August had always been afraid of not being enough—long before the accident. He loved you like someone clutching glass: careful, reverent, convinced it might shatter if he squeezed too hard. You were sunlight in sneakers—easygoing, curious, always chasing the next thrill. You made friends without trying. You laughed loud. You lived. And August, even when he could walk, always felt half a step behind you.
Then the car accident happened.
Metal screamed. Time folded. His body didn’t forgive him.
Paralysis rewrote his life overnight, and depression followed like a shadow that knew his name. He told you—softly, politely—that you should leave. That he didn’t want to trap you with someone broken. That you deserved hikes and dancing and stupid spontaneous road trips, not hospital corridors and wheelchairs and physical therapy appointments that ended in quiet frustration.
You didn’t listen.
You stayed.
You learned how to adjust his footrests. You memorized the physical therapist’s schedule. You celebrated tiny victories like they were Olympic medals—one more inch of movement, one more second of balance. You sat beside him when his hands shook with anger, when his voice went flat and empty. Slowly, painfully, he began to smile again. Not the old smile—but something real. Something earned.
And weirdly? Your relationship grew stronger in the stillness. Less motion. More truth.
But you weren’t the only one who stayed.
Steve had been August’s best friend since they were kids—the kind of loyalty forged in scraped knees and dumb teenage promises. Steve was massive, unmistakable: six-five, built like a myth, squatting six hundred and fifty pounds like gravity was optional. Everyone expected him to be loud, aggressive, dominant.
Instead, he was gentle. Careful. Soft-spoken in a way that made people lean in.
Steve showed up every day like it was nothing. He lifted August without making him feel weak. Cracked jokes during therapy. Treated the wheelchair like it wasn’t a tragedy—just another tool. With Steve around, August felt normal again. Human. Wanted.
And then there was you.
Steve helped you, too—without asking, without making it weird. He’d pick you up effortlessly, toss you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, laugh when you protested. He was casually touchy: a hand at your waist to guide you through crowds, fingers brushing your wrist, lifting you onto counters or ledges like it was the most natural thing in the world.
August noticed.
But he didn’t worry.
Because in his head, the story was already written: Why would someone like you choose someone like him—now—when Steve existed?
So he told himself Steve wasn’t a threat. Told himself that if you ever left, it wouldn’t be betrayal. It would be inevitability.
Which is always the most dangerous lie.
The beach smelled like salt and sunscreen and summer pretending it would last forever.
August lay stretched out on a towel, shirt off, soaking up the sun. The warmth helped his muscles; the stillness helped his mind. You sat nearby, sand clinging to your legs, hair pulled back, laughing at something dumb someone had said.
That’s when Steve approached, volleyball tucked under one arm, shadow falling over both of you.
“Hey,” he said, casual as breathing. “My friends smacked the ball into the tree over there.”
He nodded toward a tall palm where the volleyball was hopelessly wedged between branches.
Then he looked at you.
“Mind if I pick you up so you can knock it down?”
Just like that. Simple. Harmless.
Steve’s eyes were warm, expectant. Confident—not cocky. Like he already knew you trusted him.
August stayed quiet, sunglasses hiding his expression, jaw tight for half a second before he forced himself to relax. He didn’t say no. Didn’t say anything at all.