Ben took the joint when she offered it, slow and deliberate, like he was making sure the moment stayed exactly what it was. Their fingers brushed again—light, familiar—and he didn’t pretend not to feel it. He just didn’t grab for more.

He listened to her talk about merch and irony and overthinking dog walks with that soft, crooked attention he always gave her when she was teasing him into honesty. A corner of his mouth lifted.

“You say that like it wouldn’t absolutely destroy me to have a dog look at me like I’m the most important thing in the room,” he said. “I’d be insufferable. I’d start scheduling my life around walks. Whole personality shift.”

He took a small drag, exhaled to the side, smoke slipping easily into the dark.

“And yeah,” he added, “I’d complain about the merch. Loudly. While refreshing the sales page.”

When her tone shifted—when she asked about the tour, really asked—he felt it immediately. The way she didn’t look at him at first. The way the question wasn’t about logistics but about survival.

He leaned back against the fence, mirroring her again without thinking about it, and stared out at the yard for a second before answering. Not avoiding. Just choosing.

“It’s… good,” he said finally. Honest, but not polished. “Big rooms, yeah. Loud crowds. Everyone very enthusiastic, like you guessed.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. Not bitter. Just aware.

“Some nights it feels unreal in the best way. Like—wow, this thing I love is holding me up.” He paused, thumb rubbing absentmindedly at the filter. “Other nights it’s just… noise. A lot of people wanting something at me instead of with me.”

He glanced sideways at her then, catching her watching him the way she always had—like she was listening for what lived underneath the words.

“I’m okay,” he said, quieter now. “I come back to myself. Usually in the van. Sometimes in hotel rooms that all look the same. Sometimes when I get home and everything’s too quiet.”

A beat.

“And sometimes,” he added lightly, “in backyards where I don’t have to be on.”

He tipped the joint back toward her, not rushing her to take it, just keeping the rhythm between them intact.

“You’re right about the attention thing,” he said. “It doesn’t land where people think it does. It’s loud, but it’s not… grounding.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

“This is grounding,” he said simply. “You asking if I’m okay and actually meaning me, not the version of me that shows up onstage.”

Another breath. The cicadas filled the space he didn’t.

“And yeah,” he added, the humor slipping back in just enough to keep it from getting too heavy, “cotton mouth absolutely ruins the mystique. You’ve got this whole brooding thing going and then suddenly you’re like, ‘Anyway, I need a beverage.’ Tragic.”

He smiled at her—not big, not performative. Just that familiar, quiet one she knew meant he was still himself.

“I’ll get you a drink in a minute,” he said. “Let the mystery live a little longer.”

He stayed where he was. Shoulder warm against hers. Joint between them. Night holding.

Still not claiming.

Still caring.

Still very much here.

Cleo listened the way she always did when he was half-joking his way toward something real, letting the words pass through her before she decided where to set them down.

At the dog comment, she shook her head, a smile tugging despite her best effort not to let it. She could already see it—him reorganizing his days around walks, talking about routines like they were sacred, letting something uncomplicated anchor him. The thought warmed her more than she expected.

“You would be unbearable,” she said. “You’d start saying he needs consistency and mean it. I’d get updates like it was a shared custody situation.”

She glanced at him then, softer. “You’d love being loved like that.”

When he talked about the merch, she let out a quiet huff. She knew that part of him too—the part that pretended it was about quality or principle when really it was about meaning, about whether the wanting translated into care.

“I know,” she said. “You’d pretend it was about quality control, but really you’d just want to know people cared enough to want it.”

Her expression shifted when his tone did. She stayed quiet through the tour talk, eyes on the yard, giving him room to finish without interruption. She could feel the weight of it even without looking at him—the way success both buoyed and hollowed him, the way noise filled space without ever holding him.

“That makes sense,” she said finally. “Both parts of it.”

At people wanting something at me instead of with me, something tight and familiar moved through her chest. That had always been her fear—not the women, not the attention, but the erosion that came from being consumed instead of known.

“That part always worried me,” she admitted. “Being wanted without being known.”

