I'm staring at the ceiling when I realize I actually slept. Not just fitful dozing punctuated by nightmares, but actual sleep. Maybe four hours. Maybe five.
That's... something.
I run my hands over my face, feeling the exhaustion still clinging to me like a second skin, but it's not the bone-deep, crushing weight it's been for days.
Progress. This is progress.
The room is quiet. Empty.
Aethera isn't here right now—no golden glow warming the corners, no gentle presence watching over me.
But she was here.
I can tell by the way the air feels less heavy, by the faint sense of warmth that lingers like she only left an hour ago.
She's been checking on me every night since our conversation. Sometimes just a brush against the mind link, asking wordlessly if I'm okay. Sometimes appearing physically for just long enough to see I'm still in one piece before vanishing with a quiet, relieved sigh.
I heard you last night. I felt you checking.
I'm trying. I'm really trying.
I force myself upright and swing my legs out of bed.
Routine. I need routine.
I stretch—arms overhead, side to side, touching my toes. The movements ground me, pull me into my body instead of the spiraling thoughts that are always waiting at the edges.
Bathroom. Four minutes brushing teeth. The mechanical rhythm settles something in my chest.
When I emerge from my room, Dylan is already in the kitchen. Of course he is.
He glances up when I enter and something flickers across his expression—relief, maybe. Or satisfaction.
"Morning," he says.
"Morning."
I settle at the dining table and Dylan brings over a plate without asking—eggs, toast, a few strips of bacon arranged neatly.
He's been doing this for days. Making food. Bringing it to me. Not commenting when I only eat half.
But I've been eating more.
A little more each day.
I take a bite of eggs and Dylan turns back to the stove, giving me space.
Keith emerges a few minutes later, his hair sticking up in three different directions, wearing a hoodie inside out.
"Morning!" he says brightly, and his smile reaches his eyes this time.
"Morning."
He settles across from me with his own plate and launches into some story about a professor who accidentally projected his personal grocery list instead of the lecture slides.
I listen, occasionally offering small comments, and Keith's eyes light up every time I engage.
He's trying so hard.
He's been trying for days.
The thought sits in my chest, warm and uncomfortable all at once.
---
Over the past few days, I've started noticing things.
Small things.
The way Keith always seems to have my favorite tea ready before I even ask for it.
The way he suggests movies I mentioned liking weeks ago, back before I moved in.
The way he hugs me—casual, brief, but grounding—whenever I look particularly tired.
And the way he watches me.
Not obviously. Not intrusively.
But I catch it sometimes—the way his gaze lingers on my arms when I reach for something. The way his eyes track me when I move through the room. Like he's looking for something. Checking for signs.
He knows.
Aethera told him and he knows everything.
And he's trying to help without making it obvious that he knows.
The realization hit me two days ago, sitting on the couch while Keith scrolled through streaming services looking for something we could watch together.
He'd asked if I wanted popcorn and when I said yes, he came back with it already buttered exactly how I like it—light on the salt, extra butter.
How does he know that? I never told him.
Because Aethera told him. She told him everything.
And instead of treating me like I'm broken, instead of walking on eggshells or demanding explanations—
He's just... there.
Present. Caring. Trying to make things easier without making it obvious.
I should be angry.
I should feel violated.
And I do. Part of me does.
But another part of me feels...
Grateful.
Because Keith hasn't changed how he treats me. He hasn't started pitying me or looking at me like I'm fragile.
He's just Keith.
My Keith.
Trying to help in the only ways he knows how.
Thank you.
I'm not ready to say it out loud yet. But thank you.
---
Dylan has been different too.
More careful. More deliberate.
He doesn't ask questions. Doesn't push.
But he brings me food at regular intervals—breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks in between—and watches with quiet satisfaction when I actually eat it.
Yesterday he invited me to help him cook dinner.
I expected it to be awkward. Tense.
Instead, it was... nice.
Dylan moved through the kitchen with his usual efficiency, assigning me simple tasks—chopping vegetables, stirring sauce, setting the table.
We didn't talk much.
But the silence was comfortable. Companionable.
And when I accidentally cut my finger on the knife—barely a scratch, nothing serious—Dylan immediately stopped what he was doing and checked on me.
"You okay?"
"Yeah, just clumsy."
His dark eyes studied my face for a long moment, searching for something.
Does he know too? Did Aethera tell him? Or does he just suspect?
But he didn't push.
Just handed me a band-aid and returned to the stove.
He's trying to help too. In his own way.
They both are.
And that makes everything more complicated.
Because I'm grateful.
But I'm also terrified.
What happens when they realize I'm not getting better fast enough?
What happens when they get tired of dealing with my mess?
What happens when they finally see that I'm not worth all this effort?
The thoughts still come.
Every day. Multiple times a day.
But they're quieter now.
