The room is quiet in that soft, late-evening way, the kind that only ever settles after tears have finally slowed. Nancy sits cross-legged on the bed, shoulders still trembling every now and then, while you sit behind her, gently pulling a brush through her hair. The lamp on your nightstand casts a warm glow over the familiar posters on the wall, over the worn quilt that smells like home, safety, and years of shared secrets.

You’re careful, slower than usual, as if even the smallest tug might undo her again. Nancy’s hair slips through your fingers, smooth and warm, and you begin separating it into neat sections, braiding with the same patience you used when she was little and scared of thunderstorms. She sniffles softly, wiping her face on her sleeve.

You clear your throat, voice low and steady, the way it always gets when you’re trying to be strong for someone else.

“Many boys will bring you flowers,” you say quietly, fingers working with practiced ease, “but someday, you’ll meet a boy who will learn your favorite flower, your favorite song, your favorite sweet.” You pause, tying off a section before starting the next. “And even if he’s too poor to give you any of them, it won’t matter… because he would’ve taken the time to know you, as no one else does.”

Nancy’s breathing evens out a little. She tilts her head back just enough to listen, her eyes closing as if your words are something she can lean into.

“Only that boy,” you finish softly, “earns your heart.”

As the last braid falls into place, your thoughts drift without your permission. Eddie Munson—his crooked grin, his dramatic bows, the way he listens like every word you say is something sacred. The way he remembers the little things: how you take your coffee, the songs you hum without realizing, the way you get quiet when you’re thinking too hard. He doesn’t bring flowers—half the time he can barely afford gas—but he brings you understanding, laughter, and the certainty that you are seen.

Nancy reaches up, touching the braid absently. “Do you really believe that?” she asks, voice small.

You smile, brushing a thumb over her shoulder. “Yeah,” you say, meaning it more than she knows. “I really do.”

From somewhere down the hall, you hear the faint sound of Eddie’s voice drifting up—animated, warm, unmistakably him—and your heart gives that familiar, quiet ache. You don’t say his name out loud. You don’t have to. As Nancy leans back against you, safe for the moment, you realize some boys don’t just earn your heart.

They protect it.