracture beneath the bone "—it physically hurts because I don't know how to fix it?"

The rain poured harder, running rivulets down her neck, tracing paths that Conrad—fool that he was—found himself wanting to follow. But he stayed rooted, waiting breathlessly for her to finish. 

"But how I feel about you doesn't matter," Devon finished dejectedly. "None of it does."

"Of course it matters." He took another step, close enough that he could feel her shiver. "And I'm not settling. Do not ever say that again." He swallowed his pride, not caring if he sounded like he was begging for it. "This summer, seeing my family, making new memories with you, you made me realize that moving forward doesn't mean leaving the past behind. I carry it with me. I carry all of it, but I also want to move forward... with you."

The rain plastered her hair to her cheeks, and Conrad lifted a hand to brush it back, slowly, giving her a chance to pull away, and to his immense relief, she didn't. When he looked into her eyes, the rain and tears were indistinguishable, but there was something there, something that felt dangerously close to hope. 

There was nothing left for him to say. Nothing that could possibly convey the depth of his longing for her more than what he'd already declared. But it turned out maybe she didn't need any more than that, because in the next moment, she was grabbing the collar of his shirt and yanking him down, her lips pressing against his before he could even process it. 

Shock flared in him at first, but it dissolved instantly into fire, the heat coursing through him like liquid sunlight, burning into every limb, filling the cavities he hadn't even realized were empty.

He responded instinctively, cradling her face in both hands, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones. It was a tether, a confirmation, and an oath all at once. No more almosts, no more misunderstandings, no more waiting. This was it. This was everything.

Chapter Text

Devon Watson

Shit. Shit. Shit.

What the hell had she just done?

Devon's mouth tingled, her fingers still curled in the damp fabric of Conrad's shirt like she'd forgotten how to let go, and her heart was beating fast enough to bruise her ribs.

She had kissed Conrad Fisher.

Well, technically, it had been a panic response. He'd looked at her with those ridiculously earnest eyes and poured his heart out, and the only thing she could think to do was shut him up before she said something awful. Because that's what she did. She ruined things. She crushed moments. She sabotaged the good.

Kissing him had been a way to keep from opening her mouth and ruining everything before it even began.

But then her mouth had actually touched his, and his hands had come up to cradle her face like she was something precious, and she panicked a second time, this time over how good it felt. And how stupid she was to want this.

She pulled away just as abruptly, eyes already darting around the backyard as if looking for an escape, as if she could vault over the fence and sprint out into the night to get away from the enormity of her own feelings. 

Conrad's hands were still at her waist, fingertips warm even through the soaked fabric of her shirt. The grip was achingly familiar, reminding her of that morning when he'd clung to her while she patched him up. It made her want to collapse into him, to tuck her face against his chest and let him hold her until she stopped wanting to flee. 

But she couldn't. She couldn't afford to believe this. Not fully. Not yet. There was a cynical voice in her head that kept whispering:

Don't be stupid. Don't fall for this. Don't trust this. Don't trust him.

Her gaze dropped to the ground, the wet grass blurring as her thoughts unravelled faster than she could catch them. Then suddenly Conrad's fingers gently gripped her chin, tilting her face up with heartbreaking care, and his thumb ghosted over her bottom lip, soft as a breath.

His voice was a beseeching murmur. "Hey, hey, what's wrong?"

Wrong?
Everything.
Nothing.
She didn't know.

Her mouth moved before sense could catch up. "Sorry. Shit—I shouldn't have—"

He flinched like she'd slapped him. Rain—or tears, she honestly couldn't tell—tracked down his cheeks, and her hand lifted on instinct, brushing the wetness away, trying to ignore the way he leaned into her touch with a fragility that made her heart sting.

"Do you... regret it?" he asked hoarsely. "Are you taking it back? I thought you—"

"No!" she cut in immediately. "No, I'm not taking it back. I'm not—"

Devon drew in a long breath, feeling it burn all the way down. She had to get this under control, had to pull herself back from the edge before she said something sharp enough to wound them both. She needed to sort this out with dignity and honesty, because if she had anything left to offer him, it was that. He had practically torn himself open to give her the truth, and even if she couldn't quite let herself believe all of it, she owed him more than the instinct to bolt.

She reached for his hands and carefully peeled them away from her waist, leading him back toward the shelter of the house where the rain couldn't bite at his skin. "You shouldn't be straining your leg."

When she nudged him into the porch swing, his grip on her hands tightened, as if he feared that letting go meant losing her, and he tugged her closer, drawing her into the space between his legs. "Talk to me," he pleaded. "Please."

God, that voice. How was she supposed to stay upright when he said things like that?

Devon swallowed, her throat aching. Should she tell him about Isabel's confession in the bathroom, the admittance that she still had feelings for him? Someone braver than her might have. But no, it wasn't her business. It wasn't her secret to tell, and it would only reopen old wounds. She didn't know what went down between Conrad and Isabel tonight, and maybe she'd never know, but it wouldn't change anything. All she knew was that he said he no longer had feelings for Isabel, and that she wanted to believe him.

But wanting and believing had never come easy to her, so instead, she looked down at him and felt something inside her slowly, painfully fold in on itself. "It has been..." Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. "It has been the honour of my life to be there for you."

His expression shifted, surprise first, then something softer. 

"To make you feel comfortable enough to confide in me," she continued, her fingers trembling where he held them. "But I don't want you jumping into something you think you want just because of some kind of trauma bond."

The words tasted like ash, but she had to say them. Had to clarify whatever false god or saviour he'd made her out to be. Because it wasn't true, and she was too flawed a person to be the warden of someone else's hopes. 

"I'll still be there for you. Even if we don't... if we're not..." She shook her head. "So you don't have to force yourself to feel something you don't." For a moment, she couldn't look at him, staring instead at their joined hands and the way his thumbs moved repeatedly over her knuckles with a gentleness she didn't deserve. "Anything you've achieved, you did with your own effort and your own strength. Not because of me. I'm not some... instrument to your well-being. You don't owe me anything."

Conrad exhaled, a long, frayed ribbon of breath, his shoulders lifting then falling as though he were trying to physically shake off her doubts. "What else must I do to prove myself to you?" he asked, scrutinizing her as if he could pry open the locked doors she kept bolted tight. "To prove that this isn't me settling, or obligation, or whatever other stupid idea you've got lodged in your head? How do I get you to believe that this is real? That I want you. That I want a future with you."

"You don't. I don't need you to prove anything. See, that's just it—you're my best friend. And what if... what if this doesn't work out? What if we aren't friends anymore? What if we fuck things up and never speak again?" 

The fear in her voice was barely audible beneath the patter of rain, but Conrad heard it. He always heard the things she tried not to say.

"Seems a little in bad faith," he murmured gently, "to go into something expecting it to fail without even giving it a chance."

"I know... I'm sorry—"

"Stop apologizing." His voice was firm but warm. "It's okay." His hands squeezed hers once, reassuring. "Things don't have to change if you don't want them to. You'll still be my best friend. We'll still spend hours in that stupid old record shop arguing about which Springsteen album is superior. We'll still take those long wandering walks through Escondido Village when we can't sleep. We'll still go on our Sunday grocery runs where you judge my cereal choices, and I'll still make you watch the whole Lord of the Rings trilogy with me every November."

"I happen to like those now, actually, though I am partial to the show," Devon mused. 

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that for the sake of my sanity." Conrad's lips twitched with amusement. "Point is, none of that goes away. And I don't think I can ever stop speaking to you, so you definitely don't have to worry about that."

He sounded sincere enough, which is why she didn't bring up the fact that he'd technically not been speaking to her for weeks now. "Sure. Okay."

"Okay, as in you'll give us a chance? You'll give me a chance?"

Devon shrugged. "All the things you mentioned, we've been doing them already. Nothing new."

He raised an eyebrow, his hesitant smile growing an inch wider as he let go of her fingers to slide his hands to her waist. The swing creaked under him as he pulled her closer, and she unconsciously leaned in, caught in the gravity of him.

"Everything?" he mumbled, looking up at her through rain-jewelled lashes, his voice rough velvet. "We've been doing everything?"

Devon gripped his shoulders for balance, resisting the urge to bend down and lose herself against his mouth like she almost had in the yard.

She needed an out, so she said the only thing she could think of. "Since we're apparently hashing everything out tonight, why the hell did you get so mad at me at the peach farm?"

Conrad shot her an almost offended look. "You honestly haven't figured that out yet?"

Devon frowned, a defensive heat crawling up her neck. "There were better ways to go about it than telling me you hated me and never wanted to see me again."

"I did not say that."

"Something along those lines. Same thing."

His hands tightened on her waist. "No. Not the same thing. But yes, what I did say was shitty and uncalled for, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you like that." His jaw flexed. "I'm not entitled to you reciprocating my feelings, and I had no right to dump that on you."

"Why the hell would you think I didn't reciprocate?"

Conrad closed his eyes, looking like the memory pained him. "Because you made it sound like it would be the worst thing in the world... being with me. Jesus, Devon, you sounded horrified."

"Because I thought you wouldn't want people making assumptions."

"Out of all the ridiculous assumptions people have made about me in my life... I think that one was my favourite."

Devon went completely still, and he used the opportunity to shift forward until his forehead pressed lightly to her abdomen and his arms wound around her, like he needed her to remain upright, and her fingers slid reflexively into his damp hair.

"Yeah. So why'd you say what you did?" 

There was no clever lie she could come up with, so she forced out the truth. "Well, yeah, that's what people do when... "

"When what?" He sounded like he already knew the answer. 

"When they like someone," she muttered, eyes darting away. "And can't risk everyone else knowing."

"God," Conrad whispered against her, his tone rich with disbelief and relief and something dangerously close to wonder, "you are such a cliché."

"Wow, okay, rude. But as entertaining as a dissection of my coping mechanisms would be, we should get you inside." She brushes a strand off his forehead. "Can't have you catching a cold on top of your injury."

"Or we could stay out here a while."

"You know, for a future doctor, you hold freakishly little regard for your well-being. It's honestly scary." 

It was almost a Herculean effort to untangle herself from his arms, but she did it anyway and ducked under his shoulder, helping him stand. He leaned heavily on her, and she could feel the strain in his muscles as she helped him limp toward the house, where she deposited him on the couch. 

"Let me guess," she said as she went to fetch a towel. "You walked all the way here, didn't you?"

Conrad didn't argue, and when she handed him the towel, he caught her wrist. 

