Archive of Our Own ^beta

A call from Laurel wouldn’t be so surprising if it weren’t at 1:32 AM his time, and 4:32 AM her time. 

She called more than he called her, not for any particular reason, but because she probably called all her children and children-adjacent — him and Jeremiah — all together. Steven split his time between Manhattan and San Francisco; right now he was in Manhattan, slaving away at his start-up with Denise, who lived more consistently on the East Coast, running operations on that side of the continent and only needing him every so often. Which happened to be right now. He also used any and all excuses to visit Taylor, who had gone back to New York to get a Master’s in Marketing. Jeremiah was also in New York, at the International Culinary Center, living on the Lower East Side. After a few years of making money as an influencer cook, he’d decided it was time to hone the actual technical skills of cooking and become a real, titled chef. He and Conrad’s relationship hadn’t healed, but maybe there was nothing worth saving from that version of their relationship — Conrad, from a very young age, acting as a third parent to a Jeremiah whose feelings were far too often overly catered to. They were both grown men now, how they phased in and out of each others lives was up to them to decide now. 

Belly, like Steven and Conrad, though not intentionally following either of them, had also rooted herself in Northern California. Her life had taken a sharp turn when she fled to Paris after her and Jeremiah’s failed wedding. One of the many odd paths she stumbled into, after working at the Cinéma, was becoming a personal assistant to an architect. He was a sweet, aging French man who had spent his life shaping houses, buildings and churches across Europe. Laurel had told Conrad every detail. The man paid well, taught Belly everything he could after she mentioned once that she had never really thought about the bones of a building until she crossed the Atlantic. He showed her how structures begin as lines on a page, how schematics breathe, how a hand can guide an idea into something that stands. He walked her through Paris, pointing out details as if the city were a living textbook.

Laurel told Conrad that the first place he brought Belly was the still-charred Notre Dame. The air inside still tasted faintly of smoke. He explained that even though the cathedral dated back centuries and the fire had gutted it to its foundations, nothing prevented engineers, designers and architects from trying to rebuild. Not into what it had been, not exactly, but into a new variation shaped by both ruin and resilience. He told her that sometimes a structure survives by accepting that it will never look the same again, and that the rebuilding is not a return but a beginning, proof that a life can break open and still rise into something worth standing inside. She had thrown herself into architecture after that, officially apprenticing under him for a year and a half before applying to UC Berkeley for a master’s in architecture. She was accepted, to no one’s surprise, least of all Conrad’s. She had been living in Berkeley for about six months now, carving out a life shaped quietly by the things she was learning to build.

That was why Laurel was calling right now. Not because of the Notre Dame, but because of Belly. 

“Conrad?”

“Laurel? Is everything alright?” Conrad wiped his eyes and reached for the lamp. The room warmed with light, but it was her voice that woke him. To an untrained ear she would have sounded steady, almost casual. But he knew the tiny fractures in her calm, the way her breath hitched when she was trying to hold herself together. He’d known that sound for most of his life.

“It’s Belly.” Laurel spoke too quickly, like she was trying to outrun the fear in her throat. “She’s really sick. She called me and I could barely understand her. She was slurring her words, crying… I couldn’t make any sense of it. Steven isn’t there, so I called you.”

Conrad sat up, alert now in a way that came from somewhere older than training or instinct. “Did she say anything about her symptoms? Anything at all?”

“I think she has a fever. She kept saying she was cold and then hot, and I’m pretty sure she said something about throwing up. She sounded awful. She tried to explain but she worked herself up and the call dropped. I tried calling back, but she didn’t answer.” Laurel exhaled sharply, the sound thin and tight. “Connie, I hate to ask you this… especially considering everything that’s happened, but you’re the closest to her and I can’t get a flight until tomorrow morning. Could you go see her?”

“No, it’s no problem, Laurel,” he said softly, already pulling on clothes. “I’ll be right over.”

“Thank you, Conrad. I’ll try to be there by tomorrow, around noon.”

“No worries, Laurel. Be safe getting here.” He didn’t bother mentioning that it was his spring break. She would brush it off, tell him not to trouble himself, and he didn’t want her wasting breath on reassurance. It wasn’t like he had plans anyway. He and Agnes had tossed around a few ideas, but nothing had stuck, and they both ended up deciding that a week of sleep sounded easier than anything else. And besides, it was Belly. One night on barely two hours of sleep was nothing. He wasn’t a stranger to those kinds of nights anyway.

He grabbed the cleanest clothes within reach, tossing the rest into a bag. Judging by Laurel’s voice, he would probably need a change—or three—once he got there.

He threw his bag onto the front seat and shoved the gear into drive without a second thought. The trip usually took an hour with traffic, but at this hour—night bleeding into morning—it wouldn’t be so bad. He made sure to snag his spare set of keys, the ones Laurel insisted they all keep for situations exactly like this: keys to Steven and Belly’s apartments, ready for anything.

Steven had been the one to drop off keys for both him and Belly. It wasn’t that she was shutting him out, at least he hoped she wasn’t. He figured she was busy with school, still upset in the aftermath of the mess he had made, and had every right to be. He made no effort to reach out to her while she was in Paris, not wanting to intrude. All those unsent letters sit in his drawer, mocking him every time he opened it to look at the polaroid of him and Belly. He knew he had more drawers, so he could have easily put them in a different one, but putting the physical manifestation of his cowardice next to the photographic evidence of it felt fitting. 

Conrad hadn’t realized he had been sitting in silence until he was halfway to Belly’s apartment. His phone was connected, but he hadn’t set anything to play. That didn’t matter. 

Normal rules and decorum of the road don’t really matter when you’re on the way to help someone who you thought think was is the love of your life, who had told you explicitly that you were heartless and to go back to wherever you came from, the other side of the country.

That’s exactly what Conrad thinks when he makes it to Belly’s apartment in forty minutes.

