Pulled to You

Fire doesn't end when the flames die.

It lingers—in your lungs, in your dreams, in the way your heart starts racing the second the air smells even a little wrong. People talk about moving on like it's a place you eventually reach, but fire doesn't let you go that easily. It brands you. Quietly. Permanently.

I was ten years old when my house burned down.

I remember heat pressing in from all sides, the way the walls seemed to breathe, like the house itself was alive and angry. I remember screaming for my parents until my throat felt raw, until the sound disappeared into the roar of flames. I remember carrying my little brother—Alex, Allie—down the hallway, his arms tight around my neck, his face buried against my shoulder as if he could disappear there.

He was four. Too small to understand what was happening. Too small to run on his own.

We made it out.

Our parents didn't.

Some days, that fact sits in my chest like a weight. Other days, it feels sharper, like glass. Survivor's guilt doesn't announce itself—it just shows up in the quiet moments. In the why them and not me. In the I should've done more. In the nights I wake up gasping, convinced I can still hear them calling my name.

Seventeen years old, and I still smell smoke when I'm half-asleep.

Crestwood High smells like disinfectant and old books, which should be comforting, but my shoulders stay tight as I move through the crowded hallway. Lockers slam. Someone laughs too loudly. A hand brushes my arm and my body jerks before I can stop it.

I hate that about myself.

I keep my head down, backpack slung over one shoulder, counting steps like it's a lifeline. Blending in has become a skill—maybe the only one I'm really good at.

"Braelynn!"

My spine stiffens before my brain catches up.

Ms. Carter leans out of the guidance office, her face already softened with concern. She always looks at me like she's afraid I'll break apart if she pushes too hard.

"We're still on for after last period, okay?" she says gently.

"Yeah," I answer. "I remember."

She nods, but her eyes linger. People like her always linger. They know pieces of my story—just enough to look at me differently, not enough to understand the full damage.

I move on before she can say anything else.

Knowing too much about someone gives you power over them. I learned that lesson long before the fire. Long before I was old enough to understand what was being taken from me.

At my locker, routine settles my nerves. Twist. Pull. Breathe. I organize my books with unnecessary care, grounding myself in something I can control.

"Collins."

Marcus lounges against the lockers nearby, chewing gum like it personally offended him.

"You hear about the new kid?" he asks.

I don't look up. "There's always a new kid."

"This one's interesting," he says. "Transferred. Didn't start right away. Name's Jalen Sinclair."

The name hits wrong—too heavy, too sharp.

I close my locker. "So?"

Marcus smirks. "Rumor is he got kicked out of his last school. Fights. Trouble. Whole deal."

"Sounds like gossip," I say, already turning away.

He laughs. "Everything starts as gossip."

I leave before he can keep talking. I don't want to hear about broken people today. I already carry enough broken inside me.

History class is where everything shifts.

The second I step inside, I feel it—the way the room seems charged, like something unfamiliar has unsettled it. Voices drop. Heads tilt toward the back of the room.

I follow their gaze despite myself.

He's sitting alone. I can only assume that he's the new kid. Jalen Sinclair.

He leans back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the desk beside him. Dark hoodie, sleeves pushed up, revealing arms covered in tattoos—ink winding over muscle and skin like stories written in a language I don't know. There's an eyebrow piercing that catches the light when he moves, sharp and deliberate, like a warning.

He looks older than the rest of us. Harder.

When his eyes lift and lock onto mine, something in my chest contracts.

His gaze isn't loud or aggressive. It's quiet. Observant. Like he's cataloging details most people miss—the way I freeze for half a second too long, the way my hands curl inward instead of resting flat.

My body reacts before my mind does. Heat flares under my skin. My pulse jumps.

I look away.

Too fast.

I take my seat near the window, where I can see the sky and the exit in the same glance. My fingers dig into my jeans beneath the desk as I force myself to breathe.

"Alright, settle down," Mr. Harlan calls. "We have a new student joining us today. Mr. Sinclair, stand up and introduce yourself."

The scrape of Jalen's chair sounds louder than it should.

I don't look at him. I can't.

"Jalen Sinclair," he says.

His voice is low, controlled. No nerves. No apology for taking up space.

"And?" Mr. Harlan prompts.

"That's all."

A few people laugh. Someone whistles. Jalen sits back down like none of it matters.

