Do I have proof she had a shit day? No, proof is subjective. But I’ve got instincts. Gut feelings. A creeping sort of ache in my chest that I’ve aptly named my Braelie sense.

She barely looked at me during lunch. Didn’t laugh at Hunter’s dumb impressions of Matthews. Skipped last class and sent one text—“home.” No smiley face. No sparkles.

Just “home.”

So yeah. That’s all the permission I need.

Nathan and Sally are out at some work thing in Georgia with Isaac, which meant sneaking out to see her was free game.

I scale the drainpipe of her family’s house like a seasoned criminal (which I am not, for the record), land soft on her windowsill, and knock once before sliding it open.

Her room’s dark.

Curtains drawn. One dim lava lamp on. She’s curled up in bed, laptop balanced on her knees, blanket pulled halfway over her head like a fort. Avril Lavigne’s voice bleeds out the speakers—“I’m with you” echoing.

Right. We’re in the trenches tonight.

“You dying in here or just emotionally regressing to 6th grade?” I say, climbing inside and toeing off my shoes.

She doesn’t answer. Just blinks at me, wide-eyed. The fuck is she so surprised for? I’ve don’t this. exact thing ten times before.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I reach for the blanket, and she lets me pull it down just enough to see her face. Pink-nosed. Hair a mess. Eyes heavy like she’s been crying.

“Didn’t want to talk about it,” she murmurs.

“Didn’t ask.”

She snorts. Barely.

I crawl in beside her. Laptop goes somewhere on her bed. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even flinch when I wrap an arm around her waist and drag her against me like she’s mine to keep.

Because she is.

Not out loud.

But she is.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” I say, pressing my face into her hair. “But you do have to let me stay.”