Conrad parked his car, definitely illegally, and sprinted to the front doors of the complex. He slammed every button outside, certain someone inside would buzz him in. His hunch proved right on the eighth press. The building was old, so the elevator was a gamble, and he hadn’t worked out today, so he took the stairs, bounding three at a time all the way to the fifth floor. He knocked first, out of habit, and after pressing his ear to the door and hearing nothing, dug into his pockets for the keys. He opens the door gently. 

“Belly?” He stepped into the kitchen and hit it immediately—the stench of vomit. His eyes scanned the room and, sure enough, there it was, piled in the sink. 

Conrad knew Belly hated throwing up, ever since she was little. Something about her own body turning on her, leaving her rattled and sore. She didn’t just let it happen. She fought tooth and nail to hold it back, no matter how brutal, how cathartic it might have been, or what relief it might bring. 

So, to throw up in somewhere that wasn’t a bathroom, and not clean it up immediately afterward, was a bad sign. 

Conrad was no stranger to vomit—being near it, feeling it soak through his clothes. The first time had been with Belly, after too much ice cream one night, helping her brush her teeth and get back to bed. In darker times, he had held his mom after she threw up on the floor during a weekend visit from Brown. Now, patients vomiting on him was just another grim perk of the job.

He stepped out of the kitchen and into the small living room, still seeing no sign of her. He moved slowly, carefully, not wanting to wake her if she was asleep or accidentally step in something he did not want to know was there. 

There were two closed doors; he assumed one was the bathroom, the other the bedroom. A dim light spilled from underneath one of them, and he headed that way. He opened the door cautiously, and there she was, the girl of his dreams, the center of his life, lying on the floor. She might have been unconscious, or asleep, he couldn't tell. Nothing could have prepared Conrad for the sight. 

If the stench of vomit had been strong in the kitchen, it was suffocating now. Every appliance with a drain was coated or surrounded by it, and the floor was no exception. The shower, sink, and toilet all bore traces, or in some cases, full heaps of it. 

It didn’t seem possible for that much of anything to come from someone the size of Belly. It fucking terrified him. He knelt beside her prone form, leaning down to disprove his worst fear, and was quickly relieved to hear a breath—shallow, uneven, but a breath nonetheless—leave her mouth. None of her usual snoring was there, which made him think she might be unconscious. 

She didn’t seem to have any obstructions in her mouth, at least from what he could see, and lying on her side, it would have been difficult for her to choke on her own vomit. He tried to tell himself this was clinical, objective, but it was Belly, and every part of him wanted to scoop her up and make sure she was safe. 

Conrad carefully rested a hand on her shoulder and shook gently. “Belly?” She stirred slightly, and the dim light caught the snot clinging to her top lip and the dried tear tracks streaking her cheeks. It seemed to be the harsh, perpetual crying that made your cheeks itchy and your eyes hurt and didn’t stop until your body crashed. 

“Belly?” He got closer to her face, searching for something, anything. Sweat seeped from her hairline. She stirred again. Her eyes opened heavily, and she tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“It’s okay, honey. Don’t try to speak, okay?” He tucked a strand of hair that had fallen from her failed bun over her shoulder, letting him see more of her face. She was pale, eyes dark, cheeks nearly hollow. 

“Your mom called me. You’re not feeling too well, huh?” His voice was soft, careful, every word carrying the worry he could barely keep contained. She didn’t need to nod to confirm how she felt. Her eyes closed again, but he knew she wasn’t drifting back to sleep. He placed a tentative hand on her forehead, and she leaned into it slightly. Her skin was hot, burning—she had a fever, and a bad one, on top of whatever stomach virus had laid her low. Despite her high body temperature and sweating, she was shivering and had chills running up her bare arms. She was in a t-shirt and sweatpants, one or both probably once belonging to him or Jeremiah or Steven. 

The sharp tang of urine had edged out the vomit in the air, and he let his eyes wander to confirm what he already knew. Belly must have felt it too, because she curled a little tighter and sniffled.

“It’s okay, Belly. You’re sick. But let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” His voice was soft, carrying all the care he could muster, letting her know she wasn’t alone in this. He looked around, for some, any surface not covered in vomit, and failed. He reached to flush the toilet, emitting a wince from Belly. 

He moved slowly, starting with the sink, rinsing it carefully until it was spotless. The shower came next, and he scrubbed at the tile, making sure every trace of the mess was gone. Finally he knelt to wipe the floor, pressing the rag into every corner, every streak. It wasn’t just cleaning. It was a way to take care of her, to make the space safe and steady while she rested, a quiet act of looking after her when she couldn’t do it herself.

“Okay. Let’s get you rinsed off, yeah?” A groan slipped past her lips, and it might as well have been a song. Every sound she made—whether disgust, joy, anger, or sadness—made his heart pound, each one striking him sharper than the last. 

“We’re gonna sit up first, okay?” He sank back down onto his knees beside her, careful not to jostle her. One hand went gently to the top of her back, the other braced her waist on the far side. He lifted slowly, feeling the familiar weight of her in his arms, heavy, unresisting, like she had melted into him. She leaned completely against him, and he shifted back so he could sit, her legs draped across his, her head resting on his shoulder and bent knee. She swallowed quietly, eyes half-closed, and he could feel the subtle tremors of her breath, each one reminding him that she was here, alive, and fragile. Every movement was careful, deliberate, a quiet conversation of touch and trust between them. 

“Do you think you can sit up on the toilet by yourself?” She nodded, eyes still closed, breathing shallow. At least she wouldn’t have to stand in the shower; the tub made it easier for her to stay seated while cleaning up.

“Okay, great. I’ll help you out of your clothes and then you can clean up, alright?” Her nod of agreement quickly shifted to a weak push against his chest, more instinct than strength in her current state.

“No, Conrad,” she croaked, her first words to him. Not entirely surprising given the distance between them, but it made his chest tighten anyway.

“No, what? No to getting cleaned up?”

“I can do it. You can go.” Her eyes were more open now, glazed and unfocused, hands still pressing weakly against him.

“I’m not leaving, Belly.” The words felt heavy in the room, the same ones he had spoken years ago, once met with a harsh shove to his chest, far stronger than the gentle resistance she offered now.