When he said I’m okay, she nodded once. She believed him—not blindly, but because he’d learned how to tell the truth without dressing it up.

“I’m glad you can come back to yourself,” she said. “However it happens.”

At the van comment, she hummed. Liminal spaces. Places without expectations. She’d always understood why those mattered to him, even when she couldn’t always follow him into them.

“Liminal spaces,” she said. “They don’t ask you to perform.”

Hotel rooms earned a small, knowing exhale. She’d never liked them—how they flattened people, how they stole context and made every night feel the same.

“Those places erase context,” she said. “You have to work to remember who you are in them.”

Then he said backyards where I don’t have to be on, and that’s where she stopped drifting.

Her gaze lifted to him fully, attention sharpening—not alarmed, just suddenly very present. Something in her eased at the thought of him still having places like this, places that didn’t demand or consume him, places where he didn’t have to trade pieces of himself to belong.

“That,” she said quietly, “is the part I’m relieved about.”

She let the silence hold it. Let him feel it without her spelling it out.

“I like knowing you still have places where you don’t have to earn your presence,” she added. “Where you can just… be a person.”

When he talked about attention not being grounding, she nodded. She’d lived adjacent to that truth long enough to know how often people mistook volume for substance.

“Attention is noise,” she said. “Care is weight. People mix them up.”

At this is grounding, she held his gaze. She felt the tenderness of it—the way being seen without being consumed still mattered to her, even now, even after everything.

“I do mean you,” she said. “The one standing here. Not the one people clap for.”

The cotton mouth comment got a soft eye roll, the humor welcome, a release valve.

“It’s tragic,” she agreed. “Entire persona undone by dehydration.”

When he said he’d get her a drink, she smiled—but she shook her head gently. Not because she didn’t appreciate the instinct, but because she didn’t want him carrying obligations that no longer belonged to him.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I have legs. I can walk into the house.”

She felt the importance of saying it kindly, of letting it land as freedom instead of distance.

“You don’t owe me things anymore,” she added, softer. “And I don’t need you to prove anything.”

There was relief in naming that, even if she didn’t say the rest—the part where she was proud of him for learning how to stay without overreaching, for standing where he was allowed instead of trying to earn more space.

“But,” she admitted, almost amused, “I probably am going to get one in a minute.”

She leaned back against the fence again, shoulder still warm against his. The familiarity didn’t scare her. It didn’t pull at her boundaries. It just existed.

“And for what it’s worth,” she said, quieter now, “I’m glad you still know where you’re wanted when you step offstage.”

Ben felt that last line settle somewhere low and steady in his chest—not sharp, not overwhelming. Just… real. The kind of real you didn’t brace against. The kind you let live there.

He didn’t rush to answer. Didn’t crack a joke immediately, even though the instinct was there, hovering. He stayed leaned against the fence, shoulder still touching hers, eyes tipped toward the string lights like he was giving the moment its due.

When he did speak, his voice was quiet. Grounded.

“Yeah,” he said. “That part matters more than I let on.”

He turned his head slightly—not fully, not enough to crowd her—but enough to meet her in the space she’d opened.

“Being wanted,” he went on, thoughtful, “is easy. It just… happens. Half the time it doesn’t even feel like it’s about me.” A beat. “But knowing where I’m wanted—where I don’t have to perform or translate myself—that’s different.”

He exhaled through his nose, something almost like a laugh but not quite.

“And it’s rarer.”

Her earlier teasing about the dog came back to him then, softening the edges again the way it always did when things got close to saying too much.

“For the record,” he added lightly, “if I ever do get a dog, I promise not to turn it into a co-parenting situation. I’ll keep the updates to a reasonable minimum.”

A pause.

“…Okay, that’s a lie. You’d get photos.”

But he didn’t linger on the joke. Let it do what it was meant to do—ease, not evade.

When she said he didn’t owe her things anymore, something in him loosened. Not because he’d felt trapped—but because hearing it out loud made the freedom real in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

“I know,” he said. And he meant it. “And I appreciate you saying it anyway.”

He shifted just enough to look at her properly now, eyes steady, unguarded.