I glance back despite myself.

His eyes find me again, steady and unflinching. There's no smile, no challenge—just a flicker of recognition that sends a chill down my spine.

Like he knows what it means to survive something you shouldn't have.

I drop my gaze to my desk, heart hammering.

I don't know why he unsettles me this much. I don't know why my scars feel suddenly visible, like he could trace them without touching me.

All I know is this:

Jalen Sinclair carries darkness that feels uncomfortably familiar.

And I have the sinking feeling that crossing paths with him is going to change everything—for better or worse, I'm not sure yet.

The rest of history class drags.

Mr. Harlan's voice fades in and out as dates and wars blur together on the board. I copy notes out of habit, even though my handwriting gets tighter every time I feel eyes on me.

Because I do.

Not constantly. Not obviously. But enough that my skin stays too warm, like I'm standing too close to something dangerous.

Every so often, I feel it—Jalen's attention brushing against me, light but deliberate. Not staring. Not obvious. Just there. Like he's checking in, or making sure I haven't vanished.

It doesn't make sense. We don't know each other. We haven't spoken. And yet my body reacts the same way it does when a memory creeps too close—alert, braced, waiting for impact.

I hate that reaction. Hate that someone else can trigger it without even touching me.

The bell finally rings, sharp and shrill, and I flinch before I can stop myself. Chairs scrape. Students flood the aisles. I move fast, keeping my head down, focused on getting out before the hallway crush closes in.

I almost make it.

"Hey."

The word is quiet, meant just for me.

My feet stall.

I turn slowly, heart pounding like I've been caught doing something wrong, and come face to face with Jalen Sinclair.

Up close, he's even more intimidating. Taller than me by a few inches, shoulders broad beneath his hoodie. The tattoos on his arms are more detailed than I realized—dark lines and sharp edges, symbols I don't recognize. His eyebrow piercing glints as he tilts his head slightly, studying me with that same unreadable expression.

"You dropped this," he says, holding out my notebook.

I hadn't even noticed.

"Oh," I mutter, taking it from him quickly, careful not to brush his fingers. "Thanks."

"No problem."

For a second, neither of us moves.

The hallway noise swells around us—laughing, shouting, lockers slamming—but it feels like we're standing in a pocket of stillness. His gaze flicks to my face, then away, like he's forcing himself not to look too closely.

"You sit by the window," he says.

It's not a question.

"Yeah," I answer cautiously.

He nods once, like that confirms something. "Makes sense."

"For what?" The words slip out before I can stop them.

Jalen's mouth curves, just barely—not quite a smile. "You watch exits."

My chest tightens.

"That's—" I stop myself. Denial rises instinctively, sharp and defensive. "It's just a seat."

"Sure," he says easily. No judgment. No challenge. Just acknowledgment.

That somehow makes it worse.

"I should go," I say, stepping back.

He doesn't block me. Doesn't try to stop me. Just watches as I pass, his presence lingers behind me like an echo—not loud, not chasing, just there, vibrating under my skin long after I put distance between us.

I don't look back.

I turn the corner and head for my next class, moving fast, like if I keep walking I won't have time to think about the way his voice sounded when he said my name. The hallway swallows me whole, bodies pressing in on all sides, but I welcome the noise. It gives me something else to focus on.

English passes in a haze of half-listened discussion and scribbled notes. I keep my eyes on my paper, my mind drifting despite my best efforts. Every so often, I catch myself replaying the moment in history class—his calm, the way he noticed things most people don't.

I shove the thought away.

Math drags even worse. Numbers blur. My leg bounces under the desk, nerves buzzing like static. I think about Allie, about whether he remembered his jacket this morning, about the way he'd hugged me goodbye like he always does, arms too tight for someone who's learned early that things disappear.

By the time lunch comes, I eat quickly and quietly, sitting where I always sit—back to the wall, headphones in, music low enough that I can still hear what's happening around me. Routine keeps me steady. Predictability keeps the memories at bay.

The day stretches, heavy and slow, each class bleeding into the next until it feels endless. My shoulders ache from being held tense for too long, and my head throbs faintly by the time the final bell before last period rings.

Science.

I drag my feet down the hallway, already tired, already ready for the day to be over. Science is usually safe—same seat, same corner table near the window. Familiar. Controlled.

I step into the classroom and freeze.

Someone's sitting in my seat.

