It had been months of small victories.

At first, it was just coaxing her into finishing meals, sitting beside her with stupid jokes until she laughed instead of pushing food away. Then, slowly, the tide turned. She began eating more. Smiling more. Her cheeks flushed with color, her eyes brighter than you’d ever seen them. She started looking at herself in mirrors without wincing, walking with her head held a little higher.

And God, Katie Wilmot glowed.

Every time you took her out—rides along the coast on your bike, late-night ice cream runs, surprise trips to the beach—she seemed lighter. You’d tease her into peeling off her cardigan, daring her to flaunt her body, to let the sea breeze kiss her bare shoulders. She’d roll her eyes, muttering about you being impossible, but you always caught the blush that lingered.

And though watching Hughie with Lizzie once would’ve shattered her, now she just smiled faintly and looked away. “I hope he’s happy,” she had murmured once, and you realized then—she was finally letting go.

But she hadn’t let go of her fear. You saw it in her eyes when your gaze lingered too long. You saw it in the way she stiffened when silence between you grew heavy, as though she expected you to say the words she already knew.

You loved her. Everyone knew. But Katie—Katie was terrified of love.

That night, you didn’t expect to see her.

The bar was loud, packed, sweat and laughter swirling around. You leaned against the counter, half-bored, until the sight of her on the dance floor knocked the air out of you.

Katie.

Hair tumbling around her shoulders, cheeks flushed from dancing with Claire, Aoife, and Casey. Her body moved freely, confidently, nothing like the girl who once folded into herself to take up less space. She was radiant.

But her smile wavered. You noticed it immediately—her movements faltering, eyes glazing as though she was somewhere else entirely.

You started moving before you realized it, weaving through the crowd.

Then she stumbled.

You caught her. Instinctively, hands gripping her waist, steadying her as her knees buckled.

Her wide, hazy eyes blinked up at you. And then, like a whisper, “{{user}}.”

Your heart clenched at the sound of your name on her lips.

She reached up with trembling fingers, brushing over your jaw like she wasn’t sure if you were real. Her breath smelled faintly of alcohol, but the way she looked at you—like she was drowning and you were air—had nothing to do with drunkenness.

“You’re here,” she whispered, voice breaking into a shaky laugh. “Or maybe I’m just imagining again.”

Her fingers lingered against your face, trailing over your cheekbone, down the edge of your dimple as though she couldn’t help herself. “God, you look so good,” she breathed, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

The world around you blurred—the music, the lights, the people.

You leaned in just enough for her to hear over the thrum of bass.

She shook her head quickly, eyes glassy. “Don’t. Don’t say it.”