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“You don’t have to talk to me about it, but it’s not nothing, Archer.”

“I don’t want to talk about it with you.”

I ignore the dagger slicing through me at those two little words:with you. But this isn’t about me, so I swallow my hurt and my pride as I say, “Want me to call Bellamy?”

“No.”

We sit quietly for a few more minutes, the tension building to a level that feels impossible to bear. I’m a can inside a trash compactor, unable to fight off the crushing pressure.

“Please? You know that you can trust me, Archer. I don’t know how to be here for you if you won’t talk to me.”

He tenses, then releases a slow breath. “You’ve already helped,” he says.

“Have you ever had a panic attack before?”

“Once.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I’d like to borrow a toolkit from a professional thief so I can pick the locks Archer has around himself.

Actually, forget the fancy tools. Give me a sledgehammer and a blowtorch.

“Was there anything in particular that helped you get through it?”

“I like what you’re doing with my hair,” Archer says, and I double down on my head rub. “But you need to go do cookies, don’t you?”

“I do. But this is more important.Youare more important.” I pause, keeping up the rhythmic drag of my fingers through hisdark hair. “I don’t know if this has to do with the trial this week, but I’ve been thinking about it. About you. I can’t imagine how hard that would be. I wish … I wish I could go with you. Not that you asked,” I add quickly. “But if you wanted me there, I would want to be there.”

He’s quiet for so long that I sit up a little, looking down at him. Archer rolls onto his back, adjusting me so I’m tucked into the crook of his arm, my head on his shoulder. It’s comfortable, but it means I can’t see his face.

Which is maybe how he wants it. Talking is easier without eye contact.

But he still says nothing.

I’ll admit it; I’m disappointed. It’s selfish to want him to want me there when I know I can’t go. I also hate that he’s not talking to me about what’s wrong. Especially after I pretty much opened a vein earlier in sharing what I did. It’s like being on a seesaw with a hippopotamus on the other side—a complete imbalance of emotional weight and vulnerability.

Give him time, I tell myself, even if it’s the opposite of my instinct, which wants me to pry and beg and force my way inside.

Archer’s lips brush over my forehead. I tighten my jaw, willing it not to wobble or shake.

Archer is the one dealing with something huge right now—whatever it is. Not me. I won’t make this about me.

“Thank you,” he says finally. “I’ll go to New York and deal with it. Then I’ll be back. It will be fine. Okay?”

He’s minimizing. I can hear him talking himself into believing his words, the same way I’ve done with so many things.

In the past almost five years, I’ve never felt so frustrated about my inability to leave Serendipity Springs. It makes me wish I’d started therapy earlier or not fought Judith at every turn. Not told her no when she suggested I try cognitive behavioral therapy, whatever that is.

Maybe, if I’d done more or tried harder, I would have been able to go with Archer now. I could have insisted and tagged along, hiding in his luggage if needed. Just to show my support. But I can’t, and the thought burns.

I know Judith would tell me I’m being too critical. But Judith also would applaud the sudden burning need I have to do whatever work I can to see if it would help.

Because I don’t want to be left in this position again—where I feel like my choices and my agency are being taken from me.

Four and a half years ago, I was crushed when Trey asked me to go to France with him—even though the moment he asked, I knew I wouldn’t want to go, even if I could.

Now, Archer is acting like he doesn’t need me in New York, and all I want is to be with him there.

After a few more minutes of silence, I extricate myself from Archer and he walks me to the door.