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, matching her quiet, “it means something that I don’t have to earn space with you. That I can just… show up and be seen for who I am, not what I’m doing.”

The yard stayed still around them. Cicadas. Vinyl hum. The soft murmur of life continuing without asking them to participate.

When she admitted she’d probably get a drink in a minute, he smiled—fond, familiar.

“Yeah,” he said. “Hydration is important. Can’t have you undoing your whole mysterious vibe.”

He didn’t move to follow her. Didn’t anticipate. Let the choice stay hers.

Instead, he stayed where he was, shoulder still warm against hers, presence easy and unclaimed.

“And, Cleo?” he added, not urgent, not heavy—just honest.

“I’m glad you’re someone I can step offstage around too.”

He let the quiet take it from there.

No promises.

No reaching.

Just the shared understanding that some connections didn’t need to be named to be real—and didn’t need to be claimed to be kept.

Cleo felt his words settle the same way they always did when he let himself be plain about things—no performance, no deflection. It wasn’t a rush or a pull. It was steadier than that. Something that didn’t demand a reaction, just acknowledgment.

She stayed where she was for a moment longer, shoulder still against his, letting the quiet stretch without trying to shape it. There was relief in hearing him name the difference between being wanted and knowing where you were wanted. Relief, and a small ache she didn’t push away. She’d lived most of her adult life building places where she didn’t have to explain herself, and hearing him say he was learning how to recognize those places for himself felt… right. Earned. Like something that hadn’t existed before because it couldn’t have.

When he met her in the space she’d opened, she didn’t step back. She felt the steadiness of him there, the way he wasn’t trying to close the distance or widen it. Just standing inside it honestly. That mattered more than she would ever say out loud.

“Yeah,” she said quietly when he talked about knowing where he was wanted. “It is different.”

She thought about how often people mistook access for intimacy. How many times she’d watched him be welcomed everywhere and still feel alone in it. The fact that he could articulate that now—without bitterness, without bravado—told her he was still himself under all of it. Still paying attention.

At the dog comment, she smiled again, softer this time. She pictured the photos he absolutely would send, the way he’d pretend not to care how often she responded while secretly clocking every reply. The image made something warm and familiar settle in her chest, uncomplicated and fond.

“I’d expect nothing less,” she said. “And I’d complain about it while saving every single one.”

When he said he knew he didn’t owe her things anymore—and thanked her for saying it anyway—she felt something loosen that she hadn’t realized she was still holding. Not resentment. Habit. Old reflexes that took time to unlearn even when you knew better. Hearing him accept the boundary without flinching, without interpreting it as distance, made the space between them feel safer instead of wider.

She turned her head toward him when he said he didn’t have to earn space with her. Met his eyes. There was no sadness there. Just clarity. Care that had learned how to exist without possession.

“That’s kind of the point,” she said. “If you have to earn it, it’s not rest.”

When he mentioned hydration and her mysterious vibe, she scoffed lightly, amused despite herself.

“Please,” she said. “The vibe is fragile. One dry throat and it’s gone forever.”

And then he said her name.

She felt it—not like a jolt, not like a pull. Just recognition. When he told her he was glad he could step offstage around her, something in her chest softened all the way through. Not in a way that made her want more. In a way that made her grateful for what already existed.

“I’m glad you still know how to do that,” she said. “Step off, I mean.”

She let the silence take that too. Let it live where it belonged, between them, without asking it to carry anything else.

Then she shifted her weight, finally breaking contact. Not abruptly. Just naturally. She straightened, brushed her hands together once like she was shaking off the moment rather than leaving it behind.

“I’m going to get that drink,” she said. “Before my mouth completely betrays me.”

She started toward the house, then glanced back over her shoulder, a grin breaking through—easy, unguarded, unmistakably hers.

“C’mon,” she added. “Sneak in with me before someone ropes us into a conversation we don’t want.”

And then she turned, heading toward the glow of the kitchen light, carrying the quiet with her—not away from him, just forward.

Ben watched her break the contact the way you watch something familiar change shape—not with alarm, not with loss. Just attention. The way she did it mattered: unhurried, intentional, like she was carrying the moment with her instead of leaving it behind.