A girl I barely recognize has claimed it, laughing with her friend like it's always been hers. I scan the room, pulse picking up, searching for another option.

There isn't one.

The only open seat is near the middle of the room.

Next to Jalen.

He's already there, leaning back in his chair, one arm resting on the desk, tattoos visible beneath the pushed-up sleeve of his hoodie. He looks completely at ease, like he belongs there in a way I never feel like I belong anywhere.

For half a second, I consider asking the teacher if I can sit somewhere else.

But that would draw attention. Questions. Eyes.

I don't do eyes.

So I walk toward the empty seat instead.

Each step feels louder than the last. My heart beats too hard, too fast, but I keep my face neutral, my movements deliberate. I sit down carefully, placing my backpack at my feet, lining up my notebook with unnecessary precision.

I don't look at him.

I can feel him, though.

Jalen watches me openly, not bothering to pretend otherwise. I sense the weight of his attention like warmth against my side, like standing too close to something that might burn.

I keep my eyes on the desk, on the faint scratches carved into the surface, on anything except him.

If I don't acknowledge it, maybe it won't become real.

The chair beside mine creaks softly as he shifts, but he doesn't say anything.

Neither do I.

And the silence between us settles in—thick, charged, and impossible to ignore.

The room quiets as Ms. Alvarez strides to the front, heels clicking sharply against the tile. She's the kind of teacher who commands attention without raising her voice—sharp eyes, hair pulled back tight, lab coat already on like armor.

"Alright, settle down," she says, clapping once. "Today we're starting our unit on cellular respiration."

A collective groan ripples through the class.

She ignores it, turning to the board and writing in neat, precise letters:

CELLULAR RESPIRATION — ENERGY PRODUCTION

I let out a slow breath through my nose and flip open my notebook. Science usually helps. Facts. Processes. Things that follow rules.

Ms. Alvarez launches into the lecture, explaining how cells convert glucose into ATP, her voice steady and practiced. I jot down notes automatically—glycolysis, mitochondria, oxygen—letting the rhythm of it ground me.

But my awareness keeps drifting sideways.

Jalen hasn't moved much. He sits with an easy stillness, like he's conserving energy, listening without looking like he's trying. Every once in a while, his pen scratches against paper. The sound is low, deliberate.

"And since this is a foundational concept," Ms. Alvarez continues, "we're going to reinforce it with a partner assignment."

My stomach drops.

She doesn't even pause for the groans this time.

"You'll be working with the person next to you," she says. "I want you to complete a cellular respiration flow chart—glycolysis, the Krebs cycle, and the electron transport chain. Include inputs, outputs, and where each process takes place in the cell. You'll turn in one paper per pair by the end of class."

She gestures to the stack of worksheets on her desk. "One of you come grab a packet."

I hesitate for half a second too long.

Jalen stands.

He moves past my desk, close enough that I catch the faint scent of something clean, and unfamiliar—soap, cologne maybe, or laundry detergent.

When he returns, he sets the packet between us, not crowding my space, not pulling away either. Just... there.

"Want to do the chart or the explanations?" he asks quietly.

I blink, surprised by the normalcy of the question. No edge. No attitude.

"Uh," I say, clearing my throat. "I can do the chart."

"Cool," he replies. "I'll fill in the details."

He slides the paper closer to me, giving me room. It's a small thing. Thoughtful.

I draw the boxes carefully, lines straight and precise, labeling each stage as I go. My hand steadies as I focus, the familiar comfort of structure easing some of the tension in my chest.

"Glycolysis happens in the cytoplasm," Jalen murmurs, already writing. "Glucose in, two ATP out."

"I know," I say automatically, then wince. "Sorry."

He glances at me, eyebrow lifting slightly. "Didn't say you didn't."

Heat creeps up my neck. I keep my eyes on the paper. "Right."

We fall into an unexpected rhythm after that. I draw. He writes. Occasionally our hands brush when we reach for the same spot, and every time it happens my body stiffens before I force myself to relax.

He notices.

He doesn't comment.

"That part's mitochondria," I say softly, pointing.

"Yeah," he answers. "Powerhouse of the cell."

I huff a quiet, involuntary laugh before I can stop myself.

Jalen's lips curve—not fully, not enough to count as a smile, but something close. Something real.

It fades just as quickly.

