JAE
She asks about drugs. I tell her no.
That part's easy. Music was always enough. Control was always enough.
She smiles at me, small and real, and something in my chest tightens painfully.
She's closer now. I didn't notice her step toward me.
Neither of us moves away.
"You trust me," she says softly.
I nod before I can stop myself.
I do.
And that terrifies me.
Her hand brushes mine. Just once. Testing. I let her take it.
Her fingers are warm. Steady.
"I don't want to mess this up," she says.
I almost laugh. Almost tell her she already doesn't know how badly it's broken.
"You won't," I say instead.
She tilts her head, studying me like she's trying to understand something unsaid.
I lift her chin gently, giving her time to pull back.
She doesn't.
So I lean in.
The kiss is slow. Careful. Like stepping onto ice you don't trust.
Her lips are warm, soft, real—too real for someone who doesn't know what I'm hiding. My hand settles at her waist, grounding her, grounding me.
For a second, everything goes quiet.
No accident.
No blood.
No guilt.
Just her.
I pull back first. I have to.
My forehead rests against hers, my breath uneven.
"If things get complicated," I say quietly, "promise you'll tell me."
She smiles. "I promise."
The word lands like a lie I didn't ask for.
"Yeah." I don't argue.
I shut everything down, lock the garage, and guide her to the car.
The afternoon sun is still high, ordinary, like nothing here is wrong.
The drive is quiet.
Not tense. Just contained.
She looks out the window. I watch the road. Every curve, every line — I know them by muscle memory.
I don't say what I'm thinking.
I don't say what I owe.
When we stop in front of her house, I cut the engine.
"Thanks for today," she says. "For bringing me there."
"Anytime."
It sounds solid. Like something she can lean on.
She leans over and kisses my cheek. Quick. Easy.
I don't move.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she says.
"Yeah."
She goes inside.
I wait until the door closes before I pull away.
I brought her somewhere honest.
Then I brought her home without telling her everything.
For now, that's the line I'm holding.
***
LAURA
I don't mean to listen.
I'm just cutting through the kitchen on my way to the back door when I realize the voices aren't meant for me.
They're low. Careful.
The kind of careful that makes your stomach knot before your brain catches up.
"…you know we've been struggling ever since the accident," Jason says. His voice is tight, like he's been carrying this sentence around for years.
I stop short.
"I understand that, dear," Grandma replies gently. Too gently. "But it's been years. And the money has been coming in consistently. We need it now more than ever."
Money?
My pulse kicks up. I should walk away. I know that. But my feet don't move.
"We can't just use that money," Jason says, sharper now. "We don't know where it's coming from, and I won't accept money from someone who won't show their face. It feels like hush money. Like guilt."
Grandma exhales. "I understand your pride, Jason. But pride doesn't pay bills. And this is affecting all of us—especially Sofia."
My chest tightens.
"We're drowning," she continues quietly. "The debts keep growing. We can't keep pretending we're fine."
"What about the accident?" Jason shoots back. "Accepting it feels like letting whoever did this off the hook."
"It's not about forgiveness," Grandma says. "It's about survival."
I step into the kitchen before I can stop myself.
"What money?"
They both turn at once. Jason looks like he's been caught mid-fall. Grandma's hand tightens around the edge of the table.
"We didn't mean for you to hear that," Jason says quickly.
"But I did," I say. My voice doesn't sound like mine. "Someone's been sending us money? For how long?"
Grandma's mouth opens. Closes.
"Ever since the accident," she says finally.
The room tilts.
"All this time?" I whisper. "We've been struggling—counting change, skipping meals—and you didn't think I deserved to know?"
"We were trying to protect you," Grandma says, stepping closer.
"From what?" My laugh comes out wrong. "The truth?"
She pulls me into a hug, tight and familiar, but it doesn't steady me. My thoughts are already racing ahead, filling in shapes I don't want to see.
"Who is it?" I ask. "Who's been paying us?"
"We don't know," Grandma says. "No name. No return address. Just the money. Every month."
My throat burns.
"How much?"
They don't answer.
I pull back. "How much?"
Jason looks at Grandma.
She swallows. "Enough to keep the house. Enough to keep us afloat."
I don't say anything after that.
I grab my jacket and push past them, the front door slamming harder than I intend.
The cold air hits me like punishment, but I welcome it.
I walk without a destination, my thoughts splintering with every step.
Someone out there knows something.
Someone feels guilty enough to pay for it.
And no matter how much I want to pretend otherwise, I know this isn't just about money.
It's about the accident.
About what really happened.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Jae: You okay?
I stare at the screen, my chest tight.
I type, erase, then type again.
Me: I don't know...
A second later:
Jae: What happened?
I look up at the empty street, the houses blurred by the threat of tears.
I don't answer.
Not yet.