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She smiles against my shoulder. “You’re already my hero.”

Goddammit.

I settle her on the couch, tuck the blanket under her chin, and brush a strand of hair away from her forehead. She mumbles something, half-asleep, and I press a kiss to her temple.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, “for all of it. For not seeing you sooner. For not saying it enough.”

Her hand finds mine, sleepily clinging, and I realize—I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want to be the reason she smiles again.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jojo,” I promise. “Not ever. You’re stuck with me.”

“You staying?” she whispers.

“If you’ll have me.”

“I like that,” she murmurs. “A lot.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“Joely, I’m always gonna be here.”

She tugs the blanket tighter around herself. “Even with steps?”

“I’ll carry you up every damn one.”

She smiles. “Good. Because I think I need help to the bathroom.”

I groan, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it lightly at her. “You had one romantic second. One. And you blew it.”

She grins. “You love it.”

I do.

God help me—I do.

And I think I’ve known it since third grade.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Joely

You can always tell when someone’s heart finds a landing place here. It’s not loud, not flashy. It’s in the way headlights sweep quiet snowdrifts at dawn, or how the bakery door stays propped open an extra minute in case someone’s hobbling in on crutches. Around here, love doesn’t announce itself with fireworks—it lingers in the hush between breaths, the steadiness of old friends, the careful hands that keep you warm when everything else is cold. I’ve seen my fair share of heartbreak, but I know the look of a girl who’s finally being cared for, and the boy who can’t help but hover until he’s sure she’s got everything she needs.

Playlist Song: Home by Phillip Phillips

I wake up to silence.

Not the kind that’s peaceful and soul-soothing. The other kind. The kind that whispers,you’re alone again, dumbass. Thesheets next to me are cool, not even the faintest imprint of his body. No hoodie tossed over a chair. No cup of coffee steaming on the nightstand like some romantic movie scene. Just... nothing.

The urge to pee is immediate, fierce, and completely inconvenient. I eye the crutches across the room like they’re medieval torture devices. I bite my lip, already dreading the humiliating trek. In my head, I hear all the horror stories of girls peeing themselves after anesthesia, and if Brogan Foster has to mop up my bodily fluids, I swear I’ll just move to Siberia. There’s no way I’m making it without something dramatic happening—like a re-injury, or my dignity collapsing in a heap on the floor.

For a second, I lie perfectly still, half hoping Brogan will pop out of the bathroom with bedhead and a bear claw. When he doesn’t, my heart sinks a couple of floors down my chest and settles somewhere near my stomach. A place it absolutely does not belong.

You can do this, Parnell. You’ve survived worse. Middle school dodgeball. The Great Period Disaster of Homecoming. This is just logistics.

I roll over, reaching for my phone on the nightstand and swiping the screen to life. Missed call from Lynsie. Text from Beth checking in on my ankle. No Brogan.

Awesome.