"I think I owe you," he said solemnly.

"Owe me what?"

"That day at my place. When you dried my hair for me." He tilted his head. "I never returned the favour."

"You don't have to—"

"But I want to," he interrupted, giving her a lazy grin. "I thought you said I deserved to have whatever I wanted."

"I didn't mean..."

But he was already tugging on her wrist, guiding her to sit cross-legged on the rug between his knees, and she let herself be maneuvered because resisting meant touching him more, and that was even more dangerous.

Without another word, Conrad draped the towel over her hair, his fingers moving in slow circles against her scalp. It was embarrassingly tender, and Devon could feel her heartbeat ricocheting in her ribs, panic and yearning tangled up in one dizzying knot.

His thighs brushed against her back every time he shifted, and she could feel the warmth radiating off him, his breath hitching whenever she unconsciously leaned into his touch.

She didn't dare look up because she was sure she'd combust if she met his eyes. "Your towel technique is... uh... very... professional. You must have been a hairdresser in a past life," she managed eventually.

A laugh rumbled from his chest, warm enough to collapse her remaining composure, and when he pulled the towel back, she felt suddenly exposed, too aware of every breath she took. 

Nonetheless, there was a need to look at him, so she shuffled around until she was facing him, resting her cheek against his knee like some forlorn Victorian orphan.

Conrad blinked down at her, confused, fond,  and a little amused, and after a few seconds, he tapped her temple with two fingers. "Where are you off to now, Watson?"

She huffed a laugh. "Nowhere. Just taking a moment."

A moment to convince herself this was real and that they weren't still in that horrible space of avoidance and hurt feelings. Such blatant domesticity after weeks of emotional whiplash felt impossible. It felt like a dream she wasn't allowed to keep.

Conrad's voice softened. "Okay. But if there's anything on your mind—now, or ever—just say it. If something's bothering you, tell me so we can fix it." His thumb brushed her brow as though smoothing out imaginary creases. "No more festering with outlandish notions."

Devon made a face. "Sure."

"Good."

She pushed herself up to sit on the couch next to him, deliberately tucking her legs beneath her and scooting an entire foot away.

"Social distancing? Seriously?" Cinrad joked. "You were never this edgy before."

"You're imagining things."

He slid across the couch until his thigh pressed solidly, deliberately against her knee. Then his fingers ghosted toward her throat, touching the bare spot just above where her damp button-up fell open, and a shiver rippled through her, uninvited and entirely too obvious.

"What happened to your necklace?" he asked. 

Devon winced. "Sorry. It broke this morning. Total accident, by the way."

"Mm-hm." His fingers traced the absence, a feather-light circle that made goosebumps erupt down her spine. "Accident, huh? You sure you didn't rip it off and hurl it into the ocean in a fit of cinematic rage?"

She swatted his hand away, mortified. "I would never."

"I wouldn't blame you," he said, but something in his tone carried a shadow of guilt, or maybe it was regret for every stupid misunderstanding that had led them here. 

"Relax, I'll get it fixed in California. Maeve knows a pawn shop that does repairs."

"Or we could just get you a new one."

"I like the old one just fine."

Conrad hummed thoughtfully, his fingertips sliding up until he was touching the spot just under her jaw. "Someone's awfully sentimental."

Devon's cheeks flared as she caught him watching her with that slow, mesmerizing way that made her toes curl. She tried to look casual, tugging the wet collar of her shirt close as if that explained away her heart hammering in her chest. "If you keep looking at me like that, I won't be held responsible for my actions."

"With you, I can never tell what that entails. Am I getting tossed off a cliff? Who knows? Certainly not me."

Her lip twitched, and she felt herself admit, "I might be tempted to kiss you again."

"And that would be a problem, why?" Conrad brushed a stray curl from her temple.

"Might not be able to stop," she blurted, and immediately winced inwardly. 

Shit, why the hell was she saying this? It must be all the drinks from the bachelor party. Sober Devon would never. Or wait... actually no, sober Devon would absolutely enjoy kissing Conrad Fisher too. But that didn't mean she should indulge. 

Conrad's hand was still tracing idly along her jawline. "I think that would be very helpful, to be honest. Instrumental in healing my injury. Doctor's orders."

"Which doctor?"

"Me."

"You can't say 'doctor's orders' every time you want something done," Devon snorted, some of the tension draining out of her. 

He smirked. "Actually, I can. One of the few perks of suffering through med school." 

"Stop it," she said breathlessly, trying to protest but failing spectacularly. Her own fingers itched to touch him, to match the exploration of his hands. "You're making it impossible to think straight."

"Good," he murmured. "Thought I might want you distracted."

"If you keep doing that, I—"

"And if I keep doing that," he replied, voice low and teasing, "you'll what?" His hand slid to her thigh, fingertips tracing the curve over her jeans. "Go ahead. I'll take full responsibility for any consequences."

"You're ridiculous."

"And you're ridiculously irresistible. So I'd say we're perfectly well matched."

He kissed her first this time, a little more intense, but just as reverent as the first one, his hands roaming slowly over her back, her sides, her arms, careful to explore without overwhelming, tracing the outline of her completely, as if memorizing every inch. And Devon, despite the panicked voice in her head screaming caution, let herself melt into him, her nerves and anxieties dissolving into the heat. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

Conrad woke to the vague throb of his neck, and the first thing he saw was two pairs of vivid green eyes, wide and unblinking, making him feel like he was experiencing some kind of woodland cryptid encounter. It took him an extra beat to realize he wasn't dead, dreaming, or abducted by forest elves. He was on Devon's couch, and the comforting weight against him was Devon herself. 

Her cheek rested against his shoulder, her breath feathering the collar of his shirt, and one of her legs was thrown across his, holding him in place. Her hair spilled over him in a golden tangle, making her look almost insultingly angelic for someone who routinely drove him to insanity.

Conrad decided he could probably die like this and not complain. Sure, his neck felt like a pretzel someone stepped on, but he could get used to her in his arms. He could get used to this feeling, and maybe even survive it.

He didn't, however, get the luxury of basking in it, because the cryptids—Devon's little brothers—were still staring at him. They stood side by side in matching pyjamas, and the house around them was too quiet, which meant the parents were very much asleep. 

Jasper, the older one, squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "Are you Dee's boyfriend?"

Conrad jerked fully awake, and he felt Devon shift but not wake, thank god. He was definitely not prepared for an interrogation this morning.

"My brother said you're Dee's boyfriend, but I said Dee's too smart to have a boyfriend. So which is it?" Jasper continued, unfazed by his slow descent into cardiac arrest.

Conrad felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He hadn't really thought about it, mostly because last night had been a blur of emotions and trying to convince the infuriatingly brilliant, exasperatingly beautiful girl in his arms that he really, honestly, stupidly loved her.

They hadn't gotten as far as labels, but the idea of calling himself Devon's boyfriend felt nice. The nicest title he'd ever get, really. 

"Yeah," he muttered. "I guess I am."

Oliver, the younger brother, frowned as if personally offended by the concept. Then, without warning, he leaned in and poked Conrad's forehead. "Are you imaginary? Dee has a lot of imaginary friends."

Jasper immediately slapped the boy's hand away. "You can't poke strangers!"

Oliver scowled and turned back to Conrad. "You don't mind, do you? And you're not a stranger if you're Dee's boyfriend."

Somewhere in the mess of hazy morning light and Devon's steady breathing, he realized he was smiling. God help him. "No, I don't mind."

Oliver's smile stretched ear-to-ear as he slowly pulled a black marker from his pocket, leaning in close like he was letting him in on a classified operation. "If we draw a mustache on Dee, you have to promise not to tell."

"It was his idea," Jasper declared immediately, backing away as if removing himself from the scene of a crime. "Tell her it was his idea. I have nothing to do with it."

Conrad frowned and lifted the arm Devon wasn't wrapped around, gently prying the marker from the kid's grip. "Let's not wake your sister up, okay?"

Oliver's face immediately scrunched up. "Party pooper."

Meanwhile, Jasper's gaze drifted back to the couch, scrutinizing the scene with a sour look. "My sister said you weren't friends anymore."

Great, he was being judged by an eight-year-old now. Conrad felt guilt spear through him. "No, we're cool now."

"Are you sure?"

"Yep."

"You don't look sure."

"I am." He glanced at the clock hanging up on the wall, wondering what god had sent this child to torment him at seven in the morning.

Then Oliver, tired of the tension, piped up brightly, "Why are you sleeping in our house? Are you homeless?"

Jasper gasped and smacked his arm. "You can't just ask people if they're homeless!"

Oliver yelped, then smacked him right back. "He just said he doesn't mind!"

"Mom said you're not supposed to ask questions like that!"

"I'm gathering information!"

"You're not a detective!"

"I am! I'm going to be the best detective ever!" Oliver tried to whack Jasper again, missed, and nearly face-planted onto the floor

Conrad caught him by the shoulder before the kid gave himself a concussion. "Can we maybe not kill each other on top of your sister?" he asked. 

Both boys froze, mid-argument, and said at the exact same time, "He started it."

He looked between them. "Guys... it's early."

Oliver perked up again instantly. "Do you get grumpy when you're sleepy? Dee gets grumpy. She threw a pillow at Jasper once."

"That was your fault," Jasper huffed.

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

"Was not!"

"Was—"

Conrad pinched the bridge of his nose. "Guy!"

Jasper recovered first, staring Conrad down. "So, if you're Dee's boyfriend, why haven't we seen you before?"

"You've seen me last year, remember. When you came for your sister's graduation."

"Wait, are you in the witness protection program?" Oliver gasped, completely ignoring what he'd said. 

"No," Conrad said immediately.

"But would you say if you were?"

"I'm not in witness protection. Pretty sure they wouldn't let me crash on other people's couches if I was."

"Maybe they don't care about you," Oliver said thoughtfully.

"Oliver—" Jasper began.

"What? Maybe he's like... the lowest-ranking witness."

"There's no ranking," Jasper said through his teeth.

"There could be."

Conrad lifted a hand weakly. "Guys, I'm just a normal person."

Neither looked convinced, but Jasper went back to being all business. "What do you want with my sister?"

"What do I—? I don't want anything. I just—"

"Is this where you propose?" Oliver whisper-yelled. 

"What? No!" Conrad hissed, almost jolting Devon awake.

The kid looked disappointed. "Oh. Well, you're sitting like people do when they're in love in movies."

