It slipped out before you could stop it.

You were talking—rambling, really—about the Blossom family, about expectations, about how Cheryl carried the weight of things no one else ever seemed to notice.

“And after Jason—”

The room went silent.

Cheryl froze.

Not dramatic. Not angry. Just… gone.

Her eyes lost focus, posture stiffening like she’d been pulled out of her body. She stared straight ahead, lips pressed together so tightly they turned pale.

“Cheryl,” you said gently.

No response.

“I didn’t mean—”

She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “I’m fine,” she said flatly. “I need a moment.”

She didn’t look at you as she moved toward the door, each step too controlled, too perfect—like if she allowed even one crack, she’d shatter completely.

Before she could leave, you reached for her wrist.

She flinched.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Her breath hitched, barely audible. “Everyone says his name like it’s just a word,” she whispered. “Like it doesn’t echo.”

Your chest tightened.

Without another word, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around her—firm, grounding, unyielding. Not asking permission. Not letting go.

At first, she resisted. Her hands hovered uselessly at your sides, body rigid with practiced control.

Then she broke.

She grabbed you like you were the only solid thing in the room, burying her face into your shoulder, breathing uneven.

“I miss him,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I hate that I still miss him.”