Raven
Sam didn’t say much before he left, just that something came up at the clubhouse, something he couldn’t ignore. I nodded like that was normal, like it didn’t feel different now, like everything doesn’t feel different now.
But he took his time anyway.
Long enough to make sure every bottle was lined up within reach on the counter. Long enough to ask me where I was at. The way his eyes searched mine for something I wouldn’t quite give him.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “Today’s a good day.”
It isn’t.
The ache had already started to settle in deeper than it used to, threading through everything in a way that made it harder to ignore, harder to move without thinking about it first.
He knew that. He just didn’t push. He nodded like he believed me anyway, like he was willing to take whatever version of the truth I gave him as long as it meant I didn’t have to say the rest out loud.
Then he hesitated, like he didn’t want to leave me here alone, his hand lingering on the edge of the counter before he finally stepped back.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said.
“I know.”
He watched me for another moment anyway, like he was trying to decide if that was enough before finally turning toward the door.
I listened to the sound of his bike fade down the drive before I moved.
For a second, I stood there in the quiet he left behind, my eyes drifting to the line of bottles he’d set out for me. There’s a glass of water beside them. He left that too.
I pick up one of the bottles, turning it slightly between my fingers before shaking a single pill into my palm, then reach for the glass and take a slow sip, letting the water settle before I swallow, like that might make it easier, like that might make any of this easier.
I set the glass down carefully, then the bottle, placing it back exactly where it was.
Then I reach for the glass again. I move slowly through the kitchen, rinsing it out and setting it carefully in the sink before resting my hands against the counter, letting the cool surface ground me while the wave of dizziness passes.
It doesn’t hit all at once.
It never does.
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing through it until it eases enough that I can stand without thinking about it.
“I’m fine,” I murmur under my breath, even though there’s no one here to hear it.
The knock on the door comes a few minutes later. I don’t rush to answer it. I don’t rush anything anymore. By the time I reach the door, I already know who it is.
Knox leans against the frame when I open it, one shoulder braced casually, like he’s been here a hundred times for no reason at all, like this isn’t anything more than a stop on his way somewhere else.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“I was in the area,” he adds, like that explains it.
I almost smile. “You were not.”
His mouth twitches slightly at that. “Figured I’d check in.”
“Sam asked you to.” It’s not a question.
“Maybe.” He exhales through his nose, pushing off the doorframe as he steps inside.
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
“You didn’t have to come.”
He huffs out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, “I did.”
I move toward the living room, crossing the space slowly. Knox follows, his presence steady behind me. There’s something about having him here that quiets the fear that’s been pressing in more lately. The awareness of how short my time left is.
As I turn toward the couch and shift my weight to sit, the room tilts and my hand misses the edge of the cushion by an inch.
Knox is there before I can correct it, his hand closing around my arm, steady and firm as he keeps me upright.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.
I nod once, more to move past it than anything else, and lower myself onto the couch, slower this time, more careful.
His hand lingers for a second longer before he lets go and reaches behind me to grab the blanket folded over the back of the couch. He drapes it over my lap.
“Thanks,” I say.
He nods once, like it’s nothing. But he doesn’t go far. He moves to the chair across from me, sitting forward slightly.
We both know he’s here because Sam asked him to be. Because neither of them trusts me to be home alone in case something happens. I let that truth sit between us for a second. Let the silence stretch just a little longer. Long enough that I know I’m not going to stop once I start.
Then I draw in a slow breath and lift my eyes to his.
“I need you to do something for me.”
There’s no preamble. No warning.
Knox stills. “What is it?”
I don’t let myself look away this time because if I do, I might not say what I need to.
“I need you to take care of him.”
The words land between us, quiet but solid. Knox’s expression hardens immediately.
“No.”
I expected that.
“I’m not asking you to—”
“You are,” he cuts in, his voice tightening. “And I’m not doing this with you.”
“This isn’t about you.”
“Yeah, it is,” he says. “Because you’re talking like—”
“I’m talking like someone who knows what’s coming,” I interrupt, my voice steady. “And you do too.”
The words hang between us. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t deny it either.
“Sam’s not going to be okay,” I say, softer now. “You know that.”
Knox braces his forearms against his knees, hands clasping loosely, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he answers. “He’s stronger than you think.”
“He won’t be,” I say. “He doesn’t know how to live in a world where I’m not in it.”
Knox leans back slightly, his gaze dropping for a second before it comes back to me, slower this time.
“I need you to be there.” I pause, drawing in a slow breath when my body doesn’t quite keep up with the words. “Make sure he doesn’t disappear,” I finish quietly.