"Sorry," I mutter, embarrassed.

"Don't be," he says. "It's accurate."

We finish the chart with a few minutes to spare. I stare at it, relieved, like I've crossed something off a list I didn't know I was keeping.

Ms. Alvarez strolls by, glancing down at our paper. "Nice work," she says. "Very thorough."

Jalen nudges the paper toward her. "All him."

My head snaps up. "What?"

She raises an eyebrow at me, impressed. "Good job, Braelynn."

I nod, words stuck somewhere behind my ribs.

When she moves on, I risk a sideways glance at Jalen.

He's already watching me.

I look away just as fast, pretending to reread my notes, my heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with cellular respiration.

The minutes crawl after that.

Ms. Alvarez spends the rest of the period reviewing the worksheet, calling out answers and elaborating on steps we've already written down. I listen with half an ear, nodding at the right moments, but my focus keeps slipping to the clock mounted above the whiteboard.

Two minutes left.

One.

My leg bounces under the desk. I have to get to Ms. Carter's office before the buses start loading. If I'm late, she'll worry. She always worries.

The bell finally rings, sharp and jarring.

Chairs scrape back all at once, the sudden noise making my shoulders tense. I reach for my backpack immediately, moving on instinct, packing my notebook, pencil, and binder in quick, efficient motions. I don't linger. I never linger.

Beside me, Jalen does the same.

I notice it without wanting to—the way he moves with the same quiet urgency, the same awareness of the space around him. He slips his paper into his folder, caps his pen, and slings his backpack over one shoulder, movements controlled and economical.

Like someone used to leaving quickly.

I stand, pushing my chair in carefully, eyes already on the door.

"Hey," Jalen says, not raising his voice.

I pause, fingers tightening around my backpack strap. "Yeah?"

"You rushing somewhere?"

I hesitate. The truth presses against my teeth, but I don't want to offer explanations. Explanations invite questions.

"Counselor," I say finally.

He nods once, like that's all he needs. "Makes sense."

There's that phrase again.

I shift my weight, unsure what to do with the moment stretching between us. The room empties fast, students flooding into the hallway, noise rising like a tide.

Jalen shoulders his bag. "Guess I'll see you around."

"Yeah," I reply quietly.

For a split second, I think he might say something else—ask a question, push for more—but he doesn't. He steps aside, giving me space to pass, not crowding me, not touching me.

I slip past him and head for the door, heart still beating too fast.

As I cross the threshold, I glance back without meaning to.

Jalen is already moving too, falling into step with the crowd, his expression unreadable. But just before he disappears into the hallway chaos, his eyes flick to mine.

Not intense. Not demanding.

Just there.

And for reasons I don't fully understand, that makes it harder to walk away.

But I don't slow down.

I can't afford to.

The hallway is already packed, bodies funneling toward exits, voices bouncing off lockers until everything blends into noise. I weave through it on autopilot, shoulders tucked in, eyes forward, every step calculated. I don't look for Jalen again. I don't trust myself not to.

Ms. Carter's office sits at the far end of the counseling wing, quieter than the rest of the school. The air changes when I step inside—less chaos, more hush. My chest loosens just a little.

I knock once.

"Come in," she calls.

I slip inside and close the door behind me, the click soft but final. Ms. Carter smiles when she sees me, setting her pen down.

"Thanks for coming right on time," she says. "How was your day?"

I shrug, taking the seat across from her desk. "Fine."

She gives me a look that says she knows that's a deflection but lets it pass. We talk about grades, about Allie, about sleep—always sleep. I answer carefully, choosing words that won't invite deeper digging. She doesn't push too hard today, which I'm grateful for.

When it's over, she reminds me I'm doing better than I think I am. People always say that. I nod anyway.

By the time I step back into the hallway, the school feels emptier, echoes replacing the earlier roar. Lockers stand open and abandoned. The day is finally loosening its grip.

I head toward the exit.

That's when I see him again.

Jalen stands near the trophy case, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in his hand like he's pretending to check it. He looks up as I approach, like he's been waiting—but not anxiously. Patiently.

I slow despite myself.

"You done?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. "You?"

"Just finished up," he replies, vague enough to mean anything.

We fall into step together without discussing it, heading toward the doors. The late afternoon light spills in as someone pushes them open ahead of us, painting the floor gold.

Outside, the air is cooler. Easier to breathe.