“Please, just go.” Her voice cracked, and he tilted his head to meet her tear-filled eyes.

“C’mon, Belly. It’s okay. It’s me.”

The tears began to fall freely, the sniffles growing heavier. She didn’t speak again, just let her eyes drift closed and leaned her head back against him, small and fragile in his arms.

“I can’t leave knowing you’re feeling like this, Belly. Just let me help you, okay?”

She nodded, her hands no longer pushing, but the tears and sniffles continued, raw and unguarded.

“Okay, I’m gonna stand up, then get you sitting, alright?”

She nodded again. He carefully slid his right leg out from under hers, planted his foot on the floor, and rose slowly, keeping both hands under her armpits. He lifted her gently and eased her onto the closed toilet seat. She wavered, rocking forward slightly, but Conrad caught her arms before she could tip, steadying her. Her chin fell to her chest, and he let her lean back against the wall. 

Without thinking, he placed his hand on her forehead, not to check her temperature, but to sweep the hair from her face. As his fingers moved over the back of her head, he tugged gently at the hair tie holding her failed attempt at a low bun, careful not to pull, just enough to loosen it. He puts it around his wrist for later. 

He turns and runs the tub, not too hot, but almost so. He knows she likes hot baths when she's sick, quite the opposite of him, who could plunge himself in the Arctic Ocean if the opportunity presented itself.  

“Okay. Arms up.”

With a sudden, fragile burst of energy, she sat up, eyes still closed, and lifted her hands as high as she could. He raised the hem of her damp shirt slowly, tossing it somewhere out of sight. Seeing her like this felt entirely different, untethered from any other memory of her. He couldn’t even think of those other times, couldn’t allow himself to; this moment was nothing like that.

“Alright, we’re gonna stand up and get those gross sweatpants off, okay?”

She leaned back against the wall, head raised this time, eyes still closed, and nodded softly. He takes her wrists and puts them around his neck, both arms securely around her. He hoists her up cautiously, not wanting her to slip through his fingers, not again. Her head lolls and settles on his shoulder, between her arm and his neck. He unwraps one hand from her back and places it carefully on her waist.

“Do you want to get these off, or do you want me to?”

“Can you do it, please?” she whispers, her breath warm against his neck, soft and ticklish.

His hand slides slowly down from her waist to the elastic band of her sweatpants, fingers lingering a moment, careful. He eases the fabric down, taking his time, not rushing her or himself.

“Can you step out of them?”

She lifts one leg slightly in answer. He presses gently with his foot, helping her free it without jostling her too much. It takes a little effort, lethargic, but she manages, and then repeats the same careful motions with the other leg. 

“Great job, Belly. You basically did that all by yourself.”

She lets out a weak laugh, one she would probably deny if she were feeling more herself.

“Okay, hard part’s over. Now for the really hard part.”

She laughs again. “We gotta get you in the tub, alright?”

His mind starts running through all the ways this could go—none of them graceful, most of them awkward—and there was no way this wasn’t going to be at least a little awkward for one or both of them. She’s completely naked, completely out of it, and he’s… well, Conrad.

He’d do this night after night for her. He’d drop out of school and never leave this apartment. He’d wipe up vomit, strip away soiled clothes, bathe her, soothe her, keep at it until his own body went cold, just to make sure she was warm and safe.

“I’m gonna pick you up, Belly. Is that okay?”

She nods, and he feels the heat of her sweat seeping into his skin, sticky and close, grounding him in the moment. He shifts slightly, sliding one arm under her back and the other beneath her knees, bracing for the weight of her limp, fragile body in his arms. Her arms stay around his neck as he lifts her off the ground. 

“I’m gonna put you down in the tub, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes stay closed until he begins to shift her, easing her away from him so they are no longer one body. She isn’t panicking, but he can feel the tension in her, the unease of being lowered.“You’re okay. I’m just putting you down, alright? Not going anywhere.”

He lowers her carefully, bending his knees until he has to kneel, and eases her into the near scalding water. She shivers and shifts instinctively, drawing herself closer to him, seeking the warmth of his body despite the temperature of the water. 

“You gotta let go, alright? I’m gonna help you get cleaned up.”

Her hands lingered on the edge of the tub like anchors, hesitant to let him take over. He was quick enough to have pulled the soap, shampoo, and conditioner down to his level before she could protest further. Slowly, she lifted her arms off him, letting him guide her gently.

He started with the shampoo, running his fingers through her damp hair, working the suds in with deliberate care. Her head tipped slightly against him, trusting, fragile, and he could feel the tension in her shoulders slowly ease under his hands. Next came the conditioner, thick and silky, and he worked it into every strand, untangling knots with his fingers, letting the scent fill the small bathroom. He took a moment to inhale, letting it ground him, to remind himself she was here, in front of him, alive and leaning on him.

“Alright, now the soap,” he said softly, reaching for the washcloth. He helped her rise slowly, keeping a hand on her back so she wouldn’t slip. She shivered, the heat of the water clinging to her skin, and he gently guided the cloth over her body, washing every inch with painstaking care. His hands lingered where she was most tense, not to be inappropriate, but to steady her, to make sure she felt held, safe.

It quickly became clear he couldn’t reach everything without getting in himself. He eased into the tub beside her, careful, shoes off but socks already wet from the warm water lapping at his legs. He adjusted his stance to give her room and turned the shower on, letting the warm water rinse away the soap and conditioner. She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck again, holding on tightly, and the contact soaked him instantly. He didn’t mind. Every drop of water that ran over him, every inch of his soaked clothes, felt worth it to make sure she was clean, comfortable, and taken care of.

He guided her gently, pressing close enough to steady her but careful not to crowd her, letting her lean on him, let go of the rest of the world, and simply be. Each motion was thoughtful, loving, almost devout, as though caring for her like this was the only thing that mattered in the room. In the world. 

Because it was. 

Conrad just managed to reach the drain pull, letting the water they were both soaked in swirl away.

Figuring out how to get out of the tub was going to be harder than getting in. He could lift her with him and step out, but the thought of slipping made him hesitate. In the end, he stepped out first, careful and deliberate, and lifted her just enough over the tub’s edge before settling her feet back on the floor.