When she invited him—c’mon—something in him eased further, the decision already made before he nodded. He followed a half step behind her toward the house, letting her lead the way the same way he always had when it counted.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, falling into stride beside her. “I’m not built for surprise conversations. Or small talk. Or… talk.”

As they reached the edge of the light spilling from the kitchen, he slowed just enough to catch her glance, his voice dropping again—not heavier, just sincere.

“And hey,” he added, a small smile tugging at his mouth, “thanks for not making stepping offstage feel like something I have to earn back.”

He held the door open for her—not chivalrous, not pointed. Just habit. Familiar. Easy.

“Besides,” he went on lightly as they slipped inside, “if someone tries to corner us, we can always pretend we’re in the middle of something very important. Like arguing about hydration.”

He glanced at her, amused, fond.

“Or dogs I don’t have.”

The kitchen hummed—low voices, clinking glass, the easy chaos of a house that knew how to hold people without demanding anything from them. Ben stayed close but not crowded, letting her take the lead again as they crossed the threshold.

Still here.

Still choosing.

Still exactly where she’d asked him to be—moving forward with her, not chasing, not pulling.

Just walking into the light together, quiet intact.

Cleo felt the shift the second they crossed into the kitchen—the low buzz of voices, the awareness of being seen again, of existing in a room where people might ask questions she didn’t feel like answering. It wasn’t crowded. Just populated enough. Enough eyes. Enough familiarity to be exhausting in a different way.

She didn’t tense. She just adjusted.

Moving through the space came easily to her. This house still knew her. The cabinets, the counter corners, the way the fridge door stuck if you didn’t lift it just right—muscle memory took over where social energy ran thin.

She didn’t announce herself. Didn’t apologize. She reached for what she wanted with the quiet confidence of someone who had grown up here.

One hand scooped up two already-open bags of chips from the counter—no plates, no ceremony. With the other, she opened the fridge, fingers closing around the necks of two beers without looking. She didn’t check labels. It didn’t matter. Cold mattered.

She glanced back once, just enough to make sure he was still there—not following too closely, not hanging back either. Exactly where she’d expected him to be.

“Hide with me,” she murmured, barely audible, already turning.

She didn’t wait for agreement. She slipped down the hall, past framed photos and a crooked light switch that had never quite worked, past the bathroom that still smelled faintly like lavender cleaner. Her childhood bedroom waited at the end like it always had—unchanged, preserved in amber because her parents believed memory was something you kept, not something you updated.

The door creaked softly as she pushed it open with her shoulder.

Her teenage room was exactly as she’d left it: the same mismatched posters, the same shelves cluttered with sketchbooks and half-used paint tubes, the same faded quilt on the bed. Even the dent in the carpet where she used to sit cross-legged still lingered, stubborn and familiar.

Cleo set the chips down on her desk, twisted the caps off the beers with practiced ease, and handed one to him without comment. No ceremony. Just inclusion.

She leaned back against the edge of the desk, exhaled, and felt her shoulders drop for the first time since they’d stepped inside.

“This feels safer,” she said quietly—not defensive, not apologetic. Just honest.

She took a sip, eyes drifting around the room like she was reacquainting herself with an old friend.

“Sorry,” she added after a beat, glancing at him, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “I get antisocial in places where people remember too much.”

She paused, then corrected herself internally.
Or where things could get complicated.

Still, she stayed there. Beer cold in her hand. Chips within reach. One of her favorite people standing in a room that had once taught her how to be herself.

Blurry lines or not—this, at least, felt solid.

Ben felt the shift too—the moment the kitchen reclaimed him, the low hum of voices and recognition, the way a room full of family had its own gravity. Not hostile. Just… watchful. The kind of space that knew where you fit even if you didn’t feel like proving it.

He kept his hands loose. Let Cleo lead.

As she moved through the kitchen, he clocked the choreography of it—how naturally she navigated the counters, the fridge, the familiar resistance of things that hadn’t changed. It was muscle memory, sure, but it was also authority. This was still her house in ways no one questioned.

He stayed where she expected him to be. Not crowding. Not drifting.

