It hits him out of nowhere.

You’re talking—about the future, about something small—and Tate goes still, expression emptying like someone pulled the plug. He stares at his hands for a long moment.

“I’m never getting older,” he says flatly.

Not dramatic. Just factual. “Everyone else gets to move on. Change. Mess up and grow out of it.” A humorless breath slips out. “I’m stuck like this. Seventeen. Forever.”

He looks at you, eyes dark with something like grief. “I don’t even know who I’d be if I got the chance.”

For the first time, he looks small—not dangerous, not haunted. Just tired.

“Promise you won’t forget me like everyone else eventually does?”