He glanced around for a moment and spotted two towels.

“Which is which?”

Belly always used two towels when she showered, at least. One for her body and one for her hair. She had once explained it plainly, and he had just laughed, teasing that one towel could never handle the amount of hair she had. Her hair was shorter now, layered, still gleaming with reddish-brown highlights, and even damp, it caught the light like fire.

“White for body, blue is hair,” she mumbled.

He grabbed the white towel first, pressing it gently against her damp skin and rubbing softly, moving over her arms, shoulders, and back. He lingered where her shivers were strongest, letting the warmth of the fabric sink in, making sure she felt held and safe. When she was as dry as he could get her, he draped the towel around her shoulders. She trembled slightly, and he kept his hand resting lightly on her arm, an anchor.

“Just a second, yeah? We’ll get you warm right away, honey.” The word slipped out naturally, and he noticed it again, a tenderness that came without thinking.

Then he reached for the blue towel, lifting it over her head. He remembered what she had said years ago about friction, terrycloth, and frizz, and moved with care, brushing it against her scalp instead of rubbing. He wrapped it over the top of her head, tucking it just so, holding her damp hair close to keep her warm. Each motion was soft, patient, and filled with a quiet, unspoken devotion.

“I’m sorry I got you all wet.”

“No worries at all, Belly,” he says without thinking. He settles her back onto the toilet and steps out, grateful he brought his own bag. He changes into dry clothes at a rush, the dampness of his body still seeping through the fabric.

He opens the door and leans back in. Her eyes are closed again, head resting against the wall, fragile and small.

“Belly?”

Her eyes open slowly, meeting his.

“Where are your pajamas?”

“Second drawer.”

He nods and smiles, keeping the door open to make it easy to step back in if she needs him. When he finally glances into the room he hasn’t yet explored, his stomach tightens. It’s more than messy—this isn’t the usual cluttered chaos of Belly’s space. Clothes are strewn everywhere, books piled haphazardly, and papers litter the floor like a storm had passed through. The mess feels heavy, suffocating almost, like it’s pressing down on the air in the room. He swallows, noting quietly that this is the kind of disorder that hints at more than forgetfulness or laziness. 

The dresser sat right next to the door, its drawers poking out from how packed they were. Conrad paused before grabbing anything, glancing over at her bed instead. The sheets were rumpled and stiff in places, and he could tell they hadn’t been washed in a while. Nothing dramatic, just classic Belly chaos. He stripped the bed and pillowcases quickly, dropping the bundle onto the floor so he wouldn’t forget to bring them to the washer later.

Then he finally opened the second drawer. The moment he pulled, shirts and pajama pants practically leapt out like they’d been waiting for freedom. Everything had been shoved in without mercy, fabrics twisted around each other, some half-folded, others not folded at all. He held the drawer steady with one hand and used the other to sort through the explosion, easing things back into place just enough to see what was what.

He sifted until he found a soft pair of pajama pants and one of her old oversized tees, the kind she always gravitated toward. He shook them out, smoothing the wrinkles with his palm. The drawer fought him when he tried to close it again, so he had to give it a hip bump to get it to stay shut.

Then he headed back toward the bathroom, clothes in hand, already planning how to get her warm and dressed without rushing her.

Belly is in the same position, though her eyes are more open now, clearer.

“Conrad?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

He crouches a little so he’s level with her. “Belly… you never have to thank me for this. I’m right here. Always.”

She nods, a tiny exhale leaving her like she’d been holding it.

“Let’s get these on you, then we’ll get you in bed.” His voice stays low, steady. She lifts her arms without hesitation this time, almost trusting the motion to guide her. He slides the shirt over her while keeping the towel between them, giving her as much privacy as he can in a situation that doesn’t exactly allow for much.

Her hands land on his shoulders so she can stand, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. The towel slips to the floor between them, but he doesn’t look down or even register the loss. He’s focused only on her. He crouches and helps her step into the pants, taking it slow, making sure she doesn’t wobble. It takes longer than the shirt, but he doesn’t mind. He’d stay like this as long as she needed.

Once the waistband is settled at her hips, he looks up at her with a faint, apologetic smile. “I know you don’t like going to bed with wet hair, but I don’t think you’re in much of a state to fight it tonight.”

“Can you braid it? Like you used to?”

The question hits him in a soft place. He glances at the damp strands clinging to her shoulders, then back at her face, which looks younger in this light, almost like the girl who used to follow him around the beach asking a thousand questions an hour.

He remembers exactly how it started. She’d caught him on the porch one afternoon, hands busy twisting a length of practice rope. He’d been sailing for a few years by then and had become obsessed with learning every knot known to mankind. She’d hovered over him, asking what he was doing, why that knot looked different than the last, what made a rope strong or weak. He’d explained every bit of it, right down to the fibers and how they were spun, feeling oddly proud of himself for knowing. And she’d just watched him, hair wild from the wind, tangling around her cheeks.

Then she’d asked if the braids in the rope were anything like the braids their moms used to weave into her hair. He’d laughed, trying to play it cool, even though he could already see the resemblance. She’d rolled her eyes when he shrugged and muttered, “I only work with the rope after it’s already made.” His cheeks had gone warm, and she’d caught it, grinning at him like she’d won something.

A minute later she was tugging him down to her level, placing a section of her hair in his hands. “In case neither of our moms are around,” she’d said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. She showed him how to separate the strands, how to keep tension without pulling, how to tuck flyaways so they wouldn’t itch her neck. She kept correcting him with these little pats to his wrists, and he kept pretending he didn’t care, even though he was concentrating harder than he ever did in school.

And he got good at it. Better than he meant to. Better than both Susannah and Laurel, if he was being honest with himself. She’d walk around all day with one of his braids swinging down her back, proud of it in a way that made his chest feel tight and light at the same time.

The memory lands between them now, soft and heavy.

He nods and steps behind her, fingers brushing the ends of her damp hair. “Yeah, Belly. I can braid it.” His voice comes out quieter than he means it to. “I remember how.” 