"My bus is that one," I say, pointing across the loop.

"Mine too," Jalen says.

Of course it is.

We walk in silence for a few seconds. It's not uncomfortable, exactly—just unfamiliar. I'm not used to sharing space like this without feeling crowded.

"You did good in science," he says finally.

"It was easy," I reply.

"Still," he says. "Most people don't actually pay attention."

I glance at him. "You did."

He shrugs. "Habit."

We stop at the bus doors. Students shuffle inside. I hesitate, then climb the steps and take a seat near the front, by the window. A minute later, Jalen boards too, moving down the aisle before sitting a few rows back.

As the bus pulls away, I rest my forehead lightly against the glass, watching the school shrink behind us.

I don't know what Jalen Sinclair wants.

I don't know what he sees when he looks at me.

But for the first time in a long while, the presence of someone else doesn't feel like a threat.

And that realization—quiet, unsettling—follows me all the way home.

The bus hums steadily as it rolls through familiar streets, the rhythm of it almost lulling. Houses blur past the window—porches, driveways, trees bending slightly in the late afternoon breeze. Fifteen minutes feels longer when you're counting stops.

I recognize mine the second we turn the corner.

My chest loosens without me meaning it to. Home. Or close enough to it.

I reach down, grip my backpack, and stand as the bus slows. The aisle wobbles beneath my feet, and I steady myself on the seat backs as I move forward.

Just before I reach the door, something makes me look back.

Jalen's already watching me.

He's leaned slightly into the aisle, elbow resting on the top of the seat in front of him, expression unreadable but focused—like he knew I'd turn around. Our eyes lock for a brief, suspended moment. Then he lifts his hand in a small wave. Nothing flashy. Just a quiet acknowledgment.

My throat tightens.

I don't wave back. I don't trust my hands not to shake.

Instead, I give him a short nod.

It feels like a promise I don't fully understand yet.

The bus doors hiss open, and I step down onto the sidewalk. The cool air hits my face as the bus pulls away, engine roaring softly before it disappears down the street.

I turn just in time to see another bus rounding the corner.

Smaller. Louder. Bright yellow.

Allie's bus.

It stops with a sharp squeal of brakes, and the doors fold open. Kids spill out in clumps—laughing, shouting, dragging backpacks that look too big for their bodies.

Then I see him.

Alex—Allie—steps down carefully, curls bouncing, scanning the sidewalk until his eyes land on me. His whole face lights up.

"Brae!" he yells.

Before the driver can even finish counting heads, Allie breaks into a run, backpack thumping against his back, arms already outstretched. I drop my bag just in time before he crashes into me.

The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, but I laugh anyway, catching him around the middle and lifting him just enough that his feet leave the ground.

"Hey, hey," I say, smiling wide despite myself. "You okay?"

"I got a star today," he says proudly, shoving a crumpled paper into my chest. "And Mrs. Klein said I did really good reading."

"I knew you would," I tell him, setting him back down and ruffling his hair. "You're kind of amazing."

He beams up at me like that's the most obvious fact in the world.

As we start walking toward home, his hand slips into mine without hesitation, small and warm and solid.

The smell of smoke doesn't follow me here.

For this moment that's enough.

We walk the rest of the way home together, Allie chattering about his day like he's afraid the words might disappear if he doesn't say them fast enough. I listen, nodding, asking questions at the right moments, letting his voice pull me fully into the present.

The house comes into view—a small, weathered place with a creaky porch and peeling paint that Marina keeps promising she'll fix one day. It isn't the house we grew up in. It never will be. But it's safe, and that counts for something.

I unlock the door and push it open.

Warmth spills out immediately, wrapping around us.

The smell of dinner hits me first—tomato sauce, garlic, something herby and familiar. My stomach tightens with hunger I hadn't noticed before.

"We're home," I call out, nudging the door shut with my foot.

"Kitchen!" Marina's voice answers back, bright and slightly muffled.

We barely make it two steps inside before she appears, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She's wearing one of her old aprons—the blue one with faded sunflowers—and there's a streak of red sauce on her cheek like she forgot it was there.

She smiles the second she sees us.

"There are my boys," she says, opening her arms.

Allie lets go of my hand and barrels into her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Hi, Aunt Marina!"

She laughs, bending to hug him back, planting a quick kiss on the top of his head. "Hey, superstar. School good?"