Jasper turned beet-red. "Ew, don't say stuff like that!"

"What? It's true!" Oliver pointed accusingly at Conrad's arm around Devon. "Look at them. When we came home last night, even mom and dad were like—"

Jasper clapped a hand over his mouth before he could finish the sentence, and Conrad felt himself die internally. Then the boys exchanged a look made entirely of widened eyes and subtle eyebrow jerks, until Oliver calmed down and added, "Okay, but if you're mean to Dee, we get to bite your kneecaps."

"Oliver!" Jasper shouted.

"What? He's tall! Kneecaps are reachable!"

Conrad, somehow, found himself smiling at them. "Deal."

"You're supposed to say no!" Jasper scowled.

"Well, I don't plan on being mean to her, so I figure I'm safe."

"Cool." Oliver grinned. "Then can we get pancakes?"

"No," his brother snapped. "Mom said no waking anyone up this early!"

"You woke him up!"

"No, you woke him up!"

"Yeah, but you started talking first!"

"You always talk first!"

One second, the boys were shoving each other in stage whispers, and the next, Oliver tripped over his own foot, nearly body-slamming the side of the couch. Conrad caught his collar just in time, but the kid had already grabbed a fistful of his sister's hair, giving it a hard yank. 

Devon made an incoherent sound, her face burrowing deeper into Conrad's shoulder, her fingers curling unconsciously into the fabric of his shirt, and her brothers froze instantly. 

In perfect unison, they hissed, "Oh no, she's awake."

"Sleepy Dee is grumpy Dee," Jasper said. 

Oliver nodded, solemn and terrified. "See ya later. If you die, we'll find you nice flowers. Even homeless people deserve funerals."

Then they were gone, sprinting up the stairs like their lives depended on it, and Conrad let out a long, exhausted sigh. For a moment, he just listened to Devon's breathing, waiting for her to slip back into sleep, but she didn't.

Slowly, painfully, like her bones had been replaced with rusty hinges, she lifted her head, groaning as she blinked blearily around the room. She looked adorable, and Conrad's lips twitched into a smile he couldn't fight off. Yep, he could get used to this. Actually, too late; he already was.

"You okay?" he asked, his tone smug despite his best intentions. "You look like you slept comfortably."

Devon's eyes narrowed to slits. "Headache."

"Hangover?"

"Mhmm."

Concern flared in him. Just how drunk had she been last night? How much had she had in her system when they'd talked? When she'd kissed him?

A cold, nauseating weight settled low in his stomach. What if she didn't remember? What if every trembling confession he'd waited literal months to hear was trapped behind the fog of too many shots and too much courage in a glass?

He stared at her tensely, heart braced for impact, but when her gaze focused on him, her cheeks flushed pink, and he could see the recognition in her eyes. The relief hit him so hard he could've sagged into the couch, and without thinking, he leaned in, brushing his lips against her hairline. 

"Stop staring," she mumbled eventually, her voice still heavy with sleep. "You're making the headache worse."

"Pretty sure that's your fault, not mine."

She made a confused hum and flopped her forehead onto his chest. "Ugh. Everything hurts. My soul hurts."

"That's dramatic." Conrad huffed a laugh, his hand drifting to her hair, carding through it gently because he couldn't not. She leaned into the touch immediately, and he nearly melted.

She must've felt it, because her lips curled against his shirt. "Wow, you really are affectionate in the morning."

Conrad's hand froze. "I—no—I'm just—"

She lifted her head just enough to look at him through a curtain of messy hair, her smile wicked. "Relax, I'm teasing you."

"Yeah, I got that."

"You sure? Because you got very flustered very fast."

"Devon—"

Her grin widened. "Oh my god, you're blushing."

He wasn't. Except he definitely was. His face felt like a stove burner.

"Devon," he groaned.

"Conrad," she echoed sweetly.

He glared half-heartedly, but she leaned in and bumped her nose into his shoulder, still smiling, but almost shy now, and when her hand found his cheek, brushing the edge of his jaw, he nearly combusted. 

When he leaned down to chase her lips, she let out a startled little yelp and slapped her fingers over his mouth. "Dude, I love you, but I am not letting you kiss me until I brush my teeth. Let me have some dignity."

Conrad went completely still, not because she'd essentially smacked his face, but because she'd said she loved him. 

She stated it like it was nothing, unlike his own somewhat dramatic revelation last night. No, she made it sound like loving him was a simple, uncontested truth of nature. She'd used the same tone she'd use to state that water was wet or that Oliver ate glue once in kindergarten.

When he didn't say anything for several minutes, she eyed him suspiciously. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He tried to speak, but her fingers were still pressed to his mouth, muffling whatever half-formed protest he had. Then, she tapped her fingers right above the bow of his upper lip in a tiny, affectionate peck of her fingertips.

"Here," she teased, "a placeholder until I'm a fully functioning human being." Then she stood, stretching her arms over her head with a sigh. "Ugh, my spine is 200 years old. Why did we sleep like that?"

"You looked comfortable," Conrad mumbled, already missing the way she fit against him like she'd been dropped there from some better universe where everything made sense. The next words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "Hey, Devon..."

"What's up?"

He swallowed. "You... meant it, right?"

The jokes drained out of her, but she nodded resolutely. "I'm not in the habit of saying things I don't mean."

When she disappeared upstairs, Conrad remained on the couch, though he'd at least managed to shove himself upright, elbows on knees, neck rolling like he was trying to unscrew his own head. He should go home soon, deal with the mess with his brother and get his life back into some kind of sequence. He'd done this all out of order, but at least he had Devon now, and that was enough to make him forgive himself for every questionable decision up to this point.

Before he could sink any deeper into the pit of his melodrama, her brothers launched themselves onto the couch, flanking him like judgmental bookends.

Then the interrogation began.

"Do you know how to make pancakes?"

"Will you take us for ice cream again?"

"If you and Dee hang out, can we come? Actually, can we come even if she's not there?"

"Do you put bananas in your eggs?"

Conrad tried to answer, but the questions kept multiplying, and he was finally saved by the appearance of Devon's dad, who shuffled into the living room with a steaming mug. He blinked at the sight of Conrad on the couch between his spawn, but he didn't look surprised at all, which somehow made Conrad more self-conscious.

Was he supposed to stand? Explain himself? Apologize for something?

But the man only smiled. "Glad you guys made up."

Conrad's soul left his body and immediately combusted, and he tried his best to nod. "Yes, sir."

"Just call me John. John Watson." He even winked, which was ridiculously reminiscent of Conrad's first introduction with Devon. 

Conrad cleared his throat. "Ah, the original Watson."

John positively beamed. "Oh yes. Though I fear I'm an embarrassment to the true original, since I'm no doctor.

"Devon said that you're a lawyer."

"Corporate lawyer, unfortunately, which means I spend most days making sure wealthy idiots can't sue other wealthy idiots for being idiots."

"That sounds..." Conrad searched for the right word. "...glamorous?"

John barked a laugh. "Oh, trust me, son. There is nothing glamorous about arguing whether someone's definition of 'reasonable' includes ordering a helicopter for lunch."

"Do I want to know...?"

"No," he said immediately. "I certainly didn't want to know, and it was my case."

Now it was very obvious where Devon got her sense of humour from. 

After a while, John's gaze softened in that way dads got when they were sizing up boys who hung around their daughter, half curiosity, half concern. "Well," he said, "any man who lets our Devon drool on him at seven in the morning has my respect."

"What?" Devon exclaimed from the staircase with an incredulous expression. "I do not drool!"

John chuckled, "Alright, alright, I take it back. Forget I said anything."

"Dad!" Devon rolled her eyes as she stepped into the living room, tossing her now braided hair over her shoulder. "What is even going on here?"

"I like him," Oliver interrupted, pointing at Conrad. "He promised he'll take us out for ice cream again."

Jasper shook his head immediately. "I am not so easily bribed."

Her dad cleared his throat, looking apologetic. "Also, there's been a change of plans, kiddo. Traffic's supposed to be terrible this weekend, and since I'm not needed back in Boston until Tuesday, I figured I'd just drive down Monday evening. You can come with me then."

"But I—"

Oliver launched himself into her arms like a missile. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Stay! Stay! Stay!"

Devon staggered but caught him, her gaze drifting toward Conrad before she shrugged at her dad. "Sure, that works just fine. I'll text Dakota. Mom doesn't know anyway. It was supposed to be a surprise."

Conrad felt selfishly relieved. Maybe now he could convince her to come to the wedding with him after all. 

"Alright, alright. Come on, boys. Let's not bother your sister and her friend so early in the morning," Devon's dad declared. "I'll make you pancakes."

He ushered the kids toward the kitchen, leaving them alone, and Devon turned toward him with a frown. "Oh shit, I just remembered, don't you have to be at your brother's groomsmen fishing trip this morning? Did I make you late?"

Fishing trip. Right. The thing he'd aggressively shoved out of his brain the moment Devon breathed on him last night.

"How do you know about that?"

"Your brother was showering me with all the details yesterday. I'm pretty sure he gave me a step-by-step itinerary."

Conrad groaned. Of course, Jeremiah would. The guy could befriend a brick wall if it looked his way. "I don't really feel like it," he muttered.

"Okay."

"I know, I know. I have to sort it out. I just... need a day to cool off, I think. I don't want to talk to him today."

"Sure. Whatever works for you."

"I should go home, though," he added.

"Want a ride?"

"Oh, no, I can manage."

Devon's face did this withering, deadpan thing that made him feel chastised. "Need I remind you of your leg?"

"It's just a cut," Conrad protested.

"And I'm the queen of England," she shot back. "Shut up and let me take you home."

"Wow. Bossy."

Also ridiculously hot. 

She rolled her eyes. "Forgive me for not wanting my best friend hobbling home like an eighty-year-old man."

Now Conrad really did laugh. He wanted to make a joke—something about whether best friends were allowed to make out on couches at two in the morning—but her entire family was ten feet away, and he valued his life, so he just nodded.

Devon plucked the car keys from the hook by the door, hollering in the direction of the kitchen, "Dad, I'm taking the car! Dropping Conrad home!"

John's voice floated from the kitchen, amused, "Take your time! We're staying in today!"

She hurried back to Conrad, hovering a few inches beside him as he stood, like she was preparing to catch him if he toppled over dramatically. She walked him down the driveway like he was ninety-four and recovering from hip replacement surgery, and when they reached the passenger side, she even opened the door for him.