Less consuming.
You don't deserve this.
They're going to leave eventually.
You'll ruin everything.
The voice is still there. It's always there.
But I'm getting better at pushing it back.
---
I've decided to wait.
The decision came to me a few nights ago, lying in bed while Aethera sat silently in the corner of my room, her presence a warm golden glow in the darkness.
I could confront Keith. Demand to know what he knows. Force the conversation.
But what would that accomplish?
He's clearly trying to help. Trying to be there for me without making me feel exposed.
So I'll wait.
I'll see if he ever plans on telling me himself.
And if he does... then we'll talk.
And if he doesn't...
I don't know.
The decision doesn't bring peace exactly.
More like... a different kind of anxiety.
What will he say when he finally confronts me about it?
Will he pity me?
Judge me?
Will he look at me differently once we actually talk about it out loud?
I don't know.
But I'm not ready to find out yet.
So I wait.
And I watch.
And I try to get better.
One small step at a time.
---
After breakfast, Keith suggests we watch a movie.
"That sci-fi thing you mentioned liking?" he says casually. "I found it on streaming."
I mentioned that weeks ago. How does he remember?
Because he pays attention. Because he cares.
"Yeah, okay."
We settle on the couch—Keith on one end, me on the other, a comfortable distance between us.
The movie plays and Keith makes comments about the special effects and plot holes and I find myself actually laughing at some of his observations.
It feels... normal.
Almost normal.
Like maybe I can do this.
Like maybe I can live here and be okay.
Partway through, Keith reaches over and squeezes my shoulder briefly.
"I'm glad you're here, C."
The words are simple. Sincere.
My throat tightens.
"Me too."
And I mean it.
Despite everything. Despite the pain and the fear and the constant anxiety.
I'm glad I'm here.
---
Dinner is Dylan's lasagna again—he's made it twice since I moved in, claiming he's "perfecting the recipe" but I think he just knows it's one of my favorites.
We eat together at the dining table, the conversation flowing more easily than it has in days.
Keith tells a story about one of his classmates accidentally submitting a meme instead of an essay.
Dylan contributes dry observations that make the story even funnier.
And I just... listen.
Occasionally adding my own thoughts.
Feeling the tension that's been suffocating us for days finally, finally starting to ease.
It's not gone. Not completely.
But it's better.
We're better.
After dinner, I help Dylan clean up while Keith disappears to his room to work on an assignment.
Dylan washes, I dry, and we fall into an easy rhythm.
"You've been eating more," Dylan says quietly, not looking at me.
I pause mid-wipe on a plate. "Yeah."
"Good."
That's all he says.
But the weight behind that single word—the relief, the approval, the care—makes my chest feel tight.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For... everything. The food. The patience. Just... thank you."
Dylan glances at me, something soft flickering across his usually stoic expression.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I wanted to."
He nods once and returns to the dishes.
We finish in comfortable silence.
---
I retreat to my room around eight, claiming I want to study for an upcoming exam.
It's partially true.
But mostly I just need space. Time alone to process everything.
I settle at my desk with my law textbooks and actually manage to focus this time. The words make sense. The cases stick in my memory.
Around nine, there's a knock on my door.
"Yeah?"
The door opens and Dylan appears in the doorway, holding a mug of tea in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other.
His expression is unreadable—that usual calm mask firmly in place.
But I notice the way his free hand keeps pinching his thigh. A small, repetitive motion.
Nervous. He's nervous. It the first time I saw him actually showing his true emotions through his actions without having to think of the reason behind them.
"Can I come in?" he asks.
"Yeah, of course."
He steps inside, closing the door partway behind him, and sets the tea and cookies on my desk.
"Thought you might want these."
"Thanks."
Dylan doesn't leave.
He stands there, that unreadable expression still in place, his hand still pinching his thigh like he's grounding himself.
Something's wrong. Or not wrong exactly, but... different.
"Dylan?" I prompt when he doesn't say anything.
He takes a breath.
Lets it out slowly.
Then meets my eyes directly.
"I need to tell you something."
My stomach drops.
Oh no.
Oh no oh no oh no—
Did he figure it out? Does he know everything too? Is he going to confront me about it?
My hands start shaking slightly under the desk where he can't see them.
What does he think? What does he know?
Is he disappointed? Disgusted? Angry?
Dylan's dark eyes search my face and something flickers across his expression—concern, maybe, seeing my reaction.
But he doesn't take the words back.
He just stands there, waiting.
And I—
I can barely breathe.
What does he want to tell me?
What does he know?
How much did he figure out?
Or did Keith tell him everything?
My mind spins with a thousand questions, each one more panicked than the last.
Dylan shifts slightly, his hand still pinching his thigh, grounding himself.
And I wait.
Trembling.
Terrified.
For whatever he's about to say.