And then—just before she turned down the hallway—his gaze flicked up.

Phoebe and Jax were in the living room, settled into each other like they always were. Familiar, easy, unselfconscious. Jax looked up at the same moment, eyes meeting Ben’s across the room for half a second.

No nod.
No smirk.
No comment.

Just a quiet acknowledgment—yeah, I see it too—and then Jax’s attention went right back to Phoebe, like the moment had already done its job.

Ben didn’t linger on it. Didn’t need to. He followed Cleo down the hall, the noise falling away with every step, replaced by framed memories and that faint, lavender-cleaned quiet that only childhood homes ever held.

When she handed him the beer, he took it easily, fingers brushing hers in a way that felt unremarkable and grounding at the same time. He leaned back against the wall opposite her, one shoulder grazing the doorframe, the other relaxed.

“This feels safer,” she said.

He nodded once, immediate. No questions.

“Yeah,” he replied quietly. “It does.”

He took a sip, let the cold cut through the leftover noise in his head. Let his eyes wander the room—the posters, the dent in the carpet, the version of Cleo preserved in things she’d once loved fiercely. It felt like being trusted with context.

At her apology, he huffed a soft laugh and shook his head.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said. “Family parties have a way of turning everyone into a version of themselves they outgrew.”

He glanced at her then, expression open, unbothered.

“And for what it’s worth,” he added, lifting the bottle slightly, “I’m always pro strategic hiding. Especially when snacks are involved.”

He stayed where he was. Didn’t pace. Didn’t fill the quiet.

Just there—beer cold in his hand, noise far enough away to breathe, standing in a room that had once taught her who she was, letting that be enough for both of them right now.

Cleo felt the safety of the room settle the second she said it. This feels safer. Not because the noise was gone entirely, but because here she didn’t have to manage it. The walls already knew her. The floor had held her weight through years of becoming someone else and then circling back again.

When he agreed so easily—Yeah. It does.—she felt something in her chest ease. No pushback. No humor to deflect it. Just a shared understanding that this space didn’t ask for explanations.

She nodded once, almost to herself, then let her attention drift as he looked around. Watching him take in the posters, the worn edges of things she’d loved hard once, stirred something quiet and complicated in her. It felt like letting someone see an old version of her without flinching. Like trust, stripped of ceremony.

At his reassurance—You don’t have to be sorry—she exhaled slowly. She hadn’t realized she’d been bracing for that, for the possibility that she’d need to justify wanting to disappear. The fact that she didn’t—that he understood instinctively—settled her further into herself.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned toward the bookshelves, drawn there the way she always was when the room started to feel too full of memory and relief at the same time.

Her fingers moved along the spines, familiar as breath. Old paperbacks. Art books. The places where she’d hidden parts of herself long before she knew that was what she was doing. She pulled out a sketch pad halfway down the shelf, the cover soft with age, corners bent from being shoved into backpacks and pulled out late at night.

She glanced back at him once, not to check permission—just to anchor the moment—then lowered herself to the floor, sitting cross-legged like she used to. She set the beer carefully on the edge of the bookcase beside her, making sure it was steady before opening the sketch pad on her lap.

At family parties, she gave a small, knowing huff of a laugh, eyes still on the page as she flipped past old drawings—faces half-finished, margins crowded with notes she didn’t remember writing but recognized instantly.

“They really do,” she said quietly. “It’s like muscle memory, but emotional.”

When he mentioned strategic hiding, her mouth curved again, softer this time.

“I learned early,” she replied. “If you disappear with purpose, people assume you’re doing something important and leave you alone.”

She rested her forearms on her knees, sketch pad open but untouched for the moment. Being on the floor felt grounding in a way standing never quite did. The familiar posture, the familiar weight of the pad, the beer within reach—it all stitched her back together in small, steady ways.

She didn’t feel the need to fill the quiet. Didn’t feel watched. Just… accompanied.

This—him leaning against the doorframe, her on the floor with an old sketch pad, the house humming softly around them—felt like something she could stay inside for a while.

Even if the lines were still blurry.

Especially because they were.