He felt ridiculous, but also a little warm in the chest in a way he absolutely wasn't going to unpack right now.

"That was excessive," he muttered as he climbed in.

"Shut up, Gramps," she said, sounding way too cheerful for someone who was supposedly hungover.

Conrad didn't expect the quiet dread that hit him the second Devon turned into his driveway.
It was stupid, but some deep, insecure part of him braced for the moment she'd drop him off, drive away, and vanish like the universe suddenly realized it had made a mistake by giving him what he wanted. So before she could even shift the car into park, he blurted, "Come inside."

Devon turned to him with a grin sharp enough to slice through his dignity. "Any dragons in there that need slaying?"

He gave her an unimpressed look, and she shut up instantly, following him inside. But when he headed for the stairs up to his room, she hung behind, hands in her pockets. 

"Oh, I guess I'll just wait down here," she said. 

Absolutely not.

Conrad marched back and grabbed her hand before she could reconsider her entire existence like she always did. "Not a chance," he grumbled. "You're a flight risk."

"You gonna hold my hand while you brush your teeth?" Devon snickered. 

"Not a bad idea. But no, just come hang out in my room."

"Only if I get to judge your taste in books."

"Shut up," he drawled. "I saw you eyeing my copy of The Silmarillion last time."

Her expression turned downright devious. "Oh, really? Will you let me borrow it, then?"

"Better yet, I'll get you your own copy."

"Yeah, but yours is annotated, dude. That's like a special edition. I'll finish it before I leave for Boston, don't worry."

Conrad stopped dead on the stairs and stared at her like she'd claimed she could recite the periodic table backward. "Devon, that's in two days."

"You clearly aren't familiar with my speed game."

Conrad laughed, nudging her into his room with a grin. "Alright, please stay put. No escaping out the window."

Devon saluted. "No promises."

After a shower and two cups of coffee in his hand, Conrad returned to his room, only to find Devon sitting cross-legged on the rug beside his bookshelf, completely absorbed in The Silmarillion, because of course she'd threatened to finish it in forty-eight hours like a lunatic.

He set the mugs down on his desk and just watched her for several minutes. Then he cleared his throat before he gave himself away. "What is your thing with sitting on the floor?"

"Way more comfy," she said without looking up. "Also, your rug? Ten out of ten."

Conrad looked down at the rug, suddenly aware of how worn it was. It was one of his mom's picks, because she'd always had a talent for decorating rooms that didn't feel staged. Somehow, she had managed to furnish the house in perfect coordination with each person's tastes. 

Trying not to dwell on the sudden surge of grief, he reached down and plucked the book out of Devon's hands. "Come on. Get up. We have things to do."

"We do?"

"Yep. We have to make a run to the bakery. Within the last twenty-four hours, I seem to have incurred a massive donut debt."

Devon snorted, letting him pull her up. "You don't have to start now, you muppet."

"Muppet?" Conrad arched a brow. "You and your name-calling."

"Are you complaining?"

"Maybe."

She took a step backward, but he kept advancing until her back hit the wall, and before she could make some sarcastic comment that would ruin him completely, he slid his hands to her waist, effortlessly lifting her onto the window seat. 

Devon let out a startled breath when he placed one hand on either side of her, effectively caging her in. He was almost eye-level now, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath, and in a burst of boldness, he tapped her upper lip lightly, right where she'd pressed her finger to his mouth earlier. 

"I think you owe a debt, too. I'd like to collect now, please."

In response, Devon slapped both hands over his eyes.

"Wh—Devon, what are you—"

"You make an abnormal amount of eye contact!" she blurted, sounding nervous in a way that made something low in him tighten. "Like you're trying to snatch my soul."

Conrad burst out laughing, the kind that bent him forward until his forehead nearly bumped her shoulder. "You're telling me I can't look at you now?"

"No! I—I didn't say that," she stammered. "I just—maybe we should get you a blindfold or something."

He laughed harder. "Blindfolds, huh? Didn't think you were into that."

"Put a sock in it."

"Now you're tryna gag me. Didn't know how much of a freak you were, Watson."

Devon yanked her hands away as if scalded. "Dude—eww—no! That's not—don't twist it! Oh god, what have I unleashed?"

"At least you're taking responsibility."

She smacked his arm, harder than necessary. "You can't be the one making the sketchy jokes! I'm the sketchy jokes person! You're putting me out of a job!"

Conrad grinned at her, leaning a little closer, just enough to watch her breath hitch again. "Well," he murmured, "maybe I just like keeping you on your toes."

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Maybe."

"You're unbearable."

"Yet you told me you love me," he reminded her smugly, even through the flush colouring his cheeks. "So you're kinda stuck with me now."

"Yes, like all poor, misguided fools in love, I am learning the consequences of my actions."

"I'm a consequence?"

"The worst one."

In response, Conrad tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering longer than necessary, tracing the delicate curve of her jaw, the soft slope of her cheek, until he found the bridge of her nose. His thumb hovered for just a beat before he brushed it lightly across the freckles that danced there, as if memorizing a constellation. 

Devon's eyes widened slightly, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she tried to look unaffected. "What are you—" she started, but her voice wavered.

"Just... taking it in." He pressed his forehead to hers. "You're perfect, and I can't believe this is real. That I get to be here with you."

He traced her freckles again, marvelling at how ordinary yet impossibly intimate it felt to touch her like this, and then he pressed a tender kiss to her temple, savouring the impossibility of it all.

For a moment, they just hovered there, suspended, her hands trapped between them like she couldn't decide whether to push him away or drag him closer. His gaze dropped to her lips, and when he leaned in, she met him halfway.

Conrad pressed closer, his knee slotting between hers, his other hand sliding up her waist, spreading heat through her skin even through her shirt. Devon arched into him, her back hitting the window, and she made a soft, unguarded sound against his mouth that he swallowed like it was a secret meant only for him.

He kissed her like he'd been holding back for too long, his tongue brushing hers, tasting, and she shivered, fingers curling tighter in his shirt as she dragged him even closer.

"God, Devon..." Conrad exhaled sharply, like she'd stolen the breath right out of him.

"What?" 

He answered by tilting her chin up and kissing her deeper, stroking along her jaw as if he couldn't decide whether he wanted to hold her still or pull her impossibly closer.

When they finally broke apart, Conrad brushed a thumb over her swollen bottom lip. "So... you do this kinda thing with all your best friends? Should I be worried?"

Devon's head snapped up, the moment broken. "Dude, what the fuck?"

"So that's a no?" he teased, leaning back just enough to get a proper look at her face. "Because, I have to say, if this is a standard best friend package, I've been missing out."

She shoved his shoulder. "Shut up. I swear to god."

"Just trying to define our terms," he said, trying not to sound too hopeful. 

Devon's eyes narrowed, her expression turning mischievous. "You know, I had no idea having a boyfriend would be this distracting. Now, will you please shut up and stop being a distraction?"

Conrad nearly choked, his brain doing an Olympic triple flip before crashing spectacularly into his chest. "You—did you just—" he sputtered, but she smirked, completely unbothered, as if she hadn't just practically stolen his soul with two words.

When he leaned forward instinctively, she ducked out of the way, laughing. "Seriously, quit swooning. I gotta finish that book, remember? Time is of the essence."

"Time is of the essence?" he echoed, mock horror in his voice. "Since when did finishing The Silmarillion become a race against death? 

"Shut up."

"Yes, maam." He handed her the book from his shelf, along with the now-probably-cold cup of coffee he'd brought earlier. 

But before he could retreat, she shifted, making space for him on the window seat next to her. "You can join me if you want," she said sweetly. "I never said you had to get lost. Only that you be quiet."

Conrad's surprise melted into a slow, crooked grin. "I can be quiet."

She shot him a look.

"A quiet distraction," he added, with exaggerated innocence.

"That's not a selling point."

"Sure it is."

Devon snorted but didn't argue, simply lifted her book like a makeshift barrier between them, as if that could keep him from bleeding into her atmosphere anyway.

Conrad took her invitation like a treasure, folding himself into the narrow space and settling shoulder-to-shoulder beside her. Sure, there was the rehearsal dinner tonight to deal with, and all the drama that came with family, but right now, the world had shrunk to the warm sunlight of Devon's presence and a long, wonderful day to be spent just watching her read.

Maybe, if he was lucky, she'd call him her boyfriend again.

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher

Conrad had been in the middle of some absolutely riveting conversation with Steven—something about Stanford or irrigation systems or maybe alien abductions; honestly, who knew—when the Devon walked into the lobby of the country club, and his brain immediately abandoned its post and face-planted. 

He had just regained the use of his lungs when Steven followed his line of sight, and the grin that spread across the guy's face was downright villainous. "Oh-ho-ho," Steven said, wiggling his eyebrows. "Look at you. You know, when I asked if you had a girl out in California, this is not what I was picturing."

Conrad's ears went red immediately. "Uh... yeah. I mean, it kinda just happened."

"It just happened," he repeated incredulously. "My guy, I'm gonna need you to drop whatever magic you're working and help a brother out." He jerked his chin toward Denise, who was talking to Jeremiah near the bar.

"There's no magic. Trust me."

Not unless he counted being avoidant as fuck and nearly nerfing his prospects because he couldn't get his head out of his ass to string a coherent sentence together.

Steven clapped him on the back. "If that's no magic, then you're accidentally terrifyingly good at this."

"Nah, don't say that," Conrad muttered, because confidence was a fragile illusion and Steven had no business poking it.

But it was nice to be on joking terms with Steven again after being away for so long. It wasn't the same as before, of course, but maybe some of that old spark of summer magic really had returned. A warm feeling bloomed in his chest, which could have been hope. Or indigestion. Hard to tell.

"Give my regards to the future Mrs. Fisher, then," Steven said, leaning in conspiratorially. 

Conrad almost choked on his own spit. "Dude—shut up—"

"Tell her I'll give a killer toast at the wedding. You know I make a great co–best man. I can totally do it again." He winked. "But, you might wanna hurry. I'm not getting any younger. Do it while I can still stand on my two feet."

"You sound like somebody's grandma."

Steven reeled back, clutching his chest in dramatic horror. "Fuck, I sound like my halmoni."

Conrad burst out laughing. "Yeah, man, next thing you know you'll be telling me to eat more fruit and asking if I'm sleeping enough."

"First of all, yes, eat more fruit. Second—no, you are definitely not sleeping enough, I can tell from the eye bags."