He maneuvers her to sit on the edge of the tub, settling her carefully before stepping back into the shower behind her. He has no idea where her hairbrush might be, and he is not about to start tearing through her drawers while she sits half-asleep and shivering. He is far more focused on getting her to sleep somewhere that is not the unforgiving floor of her bathroom, where he first found her slumped and fading.

He gathers her hair in his hands, and for a moment he just holds it. Even damp and tangled, it feels familiar against his fingers. He has always loved her hair. Loved the way it caught sunlight in the summer, loved the reddish threads that showed up when the sun was at it’s highest point in the sky, loved the weight of it when she let him braid it back when they were younger and she trusted him without thinking.

He separates the strands carefully, teasing out small knots with soft fingertips, doing everything he can to keep from pulling. She tilts her head forward a little, not enough to help but enough to show she feels him there. He starts to braid, finding that old rhythm again, the one he slipped into so easily when she used to sit cross-legged between his knees on her bedroom floor.

When he reaches the ends, he uses the hair tie on his wrist to secure it, giving the braid a final gentle squeeze before letting it fall against her back. It is not perfect, but it is steady and it is hers, and right now that is all he cares about.

“Conrad…” Her voice thins out, and then she tilts too far forward. He barely has time to register it before her hands slap the tile and she buckles onto her knees.

“Hey, hey, I got you.” He’s beside her in a blink, one hand already sliding to her waist, guiding her toward the toilet with a quiet urgency. “C’mon, Belly, this way. I’m right here.”

It becomes a scramble, not panicked but tight in his chest, and he gets her over the bowl just as her body gives up the rest of what it has.

She heaves, her whole frame trembling. He sweeps her braid over her shoulder with his free hand, palm warm against the back of her neck. “You’re alright. Just let it happen. I’m not going anywhere.” His voice is rougher now, quieter, like he is trying not to shake.

Another convulsion hits and she nearly folds sideways. He shifts instantly, knee braced against hers, shoulder close enough to catch her weight. “Lean on me. It’s alright. You don’t have to hold yourself up.” He says it like he’s said it a hundred times, but softer, more careful.

Her breath stutters into something close to a sob. He smooths a hand between her shoulder blades, steady strokes that try to match her frantic breathing. 

“I know. I know it feels awful. You’re doing fine.” The words leave him without thought, low and sincere, like they’re pulled straight out of him. “I’m right here, Belly. I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s grateful her mouthwash is within reach. He pours a small amount into a paper cup and holds it to her lips.

“Just a few seconds, alright? Don’t want to wake up with vomit breath in the morning.”

She tries to laugh, but it comes out as a soft, heavy breath, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She swishes the liquid for a few seconds, then leans forward slightly and spits it neatly into the toilet.

“All done?” he asks gently. She nods, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“Good. Alright… I’m gonna pick you up, okay? Just to be safe.”

She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then drapes her arms around his shoulders, leaning into him. He slides one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, lifting her carefully. Her weight is light in his arms, but he moves deliberately, making sure she’s steady and secure. Every step toward the couch is slow and careful, his focus entirely on her, making sure she doesn’t have to bear anything alone.

He sets her down, and she opens her eyes fully. For a few seconds, they just look at each other, a quiet echo of that Christmas they’d spent together, but not together. He thought then, and thinks now, that he would always love her. After a spill down the stairs, after throwing up half her body weight, he would still love her.

“Where are your spare sheets?” Her gaze lifts for a second, then drops, and she nods vaguely toward the closet in the living room.

He grabs the extra linens he knows Laurel had insisted Belly keep on hand. He thinks about how careful Laurel had been with him too, and he feels a small swell of gratitude as he carries them to her room. He makes the bed slowly, smoothing every wrinkle, tucking the corners, turning down the covers just so. Every fold, every adjustment is for her. He imagines her lying there, finally warm, finally safe from the cold hard floor she had been on not long ago.

The soiled sheets go into the washing machine in the kitchen. The steady hum is comforting, but he barely notices it. His mind is back with her, thinking of the way she shifts when she’s uncomfortable, the way she always needs just a little extra care. He returns to her side.

“Alright. Time for bed?” His voice is low and steady, carrying all the worry he can’t hide. She nods faintly.

He bends and scoops her up carefully, one arm under her knees, the other around her back. She drapes her arms lightly over his shoulders, leaning into him as he lifts her. Every movement is slow, careful, measured so she doesn’t feel the weight of her own weakness.

He carries her across the apartment, feeling the warmth of her body against his chest, the faint tremors from the fever, the gentle weight of her trust. When they reach the bed, he lowers her down gently, easing her onto the freshly made sheets. He tucks the covers around her, smoothing them over her shoulders and across her legs, making sure she is warm, comfortable, and safe.

She shifts slightly against him before settling, and he stays with her for a heartbeat longer, just to make sure she is truly okay.

He turns to go sleep on the couch, thinking he can at least turn off the lights, when a faint, raspy, “Conrad?” reaches him.

He pauses, squeezes his eyes shut, and then turns back toward her.

“Yes?”

“Can… you stay with me?” Her voice is soft, slow, barely more than a whisper.

“I was just going to go sleep on the couch. I won’t be far.”

“No… in here… with me.”

He swallows hard. It’s probably a bad idea. He’s already seen her at her most vulnerable, and he had wanted to give her a little space, a sense of privacy. But the urgency in her voice, fragile and unsteady, pulls him closer.

“Alright,” he says finally, his voice low and steady. “I’ll stay.”

He hesitates only a moment longer before moving to the other side of the bed. He doesn’t slip under the covers. Instead, he lies down on top of the comforter, careful and contained, resting on his stomach with his head turned toward her.

She is already asleep. It happens that fast. One second her breathing is shallow and uneven, the next it smooths out, slow and steady, her mouth parted just slightly. Her face has gone slack in a way that only comes with real exhaustion.

He watches her for a while, longer than he means to. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the washing machine and the steady rhythm of her breathing. He doesn’t reach for her. He doesn’t move closer. He just stays there, eyes trained on her sleeping form, like if he looks away she might slip back into that awful place he found her in earlier.