Cleo flipped a few more pages before stopping, her thumb catching on one where the graphite had smudged into the margin from overhandling. She studied it for a second longer than necessary, the way you look at something familiar not because it’s impressive, but because it’s yours.

She shifted on the floor, scooting back until her shoulder brushed the side of the bed, grounding herself there. Then she lifted the sketch pad slightly and angled it outward—not offering it up to be taken, not pushing it into his space. Just opening it.

An invitation, not a handoff.

She glanced up at him, expression easy but measured, like she already knew how vulnerable the ask was and had decided to do it anyway.

“Want to see?” she said, tone light, almost casual.

She tapped the edge of the page with her finger, eyes dropping back down as if to soften the moment.

“I think these are from, like… middle school,” she added. There was a faint, self-aware curve to her mouth. “So they’re technically better than the ones before them.”

A beat.

“But,” she went on, quieter now, honest without dressing it up, “nowhere near where I am now.”

She didn’t apologize for that. Didn’t rush to explain what now meant. She just held the sketch pad there between them, open and imperfect, trusting him not to make it something it wasn’t.

The room stayed quiet.
The music hummed low.
And Cleo waited—not tensely, not expectantly.

Just present.

Ben didn’t move right away.

Not because he was hesitant—but because the way she offered it mattered. The angle of the sketch pad. The fact that she stayed seated, grounded, didn’t hand it to him like something to be evaluated or earned approval for. Just… opened it. Let it exist between them.

He shifted his weight off the doorframe and crouched instead, lowering himself so he wasn’t looming, so he was closer to her eye line without crowding her space. One knee bent, one foot flat on the carpet, beer forgotten for the moment in his hand.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’d like to.”

He leaned just enough to see—careful, intentional—eyes tracking the page the way he tracked everything that mattered to him. Slowly. With respect. He didn’t comment right away. Let the drawings speak first. Let her feel that he was looking, not skimming.

There was something earnest about them. Unpolished. Curious. The kind of work that hadn’t learned to protect itself yet.

He huffed a small breath—not a laugh, not teasing.

“These are good,” he said, and it wasn’t the kind of good people used to smooth things over. It was specific. Considered. “Like… you can tell you were already paying attention. Not just copying what you saw, but trying to understand it.”

He tipped his head, eyes still on the page.

“I mean, yeah,” he added lightly, “middle school is a deeply humbling era for everyone. Across all mediums. But this?” He lifted his brows slightly. “There’s intention here. You didn’t grow into this out of nowhere.”

When she said nowhere near where I am now, he glanced up at her—not startled, not sentimental. Just present.

“That makes sense,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to be there yet.”

He leaned his forearm against his knee, relaxed, grounded in the room the same way she was.

“But it’s kind of incredible,” he went on, quieter now, “seeing the early version of something you already take seriously. Before it knew it had to explain itself. Or be good on purpose.”

His mouth curved—not a grin, not performative. Just warm.

“I like that you kept this,” he said. “A lot of people get embarrassed by their early stuff. Try to erase it. You didn’t.”

He gestured subtly toward the sketch pad, careful not to touch it unless she invited him to.

“It’s like proof you were already becoming yourself. Just… with worse proportions.”

A beat—then softer, truer:

“Thanks for showing me.”

He stayed where he was. Didn’t ask to turn the page. Didn’t reach.

Just let the invitation remain what it was—shared space, not possession.

The house hummed on around them, the past and present coexisting quietly in the room, and Ben stayed exactly there—grounded, attentive, not asking the moment to be anything other than what it already was.

Cleo listened to him the way she always did when he spoke like this—not filling the quiet, not rushing to deflect. She felt the steadiness of his attention more than the words themselves, the care he took not to turn the moment into something evaluative. That mattered. More than praise ever did.

She glanced down at the page again, seeing it now through his eyes—less embarrassing than she usually let herself remember, more intentional than she’d given that version of herself credit for. His comment about paying attention landed gently, loosening something in her chest she hadn’t realized was still held tight.

“Yeah,” she said softly, thoughtful. “That part… I get from my mom.”

She shifted the sketch pad slightly on her lap, angling it so the spine rested more comfortably against her knee.