“You’re asking me to watch him fall apart.”
“I’m asking you not to let him stay there.”
He studies me, looking below the surface to what I’m not hiding as well as I think I am.
“How bad is it?” he asks.
I don’t look away.
“The doctor told me it’s moving faster than he expected,” I say, my voice steady in a way that feels almost detached. “The last scan showed more spread.”
For a second, neither of us moves.
“I don’t have as much time as we thought,” I say. “I need to know you’ll do this.”
Knox looks away for a second, then back at me, his expression softer now.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “I’ve got him.”
It’s not casual or light.
It’s a promise from my big brother.
“Thank you.”
The words come out softer than I intend, the weight of everything sitting between us in a way that has nothing to do with Sam anymore.
His gaze lingers on me, longer this time, like he’s seeing something he doesn’t want to name.
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he says, quieter now.
“I do,” I answer.
Because this isn’t just about Sam.
We both know it.
The silence stretches, but it’s different now, not as guarded. It’s familiar—the way it used to be.
I shift slightly against the couch, drawing the blanket closer around me without thinking. His eyes track the movement automatically, the same way they always have.
“Do you remember when you used to sit me on the back of your bike and take me for a ride,” I say after a moment, “and you’d tell me not to tell Dad?”
Something in his expression almost breaks.
“Yeah,” he says.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
A faint breath of a laugh leaves him. “You loved it.”
“I loved that you didn’t let anything happen to me,” I say.
Knox doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through his hands. Then he pushes up from the chair.
The movement is abrupt, and for a second I think he’s going to walk away. That he needs distance from this, from me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers himself onto the couch beside me.
His hand comes up, hesitates for a second like he’s not sure where to put it, then lands gently at the back of my head, pulling me in the way he used to when I was younger, when fixing things meant just keeping me close enough that nothing could get to me.
“That hasn’t changed,” he says, quieter now.
I nod against him because I know that. Because I’ve always known that.
And then I feel it. The way his chest tightens under my cheek before he lets it out slowly, like he’s trying to keep it together and not quite managing.
My hand curls into the front of his shirt without thinking, holding on, the same way I used to when I was small, and the world felt too big.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, even though we both know that’s not what this is.
His hand tightens slightly where it rests against me.
“I know,” he says.
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of everything we’re not saying. Everything we don’t know how to say.
I close my eyes for a second, letting myself stay there, letting myself have this. The steady presence of my big brother, my hero, and the way he still holds me like nothing has changed, even when everything has.
I don’t know what comes after this. I don’t know if anything’s waiting on the other side or if everything’s just gone.
I stay there, tucked against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“Knox,” I say softly after a minute.
“Yeah?”
“Tell me a story.”
There’s a small pause, like he didn’t expect that.
“What kind of story?”
“Something from when we were kids,” I murmur. “Something good.”
“Alright,” he says quietly. “Remember that summer Dad left us with Uncle Mike for a week? The one where you decided you were gonna follow me everywhere, no matter what I said?”
A faint smile touches my mouth. “I did not follow you everywhere.”
“You absolutely did,” he says, a little more life in his voice now. “I couldn’t take two steps without you right behind me.”
“I was making sure you didn’t do anything stupid.”
He lets out a quiet breath of a laugh. “Yeah, that’s what it was.”
His hand moves slowly against my arm as he talks.
“You tried to climb that old fence out back,” he continues, “the one with the loose boards, and I told you not to, but you didn’t listen—”
“I did listen.”
“You didn’t,” he says, softer now. “You never did.”
I smile, but it’s fading, the edges of it slipping as the sound of his voice settles into something steady and low.
“I remember,” I murmur, though the memory is already blurring at the edges.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You got halfway up before one of the boards gave out and you slipped—”
His voice continues, threading through the quiet, filling the space around us in a way that feels safe, familiar, like something I can just rest in.
I don’t try to follow every word.
I don’t need to.
The sound of him is enough.
My fingers loosen where they’ve been curled into his shirt, the tension easing out of them little by little as my body finally gives in to the exhaustion I’ve been holding off all day.
His hand stills for a second when he feels it. Then it starts moving again, slower this time.
Steadier.
His voice drops even lower, the words softening at the edges as he keeps going, even when he knows I’m not really listening anymore.
I let myself drift off, held in the quiet rhythm of his voice, the warmth of him at my side, the steady presence that’s always meant nothing bad could reach me as long as my brother was close enough to stop it.
And for this moment, I let myself pretend that’s still true.