"Such astute observations."

"I'm just saying," Steven continued, "if I'm to give it my all at another wedding, I need advanced notice so I can start stretching. My knees aren't what they used to be."

"Dude, you're twenty-two."

"And yet I suffer like a war veteran. But whatever, go say hi before you short-circuit, loverboy."

Then he sauntered off toward his own date, and Conrad was left standing there to greet Devon. When she stepped up to him, she smoothed a hand down her skirt. It was the colour of summer, bringing out the green in her eyes, and it made his brain fizzle out like a badly wired lamp. 

"Sooo... since I wasn't expecting to be at a formal event of any sort this summer, I had to borrow one of Emma's brunch dresses." Devon cleared her throat awkwardly. "Today I'm cosplaying an adult who has her shit together."

"No, it's nice. You look... nice," Conrad said sincerely, then corrected, "No, you look beautiful."

"Oh... uhm... thanks." Then, because she was Devon and deflecting compliments was her religion, she continued, "Okay, now what's the plan? Do you have a list of appropriate conversation starters? Icebreakers? Topic flashcards? I promise I've practiced my customer service smile. No resting bitch face tonight. Even if someone spills a drink on me. Or insults my shoes."

Conrad snorted. "I happen to like your very expressive face, thank you very much."

"Not when I make it very obvious that I think you're being a moron."

"You think everyone's being a moron all the time. I try not to take it to heart."

Devon pursed her lips like she was conceding a point. "Fair. I'm an equal-opportunity cynic."

"See? It's charming."

"I'm ninety percent sure that's the first time that word's ever been used for me."

Conrad shrugged. "First time for everything."

Devon narrowed her eyes. "Are you flirting with me or trying to soften the blow for whatever disaster your family has planned?"

"Can't it be both?"

"No."

"Then it's flirting."

"Bold."

He lifted a brow. "Bold of you to show up looking like that and expect me to speak in coherent sentences."

"Oh, you are bold tonight." Devon grinned. "Don't worry, no matter what you get up to, I'll support you and glare at anyone who judges."

"That's comforting."

"It should be. My glare is potent."

"I know. I've been on the receiving end too many times."

She rolled her eyes and slipped her arm through his. "Okay, Fisher. Lead the way. Let's go make small talk and pretend we're functioning adults."

"We're already nailing it."

Conrad wasn't entirely sure at what point his hand had reached for Devon's, only that suddenly their fingers were laced together, her palm warm against his, and he held on until they reached the dinner venue, where he had to let go to pull out her chair. He consoled himself with the fact that he at least looked smooth doing it.

Devon sat with a dramatic sigh. "Wow, such a gentleman."

"Don't act like I haven't always acted this way around you," he responded dryly, taking the seat beside hers.

"Nope," she countered immediately. "Not buying it. Remember the time I slept over at your place? You kicked me off your couch when I fell asleep on it."

"I was asleep too!" Conrad protested. "And I didn't kick you off. I just... accidentally nudged you with my foot. Which I absolutely apologized for."

"Oh, now you're just straight up lying. And don't forget the time you wouldn't let us watch Rings of Power for our November marathon?"

"Because it's a disgrace to the source material."

"Who cares? It's fantastic!" Devon exclaimed with a laugh. "Give me fifteen seasons of Sauron cosplaying as Halbrand and gaslighting his lady love."

Conrad narrowed his eyes and asked incredulously, "Lady love? Devon, the man tried to—"

"Make her his queen and pledge his undying devotion? Iconic, honestly. You just don't understand the appeal of a good enemies-to-lovers." She sounded utterly serious, but the twinkle in her eye made it obvious that she was trying to bait him. 

"Fine," he said smugly, crossing his arms and leaning back in challenge. "That's like me saying the Game of Thrones show was a work of art."

Devon made a scandalized face. "Ugh, don't even get me started on that butchery."

"See?" Conrad spread his hands. "My point exactly."

"Not the same thing."

"Absolutely the same thing."

"You're lucky I'm in public and can't pull out my thirty-seven slide presentation on this."

Conrad nearly choked on his drink. "You have slides?"

She shrugged, completely unbothered. "I've had to school my friends on the merits of good media many times."

"This is why it's never boring with you around."

Devon nodded solemnly. "Yep, that's me. Free entertainment. I should part-time as a clown."

"I'd pay for tickets," Conrad chuckled.

"You already do. In the form of letting me bully you."

"Alright, if you keep slandering me like this, I'm going to start telling people you cried during Jurassic Park."

Devon's head snapped around so fast he almost laughed. "No, that one was not my fault. Those poor dinosaurs, man. Going extinct a second time because some capitalist schmuck wanted to make a profit by playing god? And that one scene—" she stabbed her finger at him like he was Spielberg personally responsible "—where the last one is just standing there watching the ship leave her behind while the smoke consumes her? Absolutely brutal. Anyone with a soul would cry. I had to tell Oliver they all swam away to safety after the scene cut, or he wouldn't stop wailing."

Conrad bit back a smile. "Right. Totally logical to anthropomorphize a sixty-foot extinct creature."

"Don't dinosaur-shame me!"

"I'm not dinosaur-shaming. I have a feeling you'd join them if there ever was an uprising."

"Obviously."

"I'll add that to the list of things that terrify me about you."

"You're hilarious," Devon deadpanned. "Really, a comedic genius. Have you considered stand-up?"

"Thought about it," he said, enjoying this way too much. "But then I realized I could just hang out with you and get heckled for free."

"Okay, I regret ever speaking to you."

"No, you don't." Conrad took one of her hands to fiddle with one of her rings. "I'm your favourite part of the night."

"Don't flatter yourself. I came for the free dessert."

Before he could say something in return, the couple to be rose to get everyone's attention, and the toasts started normally enough. Belly thanked her family, and Jere thanked their dad—during which Conrad fought the urge to scowl—but then Jeremiah looked directly at him.

Conrad braced for some generic, sanitized line, or maybe his brother would bring up the fact that he'd been absent, distant, depressed, and generally a dumpster fire disguised as a person. But then Jere surprised him, flashing him an earnest smile. 

"And finally, to my brother," he said. "Who has been my best friend on my worst days. I have always looked up to you every day of my life, and I'm really grateful to have you here for one of the happiest days of my life. It means the world. Brothers till the end."

Now, what the hell was he supposed to do with that?

Conrad's throat closed up, and all he could think was that he didn't deserve that. Devon's fingers slipped into his, squeezing warm and steady, grounding him, and he squeezed back, barely managing a nod toward Jere.

For once, his brother didn't look disappointed in him, or angry or distant. He just looked happy.

The rest of dinner should've been easy after that, and it was for the most part. The food was good, the music was tolerable, and Devon was an angel who kept whispering sardonic commentary that made him want to laugh into his napkin.

But then at some point, Belly and Jere ducked into a corner, clearly having some sort of disagreement, and when Belly looked over at Conrad afterward, her expression was a weird mix of sad, thoughtful, and guilty.

And then she just kept doing it. Every few minutes, she'd glance at him, eyes lingering just a second too long, and every damn time, he felt irritation spike like a match struck inside his ribs.

He tried ignoring it. He tried focusing on Devon. He also tried convincing himself that maybe she just had a lazy eye or something.

But no, she kept looking at him, like she was waiting for him to be the one to fix whatever was wrong. And in the past, whenever she needed help with something, his first thought had always been about how he could have fixed it. But that time was long gone now, and dwelling on it only made him feel the exact same nauseating twist he'd felt last night at the beach. She had made it very clear what she thought of him, so now, why was she staring like she regretted everything? 

When the rehearsal dinner was over, Conrad was almost too eager to leave, stepping out into the night air and taking a deep breath. But then he spotted Jere and Belly approaching, his brother brightening the moment he saw him. 

"Hey, Con!" Jere said. "A bunch of us are grabbing ice cream. Wanna join?" His eyes dropped to the still-intertwined hands between Conrad and Devon, and the grin that spread across his face could only be described as proud. "Devon, you should come too!"

Devon smiled politely, shooting him a questioning glance, and Conrad thought, why not? Would it be slightly awkward hanging out with the brother he'd been avoiding all day and his ex, who kept looking at him like he'd run over her pet? Maybe. But he also wasn't about to pass up an excuse to treat his girlfriend to dessert. 

"Sure, yeah," he said. 

Jeremiah lit up like he'd agreed to donate a kidney. "Awesome. I'm glad. It really sucked not having you around for fishing this morning."

"Sorry," Conrad shrugged, hoping he looked casual instead of vaguely guilty. "Wasn't feeling great after all the drinking last night."

His gaze betrayed him and landed on Devon, but she immediately turned her head and pretended to examine a random patch of grass like she was conducting a botanical survey. 

Jeremiah, of course, interpreted incorrectly—or maybe he was correct—and his expression turned smug. "Oh, don't worry about it. Like at all. It's cool."

The ice cream shop they visited was the same one Conrad had taken Devon to on the first day of their Cousins tour—their mom's favourite—and he felt oddly affirmed. It was a reminder that Jere hadn't forgotten her either, and that no matter what came between them, this was one thing they shared intrinsically. Their love and grief for the woman who had been their whole world was a tether nothing could sever. 

Steven and Denise had tagged along too, but those two vanished immediately after getting their orders, and eventually Belly and Jere went their way too, leaving Conrad alone with his favourite company. 

Devon bumped his shoulder lightly as she glanced around the place. "By the way," she began, "I'm blaming you for my brothers' addictions. They made me bring them here at least seven times since. Seven. I've basically become their ice cream dealer."

Conrad beamed. "They have taste."

"No. They have zero self-control," she corrected. "And you—you're the enabling friend who introduced them to hard dairy."

"Hard dairy?"

"Yeah. Like hard drugs, but lactose. Keep up."

She ordered the same flavour she always did, and when she reached for her bag, Conrad had already handed the cashier his card. 

Devon glanced at him sharply, like she was preparing to battle him. "Conrad. No—"

"Too late," he hummed pleasantly, handing her a wad of napkins from the dispenser. "It's done."

"I can—"

"Nope," Conrad interrupted again, leading her out of the shop by her elbow. "I did promise you free dessert. Don't make me out to be a liar, Watson."

Devon trailed beside him, shoulders tight, lips pressed together in that way he'd come to recognize, not as annoyance, but something closer to unease. "Fine, but the next one's on me. You don't make me out to be a moocher, Fisher."

