Dane's POV:
I can't breathe.
She's crying—quiet at first, then louder, the kind of crying that has no hesitation in it. No shame.
I shake my head, once, twice—like that'll stop the pressure building in my chest.
It doesn't.
It never works.
Her shoulders keep shaking, her breath keeps breaking, and somehow the sound of it gets past every wall I built. My own chest starts to tighten, like there's a hand inside it turning a fist.
And then it happens.
It slips.
A crack I can't un-crack.
The breath I've been holding trembles out of me, and suddenly I'm blinking too fast, swallowing too hard, every emotion I've refused to feel slamming straight into me at once.
It feels like pressure releasing after months underwater—painful, overwhelming, almost… relieving.
And I hate that.
I hate that she's the one who pushed it out of me without even trying.
I hate that she's crying for her own reasons, yet somehow I'm the one losing control.
I turn my face away, jaw clenching, tears burning hot behind my eyes. Grief finally has me by the throat, and for the first time in a long time, I can't fight it.
Relief floods in—unwelcome, humiliating, undeniable.
And all I can think is how much it irritates me that she opened a door I've kept bolted shut.
How easily she cracked me open just by breaking herself.
And then it bursts out of me—
A laugh, hollow, jagged, too loud.
She flinches, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and soft, like she's glimpsed some part of me I've kept locked away.
I hate it.
Hate the way my chest lifts at the sound of her care, the way my shoulders relax for the briefest second under her gaze.
I want to push it away, shove it back into the hole I've been digging all these years.
But it lingers.
That look in her eyes—the quiet attention, the trembling worry—it presses against my ribs, and something in me uncoils, angry at myself for letting it.
I turn my head, forcing the laugh to die on my lips, because I can't—won't—let her see that I needed it.
Dad.
God… Dad.
The word tears out of me—not a sound anyone else can hear, just this internal jagged sob, a clawing through my chest I've carried for so long. Years of focusing on the mayhem , to do it right by him.
And now, kneeling here, it all hits at once, like the world had been waiting for me to finally break.
I couldn't let it out. And now, this… Rain here, alive, breathing, touching me, grounding me… she forces me to feel it. I hate it. Hate that I need it. Hate that I let myself need it.
Are you proud of me, Dad?
Look at me—down on the damn floor in front of her.
Exactly how you always predicted, right?
Her steady.
Me breaking.
You always said she had the stronger spine, the steadier heart.
Guess you were right.
So go on—feel proud.
Your son finally falling apart, just like you thought he would.
And in front of her, of all people.
But you have to agree , I did right by you Dad.
I slump to the ground, letting the weight of years finally press me into the floor. The heaviness I've been carrying—finally breaks me. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm not alone in it.
Finally, someone to grieve Dad with.
Rain. She's here.
She knows him in ways only I do.
She knew the curve of his smile, the way his belly would shake when he laughed so hard it hurt, the look in his eyes when he just knew I was pretending everything was fine.
I never had a mother growing up.
She died when I was four, and Dad did what he could, but we drifted through new houses, new cities, always away from the ghosts of her memories ,always running.
Rain and her mom shifted when she was seven, and yet somehow, my father adored Rain like she was part of the family he couldn't lose again.
We all did.
I see it now, like it's carved into my chest: Rain, no more than eleven, desperately trying to calm him when I, nearly had burnt the kitchen down . Her small hands on his chest, her tiny voice soothing him, coaxing a laugh from him even when I'd been reckless, careless.
And now she's here again, letting me fall into her like the world finally made a space for my grief.
And before I realize it, Rain is on the ground with me, pressing close as if she can hold the weight of my pain between us. She throws her arms over me, cradling my head into the crook of her neck, and her own body trembles with every sob.
"Wha—what happened?" she gasps between choked breaths.
"How did he?—?" Her voice cracks, breaking under the weight of unshed tears.
I can feel the rawness of her grief—the way her shoulders shake violently against mine, how her hands clutch at my back as though trying to keep herself tethered to the world. And then the sobs come in waves, loud and ragged, spilling out in a way that makes my own chest tighten even more.
At some point, she wraps her legs around my torso, small and fragile, grounding me even as her own sorrow threatens to pull her under.
Jesus, she's so tiny.
A doll, my dad used to say, when Rain complained about not growing any taller.
But there's a storm inside her now, a hurricane of heartbreak, and it hits me squarely in the chest.
When it happened—when Dad died—everything blurred into nothing. Time lost meaning.The faces, the air itself—all of it seemed to vanish into a haze of silence and orders. I couldn't scream.
There wasn't any room for me to.
If I let myself dwell too long, I feel the edges of consciousness fray, threatening to pull me under.
So I focus on her.
I lift her carefully onto my lap, feeling the weight of her small body against me, and lean back against the wall. She molds into me, a koala clinging to the only branch in a storm, her fingers pressing into the fabric of my shirt like she's holding on to something real. Her sobs don't stop, but they soften, broken into ragged shudders that I can almost cradle.
She finally lifts her head, her eyes raw, swollen, and shining wet.
"It's okay now," I whispers, voice thin, fragile. "He's happier now. It's… finished. Everything's done."
"When?" Her voice cracks, shivering under the weight of every word. "When did it happen?"
"Five years ago."
Her head drops back against my chest. She nods slowly, dazed, as if letting the words settle in some quiet corner of her mind.
Her gaze lifts again, lingering on my face, searching, questioning. The hurt in her eyes lands like a blow to my chest.
"Why didn't you come back? You know Mum would've taken you in. So why… why didn't you?"
Her words are soft, almost a whisper, but they hit like a hammer. There's something behind them, something she doesn't say—the sharp edge of anger, the sting of betrayal. She feels it, even if she won't voice
that I left her to face pain alone, that I chose my silence over her, that maybe she wasn't important enough to reach.
The ache in her voice mirrors my own, a reflection of the lonely, grief-strangled years I carried by myself. I wanted to grieve, I needed her—and I ran from her anyway.
I have no answer. Anything I could say would only cut deeper, into her, into me, into the hollow left by years of absence.
So I look at her. Really look.
At the sharp, wounded glint in her eyes, at the hurt she won't voice, at the person I denied my presence to all these years. And in that gaze, I see everything I lost, everything I left behind—and the weight of it almost crushes me.
So I look at her. Really look. At the eyes I've avoided for so long, at the vulnerability she's never hidden, at the person I've denied myself all these years.
The distance between us collapses in an instant. I don't hesitate. I can't.
For once, I let myself be selfish. I lean in, claiming her with a force I've held back for too long.
My lips crash onto hers.
After so long, I'm home.