Eventually his own eyes grow heavy, but he keeps them open as long as he can, guarding the quiet, keeping watch.

She wakes before he does, but only by minutes. He’s pulled awake by the sound of her retching. The phone on her bedside table, screen dim and nearly dead, reads 6:19 a.m. They got maybe three hours of sleep.

He is up immediately, out of bed and around the corner into her bathroom. She is sitting on the toilet, bent forward, getting sick into the trash can she must have dragged in sometime before he woke. He comes to a stop right beside her, close enough that his knee brushes hers, one hand hovering near her shoulder, ready to catch her if she tips too far forward.

He gathers the loose wisps of hair that have slipped free of the braid, pulling them gently back from her face. That seems to be what alerts her to him. She blinks, slow and unfocused, then settles the trash can more securely on her bare thighs and rests her chin on its rim.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“Don’t be,” he says immediately.

“At least I made it to the bathroom.” She manages a small, glazed smile, and he can’t help but smile back.

One of his hands moves past her ear to the back of her neck, steady and sure. The other comes to her forehead, light and careful. One for balance, one to check.

“You’re still warm,” he says quietly. “But not as hot.”

She exhales through her nose. “Hey. I happen to think I’m still pretty hot. Even when I’m evacuating out of both ends.”

The laugh bursts out of him before he can stop it. It surprises him, the sound of it, and he brings the hand from her neck up to cover his mouth as his shoulders shake. It’s the hardest he’s laughed in weeks.

“Can you put that back, please?”

“What?”

“Your hand. Put it back.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He is not capable of telling her no, not like this. His hand settles again at the back of her neck, steady and warm. Almost immediately, her head tips sideways, heavy with exhaustion, and her cheek comes to rest against his thigh.

The contact is innocent, weighted with need rather than anything else. He barely registers the closeness of it beyond the simple fact of her warmth seeping through the thin fabric, grounding him where he stands.

She exhales, slow and relieved. He can feel it on the hair of his other leg thoroughly. 

“That feels nice.”

“Yeah?” His hand shifts from the back of her neck to her cheek, an angle he has never thought about before. Standing over her like this, his hand turned the wrong way from how it usually used to cup her face, it should feel awkward. It doesn’t. It feels right in a quiet, startling way.

He curls his hand into a loose fist and rubs gently against her cheek, careful, slow. The response is immediate. She leans into him without thinking, nuzzling closer until her cheek presses more firmly against his thigh, like she is seeking out the warmth on instinct alone.

He stays still, lets her have it, lets her settle where she needs to be.

The moment isn’t broken by anything outside of them. It’s Conrad who does it. As nice as it feels to stand like this, her closer to him than she has been in years, it can’t just keep happening. She has her pajama pants pooled around her ankles and a trash can full of vomit in her arms, and he has about twenty five and a half years of loving her pressing down on his shoulders all at once.

“Belly? Honey?” His thigh shifts slightly beneath her cheek, and she lifts her head, blinking up at him.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to get showered again?”

“No.” She swallows, voice quiet but certain. “I just need to get changed.”

One of her hands slides up his leg and curls around his forearm, fingers weak but determined. The other catches his hand where it still rests against her face, using both to pull herself upright. She immediately starts kicking at the pants pooled around her ankles, feet tangling, balance questionable at best.

Conrad snorts before he can stop himself.

“It’s fucked up to laugh at a sick person, Conrad.”

“Oh, like you guys didn’t all laugh at me when I got sick after I ate all those hot wings?”

“This is not the same situation. We told you not to eat that many hot wings, Conrad!”

Her breathing turns uneven, halfway between breathless and laughter, and that’s all it takes. He laughs with her, quiet at first, then fuller, the sound surprising them both.

Somewhere between the laughter tapering off and the room settling again, he just looks at her. Really looks. Her gaze doesn’t quite meet his, drifting somewhere near his shoulder instead. His mind betrays him, running backward through all the ways this could have gone differently. Things he could have said. Moments he could have chosen better. Words he never sent. Doors he waited too long to open.

But none of that matters right now. This is where they are. Standing in her bathroom, half awake, joking like they haven’t been apart for years, like nothing broke in between. Like everything didn’t happen.

And somehow, impossibly, they are still here. She lets go of one of his hands, keeps her grip on his forearm, and starts rubbing at her own shoulder like she’s only just realized it exists.

“Fuck,” she croaks, her voice nearly gone. “My shoulders are so sore.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s all the vomiting.”

She smacks his arm, weak and uncoordinated. He huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh and glances toward the sink.

“Get your teeth brushed and I’ll grab you a different pair of bottoms, okay?”

She releases him and braces both hands on the sink instead, gripping the edge harder than she had been holding onto him. The counter gives her far less than he had. She sways.

He steps in immediately, sliding a hand onto her shoulder, thumb pressing gently into the tight muscle there. He works small circles, careful, slow, more instinct than thought. She exhales deeply, eyes falling shut, a low sound leaving her that settles heavy in his chest. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard except in his dreams in years.

He keeps his hand there, easing the tension he can find, until her breathing steadies again.

He pulls his hand away, and she tips toward him just a little, like she’d been leaning on something she didn’t realize was gone. Turning his back on her feels wrong, but he does it anyway.

He doesn’t go all the way to her room. Just stops at his bag, digs out the spare pair of boxers, then comes back.

Belly is at the sink, toothbrush moving slow, unfocused, like the motion alone is doing all the work. She’s barely brushing, more hovering than anything.

“You know,” he says quietly, trying to keep the lightness from earlier alive, “you do have to put a little effort into it.”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are glassy, unfixed, but nothing spills over.

Something in his chest tightens. He steps closer and sets a hand on her shoulder, gentle.

“Belly?” His voice drops. “What’s wrong, hon?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but toothpaste slips out instead, dribbling down her chin. That seems to undo her more than anything else. Her eyes shine, wide and embarrassed and overwhelmed all at once.