He didn't sigh, or roll his eyes, or tease her back the way he usually would, but he paused and shifted to grab her free hand, threading their fingers together, trying to make sure she felt the sincerity he couldn't quite articulate any other way.

"You're my girlfriend," He said gently. "I like doing things for you. Let me. Please."

For a moment, she didn't say anything, but her eyes lost their defensive edge. "Yeah, but it goes both ways. You have to let me do things for you, too. You can't shoulder everything by yourself and think I'm some incapable imbecile who can't help out."

"Why do I have a feeling we're not talking about ice cream anymore?" Conrad mused. 

Devon shrugged, looking anywhere but at him. "Who knows?"

He lifted their joined hands, brushing a kiss across her knuckles, and he felt her reaction ripple through her entire posture.

"Okay. Deal," he said. Then, with an expression that was equal parts teasing and adoring: "For the record, I don't think you're an imbecile. You're one of the most capable people I know. A tad bit headstrong too, but that's why I love you."

Her head snapped up at that—love you—and she went bright red, immediately bringing her ice cream cone up like a shield between them.

Conrad chuckled, brushing his thumb along her fingers. "Now what were you saying about your brothers?"

"You want to hear about my brothers and their weird culinary choices?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"Well, Oliver insists on trying all the gross, weird gourmet flavours." She waved their linked hands for emphasis. "Wasabi. Ginger thyme. And—get this—fucking black garlic. Who the hell makes garlic-flavoured ice cream?"

Conrad snorted. "Probably the same people who think kale cupcakes are fun. Or whatever the hell passes as culinary innovation these days. Jere would know."

"Right? I told him he was going to ruin dessert for everyone with his reckless flavour experiments."

"Actually, I don't think you're one to judge, old man vanilla. Honestly, I'm impressed you can eat that without a knitting circle or a plaid cardigan nearby."

"The hell's that supposed to mean?" Devon glanced pointedly at the sage green cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. "At least it's a classic. Unlike some people who think mint chip is a personality."

Conrad raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of which..." He plucked a spoonful from his own cup. "Want a taste?"

Devon wrinkled her nose. "Ew, mint chip tastes like toothpaste. Sorry. Not a fan."

He shrugged, pretending to be devastated. "Well, your loss. Stick to your pedestrian vanilla."

"Shut up. You can't judge until you've tried it." 

When she held up her dessert, he obeyed and took a bite, closing his eyes and trying to channel the expression Jeremiah wore when feeling particularly moved by food. "Hmm, yes, truly divine. The flavour of champions."

Devon smirked and handed him more. "Glad you approve. Someone had to teach you what joy tastes like."

"Oh, I know what joy tastes like." Without giving her a chance to retreat, he leaned down and captured her lips in one smooth motion. They had been painted with something subtle and shimmery for the occasion and had been driving him insane all evening. It was a relief to finally kiss her and taste the sweetness of her mouth. 

Devon swatted his chest as she pulled away with a flustered look, a blush creeping up her neck. "Dude, you cannot be jumping people like that. You're going to put me in the hospital with a heart attack one of these days."

"Or maybe we just need to make sure you get used to it. Exposure therapy and all that," Conrad countered. 

Just as they rounded the corner, he spotted Steven sitting by the edge of a nearby fountain, and he had just opened his mouth to wave, when he noticed that Steven seemed... rather occupied. Occupied with Denise in a way that made him want to disappear behind the nearest tree.

Devon, of course, had spotted it too, and before he could even think about commenting, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him backward in the direction they'd come.

"What are you doing?" he asked, stumbling against her grip.

Devon's smile was practically glowing, like she'd just uncovered a secret treasure. "Called it. Oh, I so saw that coming."

"Saw what?"

"Them. Duh. You cannot tell me you didn't see them dancing around each other at your brother's bachelor party."

Conrad let out a short laugh. "I was kinda... too busy with my own wallowing to pay attention."

Devon rolled her eyes, exasperated but in a way that somehow made her look even more impossibly radiant. "Ugh. Of course. Men never pay attention."

"Not sure if I should be offended."

She reached up and pecked his cheek. "Don't worry your pretty head about it too much, Fisher. Anyway, we're taking the long way around. Absolutely not disturbing them."

"I didn't know you were such a Cupid." 

"Cupid? Hell no. But I am very good at getting my friends away from loser men who absolutely do not deserve them. That's my ministry."

"Your... ministry."

"Mhm." Devon straightened proudly. "You're dating a public servant."

Conrad choked on a laugh. "Do I even want to know what this ministry involves?"

"My friend Kelsey—the one whose desserts you've requested at your retirement party—once had a blind date who tried to follow her to her car, trying to convince her to 'come see his vinyl collection.'"

Conrad made a face. "That sounds like a kidnapping."

"Exactly! So I drove into the parking lot, rolled down the window, and screamed, 'Your probation officer is coming for you, he said if you flee the state one more time you'll be tossed in solitary.'"

Conrad froze mid-step. "Her what?"

"The way that guy started running. I've never seen a man move that fast without the promise of free pizza."

"Devon, what the fuck?"

"Oh come on, I swear I've told you some of this before. There was also that one time we kicked another friend's ex out of her apartment after he refused to leave. Let's just say it involved a fake break-in, a fog machine, and one of those ultra-realistic rubber snakes."

Conrad shook his head, awe creeping in despite the mock horror. "Remind me never to piss you off."

Devon wiggled her eyebrows at him. "Too late. You already did. That whole vanilla-slander thing earlier. Unforgivable, really."

"I stand by what I said. It's old-man energy."

"Classic," she argued.

"Boring."

"Reliable."

"Predictable."

"Comforting."

"Fine," Conrad conceded. "But it's still giving retirement home."

She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. "You know what's giving retirement home? Mint chocolate chip. That's like brushing your teeth at 8 p.m. and calling it a night."

"Wow. Insulting my ice cream and my lifestyle choices. Brutal."

"Survival ministry, buddy."

When she laughed again, Conrad found himself joining her, letting her pull him further down the winding path, away from the chaos, but closer to that ridiculous, impossible feeling that came with being around her.

Devon watched him carefully with a small, almost shy smile. "See? Told you I wasn't Cupid. I don't make people fall in love."

"Funny. I think you kinda do."

Chapter Text

Jeremiah Fisher

Jeremiah had always believed heartbreak to be a single blow, something you could point to and say, 'there, that's where it happened'. But with Belly, it had never been clean. It came in waves, in small fractures that he pretended weren't cracks at all. That was the cost of loving someone the way he loved her. 

He remembered the first time she truly broke his heart. It was that last summer they'd all been together at the beach house, the one that was supposed to be golden and endless, but instead became a slow unravelling of everything he'd thought was unshakeable. The day after the debutante ball, the day everything changed.

He'd spent half the night sitting next to his mother on the couch, hands shaking as he begged her to try the clinical trials. After she'd finally agreed, he spent the other half hunched over his laptop upstairs, looking up treatments, studies, and articles that blurred together because he couldn't imagine a world where she didn't get better. He couldn't imagine a world without his mom.

All that time, he thought he was doing it for the future they all still had, and in that imagined future, Belly was right there with him, because he thought they were something. Of course he did. She'd kissed him in the pool, and then again in the car when he'd gone to pick her up from some prank the other debutantes had pulled, and then she'd spent half the summer acting like they were something, so why wouldn't he believe it?

But then she told him she'd kissed Conrad too. And with him, it was solid. She said she was with him—not maybe, not thinking about it, but actually together—and it was the first time Jeremiah understood what it felt like to be a stand-in. A temporary distraction that held her attention until his brother finally swooped in.

And God, if it had been anyone else in the entire world, he would've fought like hell for her. He would've clawed and snarled and refused to be replaced so easily, but it wasn't anyone else. It was his brother.

So he swallowed everything and told himself that losing her was better than losing them both. He told himself he didn't care as much as he did. He told himself it didn't hurt the way it did, even though it tore through him every time he saw them together.

Then a year later, Belly came back to him and asked for a second chance, as if he hadn't spent an entire summer trying to stitch himself up in her absence. He had tried to hold on to his resolve, to that last sliver of self-preservation he kept hidden deep under all the mess of feelings he had for her, but this was Belly. Summer-sun Belly. Blanket fort and chasing each other barefoot in the grass, Belly, his best friend.

How was he ever going to say no to her?

Still, he'd forced the words out, wrenching them from between his ribs and dragging them through his teeth because if he didn't speak them, he knew he'd just let himself drown in her again.

He told her he couldn't survive it if she changed her mind again. He didn't want to love her only to be reminded again that he was only second best. He had been honest, and for the first time in a long time, he had actually told someone what he needed.

She had promised she wouldn't do that, promised they were different now, older and better. Then she had kissed him, making him feel like he wasn't a consolation prize, but the final choice. The one she wanted, truly.

He let himself believe her, but four years later, she was still that same girl from the first summer who couldn't make up her mind. Four years later, he still didn't have her whole heart. And maybe Jeremiah was the same boy too, carrying that same ache. 

Now, on his wedding day, he sat alone in his mother's memorial garden, elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tightly the knuckles ached. The early morning breeze threaded through the foxgloves and hydrangeas Susannah loved, making them sway like they were breathing, like they too remembered her. 

He stared at the ground, trying to pinpoint the exact moment he'd felt the first hairline fracture in what he'd believed to be unbreakable. Maybe it was Christmas. Belly had spent Christmas with Conrad, and somehow it never came up in conversation. But why wouldn't you mention something that was nothing, unless it wasn't nothing at all?

He'd brushed it off. Told himself not to spiral. Told himself people could be weird, people could forget, people could make choices that didn't mean anything deeper.

Or maybe it had been the memorial.

Things had been a little tense at Conrad's arrival, but Jeremiah had chalked up Belly's reaction to the regular sort of awkwardness that came with being around your ex, who would also soon be your brother-in-law. He had given her that grace.

But last night was the final straw, and he wished he could un-see it. He wished he could take that version of himself, sitting proudly next to his fiancée, looking at her like she was his whole world, and shake him until he saw sense.

Because instead of looking at him, the girl he was marrying could not tear her eyes away from her brother. Jeremiah had grown up with her, and when you grew up with someone, you learned how to read them. He knew all her tells: the way she chewed her lip when she was nervous, the slight crease between her brows when she was deep in thought, and that distant, unfocused look when she drifted somewhere else entirely.

