A tear catches on my lip, and I wipe it off with my hand. I still remember so many little things, growing up with them, that would never seem terrible on their own, but after years of conversations I felt like I was interrupting, occasions I wasn’t invited or welcome to, and affection that was so easily doled out between them that didn’t stretch to me… It all hurt. Everything hurt, and it kept piling up year after year until I stopped letting myself care anymore.

Or stopped showing that I cared.

I let out a sigh, tilting my head back, but then something catches my eye, and I look over, seeing a white bag on top of my bedside table. I narrow my eyes and reach over, picking up the worn paper sack that no longer felt crisp and new.

Is this…?

The bundle at the bottom of the bag fits in the palm of my hand, and I can smell the cinnamon bears before I even open it.

How did this get back in here? I threw the whole bag of candy out.

But now, black writing covers the front, and slowly, I unfold the bag and find a ray of light near me, reading the words.

Your parents never gave you anything sweet. That’s why you’re not.

I look over to my bedroom door, noticing it’s opened a crack. I’d closed and locked it when I went to bed.

Thoughts wash over me, but my heart isn’t beating fast. I should be mad. Someone came in here while I was asleep. Someone went through my trash.

Someone is trolling me on a paper bag.

But he’s not wrong. I rub my thumb over the letters.

The way it’s written. That’s why you’re not. It’s so childish but simple.

Standing up, I dump the contents back into the trash, but I save the bag, flattening it out and laying it on my chest of drawers. I don’t know if blaming my parents is a good enough reason for being such a miserable fucking person, but someone in this world gets me, and I’m not even offended they said I wasn’t sweet. I know I’m not, and someone understands why.

Leaving the room, I head downstairs, the wind in the trees surrounding the house like a perpetual waterfall in the background. I veer into the kitchen, quietly stepping to the sink to fill up a glass of water.

I stare out the window, the feathers on the chickens in the coop fluttering in the morning breeze.

I don’t want to go home. But I don’t want to stay here and be noticed, either, because their world is just a little worse with me in it. I’m not Jake Van der Berg’s problem.

I don’t even realize I’ve started to put the coffee filter in the machine until a hand reaches out and gently takes the package from me.

Looking up, I see my uncle. He stands next to me, emptying coffee grounds into the filter, and I expect him to still be tense. Fuming. In a bad mood, at least, because I’m too much trouble.

But he’s calm. And quiet. He scoops the coffee out of the bag and empties it into the machine, quietly closes the lid, and turns on the pot.

A gurgling sound starts as it begins to brew, and he picks up a coffee mug from the rack and sets it in front of himself.

“I’m going to go home,” I say quietly.

“You are home.” He sets a mug in front of me.

My chin trembles a little.

I turn my head away, not wanting him to see me cry again, but then I feel his fingers brush my hair behind my ear, and the gesture makes my eyes fall closed. It feels so good I want to fucking cry again.

Without waiting another second, he pulls me into him, wrapping his arms around me and holds my head to his chest.

I empty my lungs, my arms hanging limply at my sides, because I can’t bring myself to return the embrace, but I don’t pull away either. His T-shirt-clad chest is warm against my cheek, and his familiar smell drifts into my head, lulling my tears to a calm.

I’ve been hugged a lot. More than I like, actually. It seems to be a thing now. Females—complete strangers—come in for hugs as a greeting. Acquaintances embrace. People you run into on the street dive in all the fucking time like we’re all oh-so-close besties, even though they’re barely touching you.

I hate the fake affection.

But this is different.

He’s holding onto me. Like, if he doesn’t, I might fall.

Muscles I didn’t know I had start to relax, and his lips touch the top of my head, a warm tingle spreading over my body. It’s warm, like something I’m dying to crawl inside and just go to sleep.

Why was this so hard for my parents? It wasn’t unnatural for me to want this from them. It wasn’t. To want to share my life with people who love me. To laugh and cry and make memories together.

Because life is only happy when it’s shared.

Tears hang on my lashes, and the sudden urge to hold onto him starts to wind through me.

I don’t want to be alone anymore.

I don’t want to go home where I’m alone.

His whisper tickles my scalp. “Everyone’s going through shit, Tiernan.” He pauses as the steady rise and fall of his chest lulls me. “You’re not alone. Do you understand that?”

He tips my chin up, and I look up at him, nearly losing my breath at his warm eyes that stare right through me.

“You’re not alone,” he whispers again.

My eyes drop to his lips, and for a moment, I’m with him, breathing with him and my blood coursing hot under my skin as I take in his tanned face, smooth mouth, and the rugged scruff along his jaw.

I have a sudden urge to wrap my arms around him and hide in his neck, but he runs his thumb over my jaw. The heat under my skin spreads lower, and the small smile he had on his lips fades as he stares down at me.

Finally he blinks, breaking the spell as he drops his hand. “Get dressed, okay?” he asks. “Pants and a long-sleeved shirt. You’re with me this morning.”

Releasing me, he pours the coffee while the morning chill hits me, and all I can wish is that he was still holding me.

But my heart warms anyway. I’m with him this morning. I tread upstairs and pull on a pair of clean jeans and some socks.

After pulling my hair up, I hesitate for a moment and then knock on Noah’s door. The last time he spoke to me he threatened to spank me.

After a few knocks I hear his hard footfalls on the floor.

He swings open the door, looking hungover and propping one hand on the doorframe, the other on the door like he’s trying to hold himself up.

I’m not apologizing. But I don’t really expect one from him, either.

“May I borrow a long-sleeved shirt?” I ask.

He nods and turns around, closing his eyes as he yawns. “Yeah, go for it.”

I walk in and find his closet, the door hanging open and a flannel already there in front of me.

“Fuckin’ early,” he gripes. “Does he want me up yet?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Cool,” he mumbles and crashes back down on his bed, face first.

He’s still wearing his jeans from yesterday, and I look around his room, seeing an array of discarded clothes, shoes, and other odds and ends strewn about. Messy but not really dirty.

Taking the shirt, I leave the room, closing the door behind me, and wrap it around my waist, tying it. Turning to walk down the stairs, I hear something behind me, and look over to see Kaleb coming down the third-floor staircase.

He veers for the bathroom, and even though I’m less than six feet away, he pretends he doesn’t notice me and disappears into the room, slamming the door behind him.