Without thinking, Conrad reaches for the washcloth by the sink and wipes her face clean, slow and careful, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry my mom called you.”

His brows knit together immediately. “Why?”

She doesn’t answer him. She just keeps going, voice thin, worn down.

“I know it’s your spring break. And I know you probably wanted to spend it with your girlfriend. And instead you’re here because my mom called you, and I haven’t even talked to you since before the wedding, and I was a total bitch to you and-”

“You weren’t,” he says gently, cutting in before she can spiral any further. “You were doing what you thought was right. And you didn’t owe me anything. You know that, right? Phones work both ways.”

She blinks at him, like she’s trying to line his words up with something inside her.

“And for the record,” he adds, a little quieter, “I wasn’t planning on doing anything this break. Especially not spending it with a girlfriend who doesn’t exist.”

That finally makes her look up at him.

He lets the washcloth fall back onto the counter and lifts the boxers in one hand, like proof of why he’s here.

“I’m always gonna show up for you, Belly,” he says. “You needed space. That’s allowed. You’ve got your own life. Your own boundaries. I’m never gonna be mad at you for that.”

His voice softens even more.

“I’d be a real hypocrite if I was.” 

She’s still looking at him.

“Now,” he says softly, trying for practical, trying for normal, “do you need help putting these on?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she steps forward and wraps her arms around his middle, squeezing like she’s afraid he might disappear if she lets go.

His breath catches. Just for a second.

“Thank you, Conrad.” It’s muffled. 

He keeps his hands at his sides, fists curling instead of reaching for her back, instead of doing the thing that would mean too much. He stares at the wall over her shoulder and forces a small laugh.

“It’s no problem, Belly. Seriously. You don’t have to keep thanking me.” He tips the boxers gently against her hip. “Put these on before you pass out on me, okay?”

She doesn’t move. Her forehead presses into his chest, and she stays right there.

The laugh fades.

What have I done?

She pulls away a moment later and takes the boxers from him. If they were still joking, he might point out that she’s got her pants pooled around her ankles, but whatever ease they’d found has slipped out of reach, and he’s not about to force it back.

Conrad turns around, trusting she’s steady enough to handle it herself. She sets a hand on his shoulder anyway, using him to balance as she steps out of the pants and into the boxers. He keeps his eyes forward, jaw tight, pretending very hard that this is just another normal thing.

“Of course you have monogrammed boxers.”

He snorts, the sound quiet but real. “Yeah, well. You’ve got a little brother who doesn’t bother checking sizes before yanking underwear out of the clean laundry pile.”

It’s the first time either of them has mentioned Jeremiah The air doesn’t crack. Nobody flinches. Conrad counts that as progress.

“But you still get them monogrammed?”

“My mom started doing it when we were teenagers,” he says, shrugging. “She didn’t want us fighting over underwear because we were volatile and pubescent.” A pause. “Guess it just…stuck.”

He risks a glance back at her then, just long enough to see the corner of her mouth twitch, and that feels like something he didn’t know he was allowed to have.

“Okay, I’m decent.”

“Need any help getting back to bed?”

“I think I’m good.” Her hand stays on his shoulder, light but certain, and for the first time in years he doesn’t push past the feeling that sparks under his skin. He lets it register. Lets it pass through him without acting on it.

“I’m gonna check my phone. Your mom’s probably on her plane already. Then I’ll throw in some laundry.”

“You don’t have to do my laundry, Conrad,” she says, voice thin but firm. “Especially laundry that gross.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Belly, I worked in a hospital in San Francisco last summer. Trust me. I’ve seen worse.”

She looks at him then, really looks at him, and he knows he’s already made up his mind anyway. He’s not going anywhere.

He gathers the dirty pajama pants and scoops up the neglected pile of clothes from the corner, cradling it against his chest as he heads for the laundry machine. He flips the load, moves the once dirty sheets into the dryer, starts the washer with the clothes. Ordinary motions, muscle memory doing most of the work.

He doesn’t turn around, but he listens. Closely. He tracks her slow steps down the hall, the careful way she moves, pausing between each one. Then he hears it, the quiet sigh she always makes when she finally settles somewhere comfortable.

Only then does he breathe out.

Somewhere in the apartment, a phone buzzes.

Conrad scrambles, only to find his phone on the ground outside the bathroom, probably forgotten when he found Belly in a pile early this morning. 

Laurel 

Just got on the plane. Snowstorm delayed us a bit, but I should be there soon!

Then,

Laurel

Thank you for your help, Connie. 

He smiles at the messages, thumbs up on the first, a heart on the second, then sets the phone down.

“Your mom just got on the plane,” he says quietly. “She’ll be here later.”

Belly doesn’t stir.

Conrad pauses in the doorway anyway, one hand resting against the frame. The room is dim, early light barely touching the bed. She’s tucked deep into the blankets now, cocooned up to her chin, braid spilling across the pillow. Her mouth is open just enough to let out a soft, familiar snore. The kind she’s always had. The kind that used to make him laugh when they were kids and pretend not to notice when they were older.

He clocks the details without trying. The rise and fall of her shoulders. The way one foot nudges out from the covers and then disappears again. The sound she makes when she shifts, a quiet huff before settling back into sleep.

He stays where he is. Doesn’t need to be closer to know she’s okay.

After a moment, he eases the door in until it’s almost shut, careful not to let it click. 

He doesn’t get into bed with her. Instead, he lowers himself to the floor and leans back against the side of it, knees bent, shoulders pressed to the frame. He crosses his arms over his chest and tells himself he’s just resting his eyes. Not sleeping.

He keeps his gaze fixed ahead, picks one of the drawer knobs on her dresser and holds onto it like an anchor. It’s loose, slightly crooked, something he’s noticed a hundred times before without meaning to. The room is still. Too still. Her breathing fills the space anyway, slow and uneven, punctuated every so often by a soft snore.

At some point his head tips back, neck stretching against the edge of the mattress. He feels it happen and panics a little at the heaviness pulling him under. His eyes flutter, threaten to close.

Before sleep can take him, he forces them open again, blinking hard, jaw tightening as he stares back at the same crooked knob.