Last night, she drifted straight to Conrad, over and over and over again, and the worst part was that this time, his first instinct wasn't to blame his brother. The old Jeremiah might've thought it was somehow Conrad's doing, that he pulled her in without even trying, but last night couldn't be pinned on him. 

Conrad hadn't glanced at Belly once. He was too busy making heart-eyes at his new California girl, and anyone with functioning vision could see he was disgustingly into her. It might've even been funny if Jeremiah weren't living the punchline of the joke, but somehow he managed to be the third wheel at his own damn rehearsal dinner.

If anyone was to blame, it was himself. He had let her back in. He had handed her the keys to his heart and practically invited her to take whatever she wanted, break whatever she touched.

Jeremiah tilted his head back, staring up at the sky through the tangle of branches overhead. His throat felt raw, his eyes burned, and the garden swayed in the breeze, full of soft colours and fragile stems—everything his mother cherished.

More than anything, he wished he could go to her. She would have known what to say. My sunshine boy, she would call him, brushing his hair back, and cupping his cheek like he was something precious. You don't have to pretend to be alright all the time.

But she wasn't here. She would never be here again.

His father, on the other hand, would simply take his pain and twist it into a lecture. He'd say something along the lines of I told you so, and then harp about spending all that money just for him to quit last minute. Adam Fisher would make Jeremiah's heartbreak an inconvenience. An embarrassment.

Jeremiah dug his palms into his watering eyes, trying to steady his breathing, but it only made everything worse.

He wondered about Conrad, then. Would he judge him, too? Would he look at him with disappointment, becauseJeremiah was exactly who their father always said he was?

All he knew was that he still wanted his brother, even if they said nothing and just existed next to each other in the ruin of their family.

Then, as if by some strange miracle, or memory, or cosmic mercy, Conrad was there. He burst out of a nearby path, shoulders heaving, sweat on his temple, eyes wide with frantic worry. His hands braced on his knees as he caught his breath, like he had sprinted the whole way, and without a word, he sat down next to Jeremiah on the bench. 

"Figured I'd find you here," he panted. "Mom's garden."

The mention of their mother made Jeremiah's lungs collapse, and before he could stop himself, the words tore out of him. "I don't think I can do this." His voice broke. "I love her so much, but I don't think I can do this."

Conrad's jaw tightened, and he stared ahead, eyes dark, unreadable. It felt like hours passed before he finally spoke. "Then why'd you cheat on her? If you really love her, Jere, why'd you go sleep with someone else? How could you?"

Jeremiah's head whipped toward him, stunned, and shame crawled hot across his skin.

Conrad shut his eyes, exhaling as if the admission itself hurt. "Yeah. I know about Cabo."

"We were broken up," he said immediately. "For good, I thought. Because of you. Because of Christmas. I know she spent Christmas with you."

"Nothing fucking happened at Christmas," Conrad snapped. "I moved on the moment I saw you two together all those years ago. It was over. And yeah, I disappeared because I needed to get over it. To make peace with how much it hurt." He dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. "But I did get over it. I swear to God, Jere, I did."

He paused, shaking his head. "But what you did—that's why I couldn't bear to face you yesterday," he continued. "Why I bailed on the bachelor party and the fishing trip. Not when it made you like him, and you weren't supposed to be like him."

"Like who?"

"Dad."

The word hit like a slap, and Jeremiah felt his stomach plummet. Under any other circumstance, he might have been elated to be compared to the man he had spent his entire life trying to impress, but something in Conrad's tone told him this wasn't a good comparison. 

Conrad breathed in shakily, bracing himself as though the truth were a weight he'd been carrying alone for too long. "Dad cheated on Mom," he said eventually. "While she was sick."

"What?"

"With Kayleigh."

Jeremiah choked on air. "Kayleigh? His secretary—my wedding planner, Kayleigh?"

"Yeah. Her."

"Conrad... why didn't you tell me?"

His brother looked at him with grief-worn eyes. "I don't know. I didn't want it to be your burden."

Jeremiah felt the anger hit him before he could stop it, and it was like a storm breaking loose. "There you go again, hiding shit from people for their own good." His voice rose sharply. "All this fucking time, you let me chase after Dad. You let me beg for scraps of attention, envying what he gave you so freely, when all along he'd been—"

The rest of his words stuck like glass in his throat, and he couldn't give them shape.

Conrad flinched and ducked his head. "I'm fucking sorry, okay? I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know how to tell anyone. I'm sorry."

The fight drained out of Jeremiah so fast it left him dizzy. His anger sputtered and collapsed, leaving only exhaustion in its wake, and he sagged back against the bench. It felt too late to explode now, too pointless and cruel.

"Is that why you look like you want to strangle Dad every time you're near him?" he asked instead. 

Conrad just gave a small shrug, eyes fixed on the dirt path like he wished it would swallow him whole.

Jeremiah started to push himself up from the bench abruptly. "Fuck... I should—"

His brother's hands shot out to hold him in place, and almost distantly, he noticed that he had their mother's hands. 

"Don't," Conrad said firmly. "Don't confront him. It'll do nothing."

"But—"

"Mom didn't tell anyone," he continued tersely. "And you heard Dad in Boston. He'll just claim it started recently. He'll lie. He'll twist it. Just—" He faltered. "Well, now you know."

Jeremiah stared at him, chest burning.

"And the fact that you could do something like that, Jere..."

The shame hit like a tidal wave now, leaving him breathless. He knew spring break had been a dick move. He wasn't delusional, just selfish and hurting and stupid. He really had thought he and Belly were over forever, and he'd fallen back into his awful habit of chasing a meaningless rebound distraction.

But then Belly had wanted to try again, and instead of being honest and telling her what he'd done, he convinced himself that silence was kinder. That if she didn't know, it couldn't hurt her.

Except it hurt her anyway.

Conrad clearly had more to say by the looks of it, and Jeremiah watched another confession build in him. 

"You really fucked me up, you know," his brother said, avoiding his gaze. "I poured my heart out to you about her. And when you had the opportunity to be with her, a month after we broke up, you took it. It fucking sucked. And I get it. You loved her so much you forgot about everyone else. But that doesn't change the fact that it was a betrayal."

Jeremiah felt the words slice through him. He deserved that. No, he deserved worse. 

"I'm sorry," he said when he finally spoke. 

He truly was, because no girl, no love, no fantasy of belonging, was worth gutting his own brother. He had just been too stupid to see it until now.

"I never wanted to talk about Christmas because I knew the second I did it was over," he admitted. 

"Nothing happened—"

Jeremiah cut him off, shaking his head. "For you, yeah. I believe you. I do. Maybe you felt nothing. But she..." His throat closed around the truth. "Can you blame me for wanting to hold on to her for as long as I could?"

"If someone really loves you, you don't need to try so hard."

"Oh, what, trying to rub it in?"

"No, you idiot," Conrad bristled, nudging him with his shoulder. "I meant that... look, someone once told me we all deserve a whole love. Not parts. Not leftovers. Not something that feels like pulling teeth. And yeah, it won't always be effortless, but you're not supposed to be questioning where you stand with them every minute of your goddamn life. Not when you're with someone who claims they love you." When he finally looked at him, he looked apologetic. "I really wish I could've spared you this pain."

"As much as I want to blame you, this time it's not really your fault."

Conrad's expression softened with a mixture of relief and guilt. "Before Mom died, I promised her I'd try to take care of you. To protect you from getting hurt. And I know I've done a shit job of that so far—"

"No," Jeremiah cut in quickly. "I mean, sure, before, yeah." He huffed a weak laugh. "But this summer has almost made up for it."

"Almost?"

He hesitated, embarrassed suddenly. "I—thanks for finding me. This morning, when everything was going wrong in my head, my first thought was I need to find Mom." His voice wavered. "And my second thought was, I wish I could talk to Connie. And then you were here."

In an instant, Conrad tugged him forward and wrapped him in a grounding hug. "I'm here now," he murmured. "I will always find you. I'm sorry I haven't in the past, but that changes now. I swear it."

In that moment, Jeremiah was reminded of their games of hide and seek in their Boston house. No matter what hiding spot he picked, be it the cabinet under the sink or under the couch when he was still small enough to fit, his brother always knew where to find him. 

Now, standing here in the wreckage of too many lies between them, he felt the same nostalgia.

"I made Mom a promise too," Jeremiah said. "That I wouldn't let anyone ever get between us. So we both screwed up. She would be so mad."

Conrad's expression softened, handing him an envelope with Susannah Fisher's familiar handwriting. "Speaking of Mom, she, uh—she apparently wrote letters. For our weddings."

"What?"

"That one's yours."

Jeremiah's hands shook as he opened it, and he ripped the seal with too much force. 

Dear Conrad—

The first words stabbed him clean through, and everything in him screamed to stop reading, but Jeremiah Fisher had never once in his life backed away from pain. He walked toward it like it was a familiar doorway, and like always, it burned him.

He devoured the rest of the letter in seconds, every line another blow. His lips trembled first, then the rest of him followed, and before he knew it, he was handing it back to Conrad with tears spilled down his cheeks.

It was the biggest sign from the universe if there ever was one; his whole goddamn wedding answered in a single letter.

Conrad's eyes widened in alarm as he scanned the letter. "Jere—hey, hey. No. It must've been a mix-up, okay? Laurel gave it to me to give to you. Mom was really sick those last days, you know that. She probably mislabeled them. I'm sure Laurel has yours. It's okay."

"It is not okay!" Jeremiah hissed, devastation hollowing him out. "She said she's only seen you in love once, and it was with Belly."

His voice broke entirely on the name, and he didn't want to look at his brother, not wanting to see pity, or guilt, or the truth shining in his eyes. 

"But that's not true," Conrad said calmly, his voice was hard and anchored, like he was planting a stake in the ground. "You know that's not true, Jere. Mom is gone, okay? What she thought to be true stopped being true five years ago. She doesn't know all the versions of us we're going to become. She doesn't know the people we'll meet, the places we'll go. She couldn't have possibly known our future."

Jeremiah hated that that made sense. He hated how badly he needed to hear it. "So what do I do?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Why do you think I'm asking you?"

"Because this is the one thing I can't help with."

That felt like a slap. He'd leaned on Conrad his whole damn life, followed him, chased him, admired him even when he resented him, and now, when everything inside him felt like frayed wire, his brother couldn't fix it.

