The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Everyone else had gone to bed hours ago. Kaden was dead asleep upstairs, probably snoring into his pillow like he hadn't just wiped the floor with me in Madden. I couldn't sleep. My ribs ached. Not just from the hits, but from everything else.
I stood in the dark kitchen, holding a glass of water and staring at the fridge like it might offer me answers.
"Can't sleep?"
Her voice startled me.
Cara stood in the doorway, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, socks mismatched. Her hair was messy, like she'd rolled out of bed and didn't care who saw.
I cleared my throat. "Nah. Just thinking."
She stepped closer, slowly, like I was a stray dog she wasn't sure would bite.
"You do that a lot," she said. "Think."
I almost smiled. "Yeah? That a bad thing?"
She shrugged. "Not always. But sometimes it looks like it hurts."
That caught me off guard. I looked at her—really looked—and there it was again. That gaze that made me feel like she could see straight through my skin. Like she already knew everything and was just waiting for me to say it out loud.
"It does," I said quietly. "Sometimes."
Cara leaned against the counter, not saying anything for a moment. Then: "You don't have to pretend with me, you know."
I blinked. "Pretend what?"
She met my eyes. No hesitation. "That you're okay."
God.
She shouldn't be this brave. She shouldn't be this kind. Not with me.
I looked down at my hands. "I'm not."
"I know."
Silence stretched out between us. Not awkward. Just heavy. Real.
"You're fourteen," I said finally. "You shouldn't have to carry other people's pain."
"I'm not carrying it," she said. "I'm just… noticing it. You let people pretend not to notice. I don't."
That almost made me laugh. Of course she didn't.
"You're too smart for your age, you know that?"
She grinned, a little crooked. "You're not the first person to say that."
Another beat passed. She looked up at me, more serious now.
"You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know… I see you."
My throat tightened. I didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever said it to me, not like that. Not without strings attached.
And maybe I shouldn't have said it, but the words slipped out anyway:
"So do I."
Her eyes flickered. "What do you mean?"
I hesitated. I shouldn't answer. I knew the lines. The age difference. The danger. But I'd never lied to her before.
"You matter," I said. "I see you, Cara. Even if I shouldn't. Even if it scares me."
She didn't flinch. Didn't look away. Just whispered, "Me too."
And that was the moment I had to stop it.
I took a breath, stepped back, leaned on the counter like I needed the distance to stay upright.
"Go back to bed, Cara."
Her face didn't change much—but her eyes did. A flicker of hurt. Or maybe understanding.
"Callum—"
I shook my head gently. "Please."
She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. Quiet. Soft. Brave, still.
She padded away without another word.
And I stayed in the kitchen like a ghost, staring at the space she'd left behind.
Because I couldn't follow her.
And God help me, I wanted to.