At some point, he loses the fight anyway. His chin drops to his chest and his shoulders slacken, the tension finally bleeding out of him. Sleep takes him quietly, like it’s been waiting its turn.

He doesn’t dream of anything coherent. No scenes, no places, no story he could follow even if he tried. Just fragments. Warm light. The curve of a cheek. Brown hair falling into familiar places, brown eyes looking at him in that way that always made his chest feel too tight. The same face that’s been there, uninvited and constant, since he was thirteen.

He wakes to fingers moving softly through the hair at the back of his head, and he knows it’s Belly. He doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t have to. No one else touches him like this, like the act itself is a question she’s asking quietly, one she already knows the answer to. Her fingers are warm, careful, threading through his hair as if she’s afraid of tangling something, of pulling too hard and breaking the moment.

Her nails skim the sensitive skin behind his ears, trace the curve of his skull, and the sensation rolls through him slow and steady. It settles deep in his chest, a low hum that spreads outward, down his spine, into his limbs. Not lightning, not the sharp crack of want, but something heavier. Familiar. Something that’s been waiting.

He keeps still, breathing even, letting her have this. Letting himself have it too. His heart starts to race anyway, betraying him, thudding louder than the quiet room should allow. It feels like being recognized. Like being found where he’s been sitting, half asleep, pretending he wasn’t already hers.

He’s always been hers. There are only so many things in this world that feel fixed, unmoving, and this is one of them. From the moment he woke up all those years ago with the quiet, startling understanding of what love was, with the certainty that it had a name and a face and it was Belly, he belonged to her. There were detours. There were other loyalties, other loves, one of them his brother, tangled and complicated and unavoidable. There were years of distance and sharp words and choices that cut deeper than either of them meant. But none of it changed the core of it. Not time, not anger, not silence. Through everything, he was still hers.

“That feels good,” he says without meaning to, the words slipping out on their own. Her fingers pause for just a beat, then keep going, softer somehow. His head tips back against the bed and turns toward her, and when he opens his eyes they smile at each other at the same time, unguarded and easy, like it takes no effort at all.

“You know, I never understood your fascination with my hair.”

He never really did either, not in a way he could explain. It was always just there, like her. A constant. Something you could follow without realizing you were doing it. You could trace it back to Belly every time. Her presence lingered everywhere she went, especially at the beach house. He used to dread vacuum days for that reason alone. For a few days after the Conklin's left Cousins, he would still find strands of her hair caught in corners, on the stairs, woven into the couch cushions. Proof she had been there. Proof she was never really gone. He didn’t care if she thought it was strange, how much it held him, how much of her seemed to live in it.

“But now,” she adds quietly, fingers still combing through his, “I kinda get it.” 

“It’s not as soft as yours,” Conrad says.

“Maybe not,” Belly replies, “but I can give you some hair care recommendations. All you need is a good conditioner.”

He laughs. “I’ve gotta be honest, I usually just buy whatever’s cheapest and smells decent.”

“Yeah, you never had to worry about curl management,” she says.

“To this day, it still amazes me how much product he uses,” Conrad adds.

“He always, without a doubt, took longer to do his hair than me,” Belly says.

They both laugh. Not really at Jeremiah, but at how easy it is to talk about him like this, like nothing tightens in their chests when his name comes up, like it doesn’t change the air between them at all.

“It sucks that it took me getting sick to bring us back together.”

“Belly…” He sighs, quiet, careful.

“I know. I know. I’m not looking for pity or reassurance or whatever.”

“Well,” he says, after a beat, “it’s not like I’m not in the wrong too.”

“Why’s that?” Her nails keep moving, scratching lightly at his scalp, fingers threading through his hair like they’ve always belonged there.

“I wrote to you. When you were in Paris. Every month. Until you came back.”

“You never sent them?”

His gaze shifts forward, his head tipping down toward his chest, just enough that his hair slips out of her reach.

“I’m sorry, Belly.”

She huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Now I get why you’re so sick of hearing it.”

“What?”

“Like you said earlier. You had your own life. Your own boundaries. I’m not gonna blame you for not reaching out when I didn’t even come close to doing what you did.”

“Did you think about it?” he asks. “Reaching out?”

“Oh god, Conrad. All the time.” Her voice is rough but steady. “When I met my friends. When I tried new things. When I cut my hair. When I became an apprentice and completely wasted my undergrad studies.”

“You didn’t waste them,” he says immediately. “Something else found you. That’s not the same thing.”

She exhales. “Well. Either way. I thought about it constantly. I just… I was scared.”

“Why?”

“I felt like I had something to prove. Like there was this permanent chip on my shoulder I had to wear down first. And being the villain of your family,” she adds quietly, “I didn’t want to cause any more rifts.”

He turns back toward her. Her fingers don’t find his hair again, and he feels the absence of them more than he expects to. He wants to shut it down immediately, tell her she was never the fault line, never the thing that cracked his family open. Instead, he holds her gaze for a second longer than necessary, then speaks.

“Jere and I are grown men, Belly. You don’t, or didn’t, have to be the glue that keeps us together. You never did.” His voice stays even. “I know you probably made promises to my mom, but you were a kid. All of us were. And I’m not holding you to anything you said back then. Not now. Not ever.” She doesn’t respond, only nods slightly, fingers returning to his hair. 

“So, are any of your Paris friends coming to visit soon?”

“Yeah. Gemma and Max are coming the second week of June, and Céline’s coming during my birthday week. We were all gonna rent a house in Palm Springs and drive down.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun, Belly.”

“You should come. Bring Agnes.”

“The girlfriend who isn’t my girlfriend?”

She flushes and lightly smacks the top of his head. “I’m serious, Conrad. Taylor’s flying over, and she and Steven are paying for half. It’s their gift to me. You should be there.”

She pauses, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “It’ll be like Cousins. Just… less humid.”

“Well, if you insist. My residency doesn’t even start until July first, so consider me yours.”

It comes out wrong, or maybe too right, but it doesn’t change anything. It’s true in the smallest ways, and in the ones that matter most.