Jeremiah rubbed his palms over his face. "Sometimes I worry that not being with Belly will disappoint Mom. Like I'd be disappointing her even in death. It's all I ever seem to be, a fucking disappointment." 

The confession burned, and once it had escaped, he couldn't take it back.

"I felt that way too," Conrad said quietly. "My first year at Stanford was awful. Everything I did, all I could think about was what Mom would think. Every new person I met, every time I even let myself consider the possibility of loving someone else, I wondered if it would be betraying her wishes."

Jeremiah let out a wet, shaky laugh. "She did adore Belly. So much. And she adored the idea of you with her. I remember that last summer, she looked at you like you were the only possible choice. Like the story had already been written." He looked away. "It hurt."

"I don't think anyone's really meant to be with someone they date in high school forever. Mom thinking I should've married Belly when we were kids means nothing now. At the end of the day, I like to think above all else, she would want us to be happy. No matter who we choose, who we end up with, or what we do with our lives. She was our mom. She'd want us to pick ourselves. And occasionally each other."

"You really think so?"

"I know so, Jere. So if you don't think this wedding will bring you happiness, don't do it. Don't marry her. Above all else, I know Mom wouldn't want you to be miserable."

Jeremiah opened his mouth. "Are you just saying that so—"

"For fuck's sake," Conrad cut in immediately, rubbing his eyes, "don't you start. Don't go on about me trying to break up your wedding so I can be with Belly. It would be a bit pathetic of me to pine after my brother's girlfriend for four years after she dumped me, wouldn't it?"

Jeremiah's head snapped up. "What? She said you broke up with her. Everyone thinks you did."

"No. She did. At her prom."

"That was around the time Mom..."

"Yeah." Conrad's voice thinned. "Mom was getting worse. And I get it. No one's obligated to put up with someone else's grief. It's draining and exhausting." He swallowed thickly. "But trust me, I have zero desire to get back with her. And I have a girlfriend, who I am trying to keep, so don't let her hear you running your mouth like that."

Despite everything, Jeremiah felt himself chuckle at that. "But I love her," he confessed. "So, so much. It's never been anyone else. Just her."

"But does she love you the same?"

"Why would you ask me that?"

"Because you deserve to know. You deserve someone who matches what you have to give. Someone who reciprocates. I'm just trying to stop my little brother from making a mistake and getting hurt again."

Jeremiah didn't know what to say to that. It was always like this with Conrad. He got angry first, ready to swing or shout, but his brother slid past the armour every damn time.

"Maybe just talk to her," Conrad continued. "Air out your grievances before rather than after the wedding so you're not sitting in a marriage counsellor's office ten years down the line wondering where it all went wrong."

Jeremiah huffed in disbelief. "I knew you were doing therapy, but, wow. Talk things out, huh? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

His brother's lips twitched in the smallest ghost of a smile. "Dare I say I recommend it. Might help."

Instead of responding to that, Jeremiah said, "I'm really sorry for what I said last summer. When we were fighting. I called you a coward."

"I am one. I ran away."

"It's okay." Then shook his head. "I mean, it's not. I needed you. I really did. But I get it. I get why you did it. I was a dick for what I did."

He finally looked at Conrad then, really looked at him. There was a quiet understanding there that they were both messed up in ways that ran too deep for a single conversation to fix, but they were both also trying their best to navigate a world without the most important woman in the world. 

"What matters is that you came back, Connie. I'm glad to have you as my brother. And I'm sorry for not making a bigger effort to see what you were going through. To understand you."

For once, Jeremiah didn't brace for a harsh response, and Conrad didn't pull away. They just sat there, in the gentle rustle of their mother's garden, two sons choosing each other.

Jeremiah didn't remember the drive back to the country club. He didn't remember climbing out of Conrad's car or walking through the lobby or how his hands managed to button each piece of his suit even as they shook. It all felt muffled, like he was underwater and the world above was going on without him. Why was he even putting on a suit for a wedding that wasn't going to be? He didn't know. 

Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was just cold feet and normal wedding jitters like people joked about in the movies. That's what he told himself over and over as he went to see Belly in her dressing room. 

She looked beautiful in that dress, the white material cascading over her like a fairytale, and her hair loose exactly the way she liked. She looked like everything he had ever wanted, so of course, he had to tell her. 

"No one's gonna be able to take their eyes off you when you walk down the aisle."

"Where were you?" she said instead, frowning. "You've been gone all day, and I didn't know if you were coming back."

Jeremiah winced, guilt scraping down his spine. "Sorry. I just needed some time. And then I lost track of—doesn't matter. Conrad came to get me, and I'm here now."

He shouldn't have said his name. He regretted it the moment he saw the shift in her face. There was an unbearably tender look that she wasn't fast enough to hide, and it hit him like a fist. 

"I can't even say his name without you getting this look on your face." He let out a shaky breath. "Even now, you can't stop thinking about him, can you?"

She didn't deny it.

Jeremiah stumbled back a step, needing space, or air, or distance, anything to dull the venom clawing up his throat. "I thought I could do this," he choked out. "But I can't. Not until you can look me in the eyes and tell me you don't still love him."

Belly's lower lip trembled, as if she hadn't expected to be called out so blatantly. They had always skirted around the topic of Conrad Fisher, never daring to broach it aloud. 

"Jeremiah, I love you," she insisted. 

"That's not what I asked. I know you love me. What I'm asking is, do you love him, too?"

The pause that followed was the longest second of his life. If someone had asked him that question, he would've answered without hesitation. But her silence was answer enough.

Then she actually said it, putting his biggest fear into words. 

"Yes," she whispered, eyes shining with grief and forlorn affection. "I think I'll always love him a little. I'll always have him in my heart." She reached for his hand desperately. "But he's not the one I choose. I choose you. I choose us."

Jeremiah felt the confession like ice in his bloodstream, and he pulled his hand back gently, unwilling to hurt her, even now. "That's not enough," he said quietly. "I don't want part of you, Belly. I want all of you. And I haven't had that. Not ever."

He didn't need her answer. He didn't need any more signs. He had known deep down since the moment he saw her face at the mention of Conrad. He had known years ago when she had chosen his brother over him the first time. 

"I know about Christmas," he added.  "I know you two were together."

Belly's breath hitched. "Jere, nothing happened. I would have told you. I swear we didn't—"

"I know." He closed his eyes because looking at her hurt. "I know you didn't sleep together, okay? But something happened. Something bigger than that. You started to love him again. The two of you were in the house all summer."

"I never meant—"

"You lied to me, Belly. You've been lying to me for months."

Maybe even years. She'd been pretending to love him for four years, while thinking of Conrad.  Four years of being a stand-in for the person she wanted beside her, and even today, on their wedding day, she would have walked down that aisle toward him, wishing, deep down, that it was Conrad waiting for her on the other side.

She swallowed hard, caught. "How long have you known?"

"Since before spring break. When my dad and I visited my mom's grave. Turns out, one of the neighbours saw Conrad around at the same time you told me you were at the beach house alone." The fury bubbled up fast, eating him alive. "Do you know how stupid I felt in that moment?"

Belly looked almost horrified. "That's why you picked a fight with me before spring break?"

"Yes, of course it was."

"Why didn't you just say something?"

"Because I was waiting for you to tell me!" His voice rose an octave, reflecting all the pent-up resentment. "But you never did."

"I wanted to," Belly said in tears. "When you came to the hospital the day of Steven's accident, I almost did, I—"

"Yeah, but you didn't," Jeremiah interrupted. "You could have just said no when I asked you to marry me. "If you had any doubts, you could've said no. In fact, you had four years to say no, but you continued leading me on. And then you said yes to the proposal, and I thought, finally, I'm enough. That you were ready to move on." 

He dragged a hand over his face. "But there's a piece of you that will always love him." He whispered the last part, like it physically hurt to say.

She had nothing to say to that. 

"Why in the world didn't you say no?" he demanded again. "It would've hurt—God, it would've hurt so fucking much—but not like this. Nothing like this. If I hadn't disappeared this morning, would you have gone through with this wedding? Would you have spent the rest of our lives half in love with my brother?"

"No," Belly pleaded, shaking her head. "No, you're wrong."

"You said as much yourself. And I see the way you look at him. I don't think you've ever looked at me like that." His throat closed. "Not once."

"No," She repeated, tears slipping in fragile, quivering paths down her cheeks. "Jere, after your mom died, you and I, we put each other back together. We did that, you and me. And you're a part of me now. I don't know where I end and where you begin, and whatever I have left in my heart for Conrad, it doesn't compare to me and you."

For a moment, the room went strangely quiet, as if the world itself paused to let her words echo. Jeremiah should have felt comfort in them, but the crack of distrust widened, and all he could think was that she would've said the same to Conrad if life had played out differently. It was always one or the other for her. 

Were they truly that interchangeable? 

"It's not you having Conrad in your heart that hurts the most," Jeremiah said, feeling bile burn the back of his throat. "But if you still had feelings for him, you shouldn't have settled for me."

She flinched, but the words kept coming, unstoppable.

"I'm not some consolation prize. And I told you I couldn't do this again. This back and forth. If you weren't ready to give me your whole heart, the way I've given you mine, then you shouldn't have given anything at all. I would have gotten over it."

Belly's face crumpled. "Jere, please—"

Her sorrow cracked him open. God, he still loved her. He loved her enough that seeing her cry made every instinct scream to pull her into his arms, bury his face in her hair, tell her he didn't mean any of it, that he'd take whatever pieces she offered as long as it was from her. 

He nearly moved too, but then his brother's voice echoed in his head. He too deserved a whole love. Despite his flaws, his jealousy, his anger, his insecurity, and his resentment, he still deserved someone who chose him fully. Not someone who kept half her heart locked away for someone else. Not someone who would always be standing in a doorway between two people, unable to cross fully to either side.

And he knew with devastating clarity that Isabel Conklin could never give him the kind of love he wanted. The kind of love he wanted to build a future around.

"You can't marry me to erase him." 

That was the last thing he said to her before turning away. When she reached for him, their fingers brushed, but he forced himself to pull away a final time. It felt like peeling away a part of himself he'd never get back, but maybe there was a new version of himself he'd unearth in her absence. Maybe that version of him would do better and deserve better. 

Each step felt like dragging his own body through memory, and when he was finally back in the private confines of his dressing room, he pressed his fist against his mouth to muffle the sob climbing up his throat.

His fatal flaw had always been knowing better and still not learning his lesson. But this time, he finally had.