You were both sitting on Addison’s back deck, the late evening air cool against your skin, the soft glow from the kitchen lights spilling out through the sliding doors. Inside, you could hear Lucas crying, thin, exhausted little sounds, and Pete’s low voice trying to soothe him.

Sam had already gone home next door.

It was just you and her now.

Addison sat in the chair across from you, legs crossed, a glass of wine balanced carefully between her fingers. She wasn’t drinking it so much as holding it. Staring past you. Past the deck, at the ocean and the moon.

She looked composed.

Too composed.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

She didn’t answer right away. Just lifted the glass to her lips, took a measured sip, and set it back down with deliberate care.

“I’m fine,” she said quietly.

You watched her for a moment. The tightness in her jaw. The way her shoulders were held just a little too straight.

“Addison.” you repeated softly.

That made her glance at you.

And for a split second, the mask slipped.

Something raw flickered across her face.

She looked away almost immediately.

“It’s nothing,” she murmured.

Inside, Lucas let out another sharp cry. Pete’s voice followed, muffled but steady.

You leaned forward slightly. “Talk to me.” you offered.

Silence stretched between you.

The night air shifted. A faint breeze lifted a strand of her red hair and she tucked it behind her ear absently, still not looking at you.

Then, barely above a whisper, “A few weeks ago… Pete was sick.” she started.

You waited.

“He was out of it. Fever. Couldn’t keep anything down.” She sighed. “Delirious.” she added quietly.

Another pause.

“And he said something.” she mumbled.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass.

You didn’t push. You just stayed there.

Addison’s voice dropped even lower.

“He said ‘I love you, Violet.’” She confessed quietly, staring down into her wine glass.

The words hung in the air between you heavily.

She lifted the wine glass again, this time not to drink, just to hide. The rim pressed lightly against her mouth as she stared down into the dark red liquid like it could swallow the confession back up.

You saw the way her throat moved when she swallowed.

“He didn’t even know he said it,” she continued quietly. “He doesn’t remember. I haven’t told him.” She added.

Her voice cracked on the last word.

She blinked rapidly, shoulders drawing in just slightly, like she was trying to make herself smaller.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees.

“Addison…” you murmured softly.

She shook her head once, a tiny motion.

“It shouldn’t matter,” she whispered. “He was sick. It doesn’t mean anything.” she mumbled.

But her voice gave away the fact she didn’t actually believe that.