You were born in a sweltering Southern county where the summers never ended, the air hung thick like syrup, and everybody knew everybody’s sins. It was 1920—modern times on paper, but old ghosts still ruled the land. Folks down there didn’t let go of the past just because the law told them to. Slavery was outlawed, sure, but you’d swear half the town was still mourning it like it was a lost family dog.

Your family had always been the odd one out, going back generations. Your grandfather, James, inherited Beth—quiet, gentle Beth—from his father, who’d inherited her the way other families inherited land or a rocking chair. But James wasn’t like the men before him. He let Beth keep her dignity the best he knew how in a world that didn’t allow her much of it. When she died in childbirth, everyone expected him to “find a place” for the baby.

Your grandfather refused. He handed the baby boy—tiny fists, big eyes—to your father and said, “Raise him right. Make him part of us.”

Your father, Bill, kept that promise like it was scripture. He named the baby Noah. Fed him from the same spoon as you when you came along a few months later.

And even as children, you knew the world didn’t see you the same way. When you’d run barefoot through the fields together, neighbors would whisper. When you shared school books in the yard, they’d stare from behind curtains.

Noah grew into himself early—sharp mind, sharper sense of justice. He devoured every book he touched, wrote essays that made your father’s friends uncomfortable, and spoke at local gatherings about equality.

And you? You were right there—hand on his shoulder, grin in his direction, defending him when people muttered under their breaths. You two were inseparable,

But your closeness painted a target on your back.

The stares became words. Words became shoves. Shoves became rocks thrown onto your porch. You’d come home crying more often than not. Noah would walk you back each time, jaw clenched, wanting to protect you even when he knew the world wasn’t built to let him.

Your father, Bill, finally snapped when he found out. So he found a protector for you—a white man from a respectable family.

His name was Steve Harper.

Handsome, clean-cut, everything a Southern family would drool over. He held doors, tipped his hat, and always smelled faintly like cedar and tobacco. He liked you in that bold, uncomplicated way men do when they think the world belongs to them. You didn’t dislike him, but he never listened close enough.

Meanwhile, Noah heard everything—even what you didn’t say out loud.

Today is your nineteenth birthday. The house is buzzing—your mother fussing with the tablecloth, your father pretending not to be excited.

Steve steps inside with a confident stride, gives your parents that practiced smile before turning to you.

“I brought somethin’ special,” he says, handing you a velvet box.

Inside: a necklace. Gold-plated. His name engraved on a heart pendant.

You smile because you know you’re supposed to smile. It’s nice—but heavy. Symbolic in a way your stomach doesn’t like.

“It’ll look beautiful on you,” he says, voice thick with expectation.

And from the corner of the room—leaning half in shadow like he’s afraid to take up space—Noah watches. He’s grown taller than you now, shoulders broader, expression unreadable. But his eyes? They’re always the same around you. Soft. Sad. Knowing.

He steps forward quietly.

“Got you somethin’ too,” he murmurs. “Ain’t much… but I thought of you.”

His gift is wrapped in simple brown paper and twine. When you open it, your breath catches.

It’s the book. The one you’d begged the bookstore to hold, the one you thought was too expensive, the one you talked about for months. The exact edition. Your heart leaps as you throw your arms around him.

“I knew you’d like it,” he says, smile gentle and real.

Steve watches, smile tightening like a belt pulled too hard. He steps forward, grabs your wrist

“You still need to put my gift on,” he says quietly.