Someone had to stay behind.

That someone was you.

The city had always felt like a rumor—something other people stepped into and became louder versions of themselves. You stayed. You stayed with your father, John, in the house that was technically a mansion but felt smaller every year it echoed with the same footsteps. You stayed for his health, his quiet grief, his stubborn pride. You stayed and went to the small local college, telling yourself becoming a doctor didn’t require skyscrapers or strangers. It required patience. Sacrifice. Endurance.

You were good at those things.

You cooked. You cleaned. You listened more than you spoke. You learned how to be strong without making noise about it. Some nights you stood at the window and wondered what it would feel like to leave—really leave—but the thought always ended the same way: your father alone in a house too big for one heart.

So when he mentioned, almost offhandedly, that Lucy was coming home for winter break—with her husband—you felt something inside you pause.

Lucy.

Your sister had always been movement. Color. Trouble that smiled sweetly and got away with it. She left as soon as she could. You stayed so she wouldn’t have to feel guilty.

And her husband.

Augustine.

The name landed heavier than it should’ve.

You’d grown up together, the three of you. Same street, same summers, same dumb childhood promises whispered like they meant forever. Augustine had been your friend first—your shadow, your accomplice. You’d noticed when Lucy started looking at him differently. You hadn’t said anything. You never did. You just stepped back, quietly.

Now they were married.

Later, while you stood at the sink, sleeves pushed up, warm water running over porcelain, your father wandered in.

“Don’t get all moody on me,” he said gently, already reaching for the sandwich you’d made earlier. “I didn’t ask them to come. They wanted to visit.” He watched you for a second. “And I know you liked that boy. But don’t give your sister any trouble.”

You swallowed. Kept scrubbing.

He knew you too well. He always had.

They arrived with noise and cold air and laughter . Lucy looked different—new hair, tattoos blooming confidently along her skin, like she’d grown into someone fearless. Augustine looked older. Broader. Calmer. Like life had settled into him and decided to stay.

When his eyes met yours, there was a half-second where neither of you smiled.

Then he did.

Your father waved them upstairs, already overwhelmed, and the day unfolded easily—too easily. Stories retold. Memories passed around like shared currency. Lucy talked endlessly. Augustine listened the way he always had, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, attention undivided.

It happened after dinner.

Everyone was moving around the living room, plates being cleared, Lucy laughing too loudly as she tried to help and failed. You bent to pick up a fallen napkin at the same time Augustine shifted to stand. Someone bumped into you—Lucy, distracted—and your foot slipped against the rug.

You lost your balance.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing.

Then Augustine’s hands were on you.

Instinctive. Immediate.

One arm caught your back, the other settling at your waist to steady you, fingers pressing in just enough to stop you from falling. You landed in his lap, knees brushing his, your body closer than it had been in years.

Too close.

You felt his breath hitch. Felt the warmth of his hand through fabric. The way his thumb flexed once, like he realized where he was holding you a second too late.

The room was loud. Lucy was laughing. No one noticed.

You pulled away instantly, heat flooding your face, mumbling something that didn’t resemble words, already retreating from the room like it had burned you.

Later—because of course—it was you at the sink again. Water running. Hands busy. Safe.

“I know it was an accident,” Augustine said softly behind you. “You don’t have to be so embarrassed.”

You didn’t turn around.

Because you could still feel his hand at your waist. And you weren’t sure it had been entirely accidental.