I close Naomi's door softly and stand in the hallway for a moment, staring at nothing.
Something's wrong.
I know that feeling—the weight of hiding something too heavy to carry alone, the exhaustion of keeping a smile in place when everything inside is screaming.
I know it intimately.
And I saw it in Naomi's eyes, clear as day, despite the brightness she was trying so hard to project.
You don't have to be okay all the time. Not here.
I'd meant every word.
But I also know that words—no matter how sincere—aren't always enough to make someone feel safe enough to drop their mask.
Sometimes you need time. Space. Proof that the offer is real.
I head back toward the kitchen, my mind still turning over the conversation, trying to figure out if there's anything else I should have said, anything I could do to—
I stop in the kitchen doorway.
The dishes are done.
All of them.
Washed, dried, and put away with the kind of efficient teamwork that speaks to Keith and Dylan working together in comfortable silence.
The kitchen is spotless.
I blink at it for a moment, surprised and oddly touched.
They didn't have to do that. I would have come back and finished cleaning up. But they did it anyway.
"Cecil?"
Keith's voice calls from the living room.
I follow it and find both of them on the couch—Keith sprawled on one end, Dylan sitting more upright on the other, a documentary playing on the TV about something that looks like marine life.
They both turn when I appear, and something in their expressions shifts.
"Come here," Dylan says, patting the space between them.
It's not a request. Not quite a command either.
Just... an invitation that somehow feels inevitable.
I cross the room and settle between them, the couch dipping slightly under my weight.
Keith immediately shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against mine. Dylan's arm comes around my shoulders from the other side, solid and grounding.
"You okay?" Keith asks quietly.
"Yeah. Just..." I pause, trying to find the right words. "I'm worried about Naomi."
Dylan's arm tightens slightly. "What did you see?"
"The same thing I see when I look in the mirror sometimes." The admission comes easier than I expected. "She's hiding something. Something heavy. And she's working really hard to make sure no one notices."
Keith and Dylan exchange a glance over my head.
"Did she say anything?" Keith asks.
"No. And I didn't push." I lean back into the couch, into their warmth. "I just told her she didn't have to be okay all the time. That we're here if she needs us."
"That's good," Dylan says, his voice rumbling through his chest where my shoulder is pressed against him. "That's exactly what she needs to hear."
"But what if it's not enough? What if she—"
"Cecil." Dylan shifts, pulling me more firmly against his side in a way that's almost possessive. "You can't fix everyone. You can only offer what you're able to give and trust that it's enough."
The words are gentle but firm.
And coming from Dylan—who's spent the past week trying to hold me together while I fell apart—they carry weight.
"I know," I say quietly. "I just... I recognize what I saw in her eyes. And I don't want her to go through what I went through. Alone."
Keith leans in and presses a soft kiss to my forehead.
The gesture is so tender, so unexpectedly intimate, that my breath catches.
"She's not alone," Keith murmurs against my skin. "She has us now. And she has you, who understands what she's going through better than most people could."
"She'll be okay," Dylan adds. "Maybe she's just stressed. Between classes and her mom being busy and her roommate being gone—that's a lot. Sometimes people just need a break from their normal environment."
I want to believe that.
Want to believe it's just stress and loneliness and nothing deeper or darker.
But I can't shake the feeling that there's more to it.
"How about this," Keith says, his hand finding mine and lacing our fingers together. "Tonight, we'll all sleep in your room. Me and Dylan. Keep you company so you stop worrying yourself into a spiral."
I turn to look at him. "You don't have to—"
"We want to," Dylan interrupts, echoing the same words I'd said to Naomi earlier.
And just like with Naomi, the sincerity behind them is impossible to doubt.
"Okay," I say softly. "Yeah. That would be... good."
Keith squeezes my hand. "It's settled then. Sleepover in Cecil's room."
"We're not calling it a sleepover," Dylan mutters.
"We are absolutely calling it a sleepover."
"You're twelve years old."
"Emotionally? Maybe."
I laugh quietly, and the sound surprises me—light and genuine and so different from the heavy worry that was sitting in my chest a moment ago.
This is what they do.
Keith and Dylan.
They pull me out of my head. Ground me. Remind me that I don't have to carry everything alone anymore.
We settle into the couch together, the documentary playing in the background. Some narrator is talking about deep-sea creatures and bioluminescence, the images on screen beautiful and alien.
Keith's thumb traces absent patterns on the back of my hand.
Dylan's arm stays solid around my shoulders.
And slowly, carefully, I let myself relax.
Let the worry about Naomi settle into something more manageable.
Let the warmth of being held—actually held, by two people who chose to stay—sink into my bones.
Maybe Dylan's right. Maybe Naomi is just stressed. Maybe a couple days here, away from her empty apartment and her busy mother, will be enough to help her feel better.
Maybe—
Footsteps in the hallway.
All three of us turn toward the sound.
Naomi appears in the living room doorway, her bag presumably unpacked, her clothes changed into something more comfortable.
And she's smiling.
That same bright, cheerful smile from this morning.
Like nothing happened. Like the conversation we just had in her room—the moment where her mask slipped just slightly—never occurred.
"What are we watching?" she asks, her voice light and animated.
My stomach drops.
Because I know that smile.
I know what it costs to hold it in place when everything inside is breaking.
And seeing it on her face now, after what she said in her room, after the vulnerability she showed for just a moment—
It makes everything worse.
Dylan's arm tightens around me, and I realize my entire body has gone tense.
"Documentary about the ocean," Keith says, his voice carefully normal. "Want to join us?"
"Sure!" Naomi bounces over to the armchair and curls up in it, pulling a throw blanket over her legs. "I love ocean documentaries."