"Yeah!" he says, already pulling away. "I gotta put my stuff away!"

And just like that, he's gone—backpack bouncing as he races up the stairs two at a time, his footsteps thudding overhead.

Marina straightens and looks at me, her smile softening. "How was school?"

"Okay," I say, which is mostly true.

She studies my face for a second longer, then nods like she's decided not to push. "Good. Dinner's almost ready. Go wash up."

I head toward the sink in the bathroom, the smell of food grounding me as the sounds of the house settle around us—pots simmering, footsteps upstairs, the quiet normalcy of being home.

I wash my hands and step back into the kitchen, the air warm and hazy with steam. Marina has a pot simmering on the stove and a cutting board spread out on the counter, half-chopped vegetables scattered across it.

"Allie settle down?" I ask.

She glances toward the living room. "Like a tornado that finally ran out of wind."

I peek around the corner and see him curled up on the couch, knees tucked under him, eyes glued to the TV. Some cartoon is playing—bright colors, loud voices. He looks content. Safe.

I turn back to the kitchen.

"Need help?" I ask, already reaching for the extra knife.

Marina smiles at me, shaking her head. "You don't have to, you know."

"I want to," I say simply.

She lets out a soft laugh. "You always do."

I start chopping, careful and precise, lining pieces up neatly the way I like them. The rhythm of it is calming—the tap of the knife against wood, the steady motions of my hands.

Marina stirs the pot, watching me from the corner of her eye. "You know," she says, voice light, "your mom was the same way."

The knife pauses mid-cut.

She continues, not noticing right away. "Always underfoot in the kitchen, insisting she was 'helping' even when she made more of a mess than—"

My chest tightens sharply, like something has cinched a cord around my ribs.

Marina stops talking.

She turns to look at me, realization flickering across her face, followed quickly by guilt. "Brae— I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," I say, too quickly.

She steps closer, concern etched into her expression. "I shouldn't have brought her up."

I force myself to keep chopping, even though my hands feel stiff. "Really. It's okay."

The words come out steady, practiced. I've had years to perfect that tone.

Marina watches me for another second, then nods slowly, accepting it even if she doesn't fully believe me. "Alright," she says gently. "Thank you for helping."

We fall back into quiet after that, the kitchen filled only with the sounds of cooking. My chest still aches at the mention of my mom—of Rory—but I let it pass through me the way I've learned to.

I focus on the smell of dinner, on the weight of the knife in my hand, on the fact that Allie is laughing at something on TV.

Time blurs, I wipe the last knife clean and set it aside, then grab the plates and silverware from the cupboard. The familiar rhythm of preparing the table helps push away the tight knot still lingering in my chest from earlier. I arrange the plates neatly, lining the forks beside them, careful that everything looks orderly.

Just as I'm about to carry the first plate toward the table, the stairs creak behind me. I pause mid-step, and my eyes catch movement.

Warren.

He comes down, hands shoved into his pockets. He stops and looks at me with that usual expression—half annoyance, half challenge. I feel the old, familiar tension in my chest.

"What the hell are you looking at?" he asks, voice sharp.

I blink and look away immediately, forcing my gaze down to the floor. My hands clench around the plates, knuckles turning white. I don't want confrontation—not today, not with him.

"Brae," Marina calls from the kitchen, appearing just then with the covered dishes. The smell of dinner hits me again—spaghetti, garlic, something comforting—but it doesn't drown out the tension in the air.

"Don't speak to him that way, Warren," she says firmly, setting the dishes down on the table with a thud.

Warren rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath. He slouches toward the table, hands still in his pockets, and drops into a chair.

Allie comes bouncing out from the living room and climbs onto the chair across from Warren. "Brae! Come sit!" he calls, already adjusting his napkin.

I take a slow breath, gripping the edge of the table before sliding into the seat beside Alex. He beams up at me, small hands folded neatly in his lap. I give him a quick nod and a small smile, the weight in my chest easing just enough for me to focus on him.

Across the table, Marina arranges the serving dishes, glancing back at me with a small smile. I wait patiently for her to sit before I reach for my fork, letting the warm smells and sounds of the kitchen fill the quiet spaces around us.

For a moment, the day outside and the school chaos feels far away. Here, at this table with them, it's just us. Safe. Familiar. Real.