Page 35

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

RHYS

It’s been a few days since Ally’s seizure at the university, and even though she’s smiling and pretending everything’s okay, I can see the cracks.

They’re small—delicate, almost invisible to anyone who doesn’t know her like I do. The way her fingers absentmindedly graze her temple, her eyes dulling for a second too long when someone says her name, the way her laugh doesn’t quite reach her eyes anymore.

She’s trying so hard to make it easier for everyone else. Like if she can just fake it well enough, we’ll all forget it ever happened. Like pretending she’s fine will make it true.

But I know better.

And it’s killing me.

I step out onto the back patio and see her curled up in the hammock. A book rests on her stomach, untouched, its pages unmoved by time or interest. Late afternoon sun on her face, eyes shut, skin glowing. She looks peaceful.

But I know she’s not.

There’s a stillness to her that doesn’t feel like rest. It feels like avoidance. Like she’s pressing pause on the world because playing it feels too overwhelming.

I walk towards her quietly, my steps soft on the timber decking. I don’t want to startle her, but part of me also doesn’t want to wake her from whatever pocket of stillness she’s created for herself. She cracks one eye open as I approach like she knew I was coming all along.

“You watching me sleep now?” she murmurs, her voice still laced with that dreamy, drowsy hush.

“Technically, you weren’t sleeping.”

“Technically, you’re a stalker.”

I smile and sit on the hammock, letting it sway gently beneath us. “You’re deflecting.”

She sighs and opens both eyes. The effort looks like it costs her more than she’ll admit. “Maybe.”

I don’t push. Not yet. I just let the quiet settle between us, the kind of silence that holds weight but not pressure. Birds chirp in the distance. Someone laughs inside the house—Yasmin, I think. The world keeps turning like nothing’s changed.

But everything’s changed.

And her fingers—God, her fingers—are gripping the edge of the hammock like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” I say softly.

She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even try.

“Nightmares?”

She nods, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not of the seizure. Just… everything. I wake up, and I have no idea where I am. Or I think I’m still in the lecture hall, and everyone’s staring at me. Or worse… I think I’m seizing, and I can’t stop it.”

My chest tightens. There’s a part of me that wants to rewind time. To unmake the moment her body betrayed her in front of all those people. But I can’t. And that’s the worst part. All I can do is hold her here, in this moment, and remind her that she’s not alone in it.

I reach out, brushing her hair back from her face. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips, and soft making my heart ache. “You’re safe.”

“I know. But it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

I want to make it feel like it. I want to build a world around her where safety isn’t just a word—it’s a feeling that wraps around her like a blanket. But I don’t say any of that. I just sit there, letting our breaths sync.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” I say, the words falling between us like a promise.

She shifts slightly, sitting up just enough to meet my eyes. “I know. I just… I hate being the broken one.”

God, that word. Broken.

It rattles around in my chest like a bullet.

“You’re not broken,” I say, and it comes out harder than I meant it to.

Her eyes widen, glossy with the kind of tears she doesn’t want me to see.

“What if I always need help? What if I can never drive again? What if I can’t have a normal life?”

“Then we adjust,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “We change the definition of normal.”

She lets out a shaky laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not. But it’s worth it. You’re worth it.” I mean every word. She is worth it, and I’ll remind her of that any chance I get.

She leans into me, her head resting against my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her like I can shield her from the world with just my body.

She sighs again, deeper this time like she’s letting go of something heavy. Like maybe—just maybe—she’s starting to believe me.

* * *

After I finish my workout in the gym, I come back into the house, and it feels full in a way that doesn’t overwhelm. Everyone’s doing their own thing—Ella and Arden are probably off somewhere bickering and flirting in equal measure. Yasmin and Chase are in the living room, mid-movie marathon. It’s everything that makes a house feel like a home.

I find Ally in her room. The door cracked open just enough to see her sitting cross-legged on her bed. A notebook rests in her lap, and she’s tapping a pen against her knee in that same rhythmic pattern she always does when she’s trying to drown out her thoughts.

“Studying?” I ask, stepping inside.

She shakes her head. “Journaling. Caleb said it might help.”

“Is it?”

“Maybe. A little.”

I sit down beside her. She doesn’t move away. Another small win.

“Can I read it?”

She smirks, eyes flickering with the faintest hint of mischief. “Absolutely not.”

“Didn’t think so.”

She closes the notebook gently like it holds fragile things inside. Secrets she’s not ready to speak aloud.

“What are you doing in here?” she asks, her voice softer now.

“Avoiding Chase’s movie commentary. And looking for you. Because you’ve been hiding from everyone since you got home.”

“I haven’t been hiding.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Okay. Maybe a little.”

I reach for her hand and thread our fingers together. Hers are cold. Mine are shaking a little. I don’t think she notices.

“You know we don’t care, right? We don’t think you’re weak. We just want you to be okay.”

She exhales, the sound catching in her throat. “It’s hard. Pretending I’m okay is easier than letting people see I’m not.”

I squeeze her hand. “Then stop pretending. At least with me.”

She nods, and for a moment, I see her—all of her. Raw and real and trying so damn hard to be okay.

We sit there like that for what feels like hours. The hum of the house fades around us, and it’s just us.

Breathing. Holding on.

And slowly, painfully, beautifully, I feel her come back to me.

Not all at once.

But piece by piece.

* * *

Later that evening, I find her on the back patio again, wrapped in one of my hoodies. Her legs are curled beneath her, and she’s staring out into the dark like it holds the answers she’s been searching for.

I bring her a mug of tea—no words, just warmth.

She smiles as she takes it. “You always know.”

“You’re not that hard to read, Ally.”

She sips the tea slowly. “I used to think I had to be. Had to stay two steps ahead so no one saw me unravelling.”

“You don’t have to do that here.”

“I know. But it’s hard to let go of habits.”

I sit beside her, the wooden boards creaking beneath us, and for once, the silence feels like healing instead of hiding.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“For what?”

“For staying. For being the person I didn’t know I needed.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.

I just take her hand in mine, our fingers fitting together like they were always meant to. Like maybe this isn’t the end of something, but the beginning.

And finally, she doesn’t pull away.

She holds on.

Tightly.

And I know—we’re going to be okay.

Together.