She settles in like she doesn't have a care in the world.
Like she's perfectly fine.
Like the weight I saw in her eyes earlier has magically disappeared.
But it hasn't.
I know it hasn't.
It's just hidden again. Buried under brightness and energy and that relentless, exhausting smile.
I watch her for a moment—the way her hands grip the blanket just a little too tightly, the way her smile is just a fraction too wide, the way her eyes don't quite match the cheerfulness in her voice.
She's not okay.
The certainty settles in my chest like a stone.
She's really not okay.
And I don't know how to help her.
Don't know how to reach through that brightness to the person underneath who's drowning.
Keith's hand squeezes mine gently, pulling my attention back.
When I look at him, he gives me a small, reassuring smile. Then nods almost imperceptibly toward Naomi.
We're watching. We see it too.
Dylan's arm shifts slightly, his hand coming up to rest on the back of my neck—grounding, protective.
We've got this. We've got her. And we've got you.
I take a breath and try to let that be enough.
Try to trust that being here, being present, being available—that's all we can do right now.
The rest is up to Naomi.
When she's ready.
If she's ready.
On screen, a jellyfish drifts through dark water, glowing with its own internal light.
Naomi makes an appropriately delighted sound.
And I watch her smile and smile and smile.
And worry.
---
The documentary ends eventually, followed by another, and then another.
Naomi stays curled up in the armchair, making appropriate comments and asking questions that sound genuinely interested but somehow feel rehearsed.
Keith and Dylan keep up a steady stream of conversation—light, easy, never pushing, but always including both of us.
It should feel comfortable.
And in a way, it does.
But there's an undercurrent of tension I can't quite shake. A feeling like we're all performing some elaborate dance where no one wants to acknowledge the elephant in the room.
Or in this case, the goddess in the armchair who's working very hard to convince everyone she's fine.
Around ten PM, Naomi stretches and yawns—a gesture that looks almost theatrical.
"I think I'm going to head to bed," she announces brightly. "Early morning tomorrow and all that."
She doesn't have anything early tomorrow. She told us her schedule was clear this weekend.
But no one calls her on it.
"Sleep well," Keith says.
"Let us know if you need anything," Dylan adds.
"Will do! Goodnight, guys!" She practically bounces out of the room, that smile never wavering.
The moment she's gone, the three of us exchange looks.
"She's not okay," I say quietly.
"No," Dylan agrees. "She's not."
"But she's here," Keith says. "That's something. She came here instead of staying alone in her apartment. That's a choice. A good one."
"Yeah," I say, but the worry doesn't ease.
Keith stands and stretches. "Come on. Let's get ready for bed."
Right. The sleepover. Or whatever Dylan refuses to let us call it.
I excuse myself to the bathroom first, going through my nighttime routine on autopilot—brushing my teeth, washing my face, changing into sleep clothes. The familiar motions are grounding, giving my anxious mind something to focus on besides Naomi's too-bright smile.
When I finish and head back down the hallway to my room, I pause with my hand on the doorknob.
Having them both sleep in here—it's intimate in a way I'm not sure I'm ready for, even though the idea of sleeping alone tonight feels impossible.
I take a breath and open the door.
Keith and Dylan are already inside.
Keith is sitting on the edge of my bed, and Dylan is standing near the window, but they both turn when I enter.
Before I can say anything, Dylan crosses the room in two strides and lifts me clean off the ground.
I let out an undignified yelp of surprise, my hands automatically grabbing his shoulders for balance.
"Dylan—what are you—"
Keith's laugh rings out, bright and delighted. "Oh my god, his face."
"Put me down," I manage, but there's no heat in it because Dylan is already moving, carrying me the few steps to the bed with an ease that should probably be illegal.
He sets me down on the mattress gently, and before I can even process what just happened, Keith is there—wrapping his arms around me from the side, his warmth immediate and encompassing.
"Hi," Keith says into my shoulder, still laughing.
"You're both ridiculous," I say, but I'm smiling despite myself.
"Yep," Keith agrees cheerfully.
Dylan stands at the edge of the bed, watching us with an expression I can't quite read. There's something soft in it. Something almost vulnerable.
"Move over," he says quietly.
Keith and I shift, making room, and Dylan climbs onto the bed behind me.
His arms come around both of us—one around my waist, one reaching past me to rest on Keith's shoulder. He pulls us back against his chest, solid and warm and completely secure.
It's not a casual hug.
It's a shelter.
Like he's trying to physically protect us from everything outside this room. From worry and fear and all the things that wait in the dark.
I feel Keith relax against me, his breath evening out.
Feel Dylan's heartbeat steady against my back.
And slowly, carefully, I let myself sink into it.
Into them.
Into the safety of being held so completely that nothing else can reach me.
"Better?" Dylan murmurs against my hair.
"Yeah," I whisper. "Better."
Keith's hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together. "We've got you, Cecil. Both of us. Always."
The words settle over me like a promise.
And for the first time since Naomi showed up this morning with that too-bright smile, the anxiety in my chest finally, finally begins to ease.
I can't fix her.
I can't make her open up before she's ready.
I can't protect her from whatever she's hiding from.
But I can be here. We can be here.
And maybe that will be enough.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For this. For staying."
"Always," Keith says.
Dylan just tightens his arms around us, and I feel the truth of it in the gesture.
Always.
We lie there together in the quiet dark of my room, wrapped around each other like we're trying to become one person.
And despite everything—despite Naomi's hidden pain, despite my own lingering worries, despite all the broken pieces we're all still carrying—
I feel safe.
Completely, genuinely safe.
And that's everything I need right now.