“She’s always been like that,” Cleo went on. “Not loud about it. Just observant. She sees things and then sits with them until they make sense to her.” A pause. “She taught me that if you’re going to make something, you should understand why it exists first.”

His comment about intention made her nod, slow and small.

“I didn’t know that’s what I was doing back then,” she admitted. “I just liked figuring out how things worked. Faces. Light. Why something felt off even when it looked right.”

When he said she hadn’t grown into it out of nowhere, she exhaled quietly. Not defensive. Relieved. It felt good to have someone recognize continuity instead of treating growth like magic.

“And the music part,” she added, almost as an aside, “that’s my dad. Completely.”

Her mouth curved faintly at the thought.

“He can’t sit in silence. Ever. There was always something playing in the house—records, tapes, whatever he could get his hands on. He didn’t care if I understood it. He just wanted me to feel it.” She glanced up at Ben briefly. “I think that’s where I learned how to listen before I knew how to explain.”

At his comment about keeping things—about not erasing early versions—she smiled again, softer this time.

“That wasn’t me being brave,” she said. “That was my mom refusing to let go of anything she thought mattered.”

She tipped her head toward the door, toward the rest of the house.

“There are… over twenty paintings in the garage,” she added. “Canvases stacked against the wall. Some finished, some half-done. She won’t let anyone touch them.”

Her tone wasn’t embarrassed. Just fond. Familiar.

“They’re not hoarders,” she clarified, because that distinction mattered to her. “They just keep the things that mean something. Art. Music. Letters. Stuff with fingerprints on it.”

She looked back down at the sketch pad, fingers resting lightly on the page.

“I think growing up around that made it harder to throw pieces of myself away,” she said. “Even the awkward ones.”

When he thanked her—thanks for showing me—she felt the weight of it, quiet and sincere. She didn’t rush past it.

“Thanks for looking the way you did,” she replied. “Most people just flip pages.”

She held the sketch pad there a moment longer, then turned the page herself—slow, deliberate—inviting him to keep sitting in it with her.

Not performing.
Not proving.

Just sharing where she came from, and trusting him to understand why it mattered.

Cleo let the page settle, the paper making that soft, familiar sound as it landed. She didn’t rush to turn another. She didn’t rush to fill the space either.

What struck her—quietly, almost unfairly—was how easy this still felt.

Not effortless in a careless way. Easy in the way something well-worn fits back into your hands without instruction. Talking to him didn’t require rehearsal or translation. She didn’t have to brace for misunderstanding or soften herself into something palatable. The words just… showed up. Fully formed. Honest. Like they’d been waiting for him specifically.

That scared her a little.

She was aware of her body before she was aware of the thought—how she’d angled herself toward him without realizing it, how her shoulders stayed loose instead of curled inward, how the instinct to share didn’t trip any of the alarms she’d built over the years. She’d learned how to be careful. She’d learned how to protect her quiet. And still—here she was, opening old drawers and letting him see what she kept inside them.

It would have been easier if it felt strained. If conversation had required effort. If she had to work to remember how to speak to him.

But she didn’t.

The pull was still there too—low and constant, like a current she pretended not to notice until it nudged her off balance. It wasn’t just physical, though her awareness of him was immediate and unignorable. It was the way he paid attention without consuming, the way he made space instead of claiming it. The way he looked at her work—her past—like it mattered simply because it was hers.

She hated how much that still got to her.

Cleo had built a life where she didn’t rely on anyone to see her clearly. She was proud of that. Proud of the boundaries, the clarity, the way she’dI chose herself when it counted.

But sitting on the floor of her childhood bedroom, sketch pad open between them, she had to admit something she rarely let herself name:

It wasn’t that loving him had been hard to stop.

It was that being understood by him had never been hard at all.

And that was the part that lingered.

She didn’t say any of it out loud. She just rested her hand on the edge of the sketch pad, grounding herself in the present, in the reality of where they were and who they were now.

Still—she let herself feel it.

The ease.
The familiarity.
The pull she hadn’t outrun so much as learned to live beside.

And for the moment, that was enough.