21
Dylan
T hen
The brush glides over the canvas in slow, deliberate strokes, blues and grays merging into waves that still don’t feel quite right. I sit back, cross-legged on the floor, tilting my head to study them. They’re too harsh, awkwardly restless. Not at all what I’m going for, but I don’t know how to fix it yet.
“You’ve been at that for hours,” Brooks says from behind me. “Don’t you ever get tired?”
“Not really,” I reply, keeping my focus on the painting. “If I stop, I’ll lose my vision.”
He hums in response, and I feel his attention settle on me. I dip my brush into white and swipe a small streak across one of the waves, softening it. Better, but still not there.
“You make it look easy.” Brooks’ voice is closer now. He’s sitting on my bed, leaning back on his hands like he’s always belonged here.
“It’s not, but…thanks for saying that.”
The door creaks open, and Beckett sticks his head in. “Dill, Mom said she’s making tacos. Don’t hole up in here all night or she’ll get pissy,” he warns. His eyes drift to the canvas, his features relaxing as he takes it in. “That’s really good.”
I shift uncomfortably, brushing off the compliment with a shrug. “It’s not finished.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Beckett replies. “It’s still amazing.” He looks like he’s about to say something else, but then jerks his chin toward Brooks. “Make sure she eats, yeah? You know she’ll forget.”
“On it,” Brooks says, giving him a lazy salute. Beckett shakes his head and disappears down the hall, leaving the door cracked open.
Brooks stretches, unfolding himself from the bed as he stands. “He’s right, you know. You’re ridiculously talented.”
I roll my eyes, setting my brush down. “It’s just a hobby, stop it.”
He smirks, crossing to my desk where my sketchbooks are stacked. Instinctively I move to stop him, but he picks up the one on top and flips it open before I can move. “Brooks,” I snap. “Stop—”
He freezes mid-page, his brows drawing together as he turns slowly to face me. My throat tightens as I see it again—the self-portrait I drew after my nightmare weeks ago. My face, my eyes, my pain, all so obviously splayed out on paper.
He lowers his voice. “Is this you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“I—” I look away, my hands balling into fists in my lap. I focus on the smudge of paint on my knuckle, a meaningless detail I can cling to rather than face the real question. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing,” he presses, his voice cautious now. Like he’s trying his hardest not to scare me away. “What’s this about?”
I want to say I don’t know, but that feels too simple. I do know. I just don’t know how to say it. No one has ever asked me before—not Beckett, not my mother, not anyone. They always just assume I’m fine. That if I needed help, I would ask for it. And maybe that’s my fault—I made it too easy for them to believe that. But it still stings, the way my mother never questions it, never wonders. Even after she saw the portrait. Like the idea something might actually be wrong has never once crossed her mind.
I’ve molded silence into armor. Speaking it aloud would tear open something savage I buried too deep to reach, and I’m not sure I could ignore it again once it’s out.
“It’s about something that happened…a long time ago,” I say, the confession slipping out in fragments I can’t pull back. The words pull me down with them, dragging me into a place I’ve spent years trying to forget.
Brooks sets the sketchbook aside, steps closer, then sinks down beside me, pulling my gaze to his without a word. That look, his distress—it cracks open the memory, tearing it from the depths of my mind. I’ve buried it for so long, but now it feels inevitable, like letting it surface is the only way to move forward.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the floor beneath me feels unsteady—or maybe it’s just my body, betraying me, barely holding me upright. I can feel the years of suffering pressing in—ready to spill over.
I’m on the edge now, teetering. Maybe it’s time to let it all out. Stop pretending I’m fine.
My chest locks, each breath shallow, like I’m drowning in air. Panic surges through me in frantic spirals, too relentless to outrun.
“Hey, hey, Dylan, look at me.” Brooks’ voice is urgent, laced with worry, but it feels distant—like a sound that’s barely there. “You’re safe. I’m here. I promise.”
When I finally open my eyes, Brooks hasn’t moved.
“I—” My throat is a dry, empty space. The words won’t come. They never have. I’ve never let them. Talking would mean letting someone see what I can’t bear to expose—and I don’t know how to let anyone see the wreck I’ve kept locked inside.
“I can’t,” I manage, tears slipping down my face despite my best efforts to stop them. His eyes are full of sincerity, a kind of care that cuts through my spiraling thoughts. The way he looks at me makes everything inside me feel exposed, vulnerable.
“It’s just something I’ve never told anyone. I don’t even know how,” I finally admit, the words tumbling out in a shaky breath.
He pulls me into a hug, a steady presence that refuses to waver. His arms stay wrapped around me, his hold full of something I’ve never known—support, safety, a wordless reassurance that reminds me I don’t have to carry this burden alone.
Time seems to blur. Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes into hours, yet Brooks never lets go. Somewhere along the way, we shifted, moved from the floor to the bed, his arms still wrapped around me, keeping me close. His embrace is something I didn’t know I needed, but now realize I can’t breathe without. It’s a silent challenge to my walls, proving to me I don’t have to carry every broken piece alone.
“When I was eight, my mom was dating this guy named Levi,” I start, the words scraping their way out of my throat.
“You don’t have to,” Brooks says softly, his voice careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break.
“No, I do.” I sit back slightly, just enough to see his face, though I can’t hold his eyes for long. “Levi was her boyfriend, and at first, he was…different. Nice. The kind of nice I didn’t trust, but Beckett and I hadn’t seen much of that in a long time.” My fingers tighten around the fabric of his hoodie, twisting it as I try to steady my breath. “I should’ve known better. I think I did know better.”
Brooks doesn’t say anything, and I force myself to keep going before I lose the nerve.
“One day, Beckett was at a friend’s house, and Mom was working late. Levi and I were alone. It started normal—he made lunch, asked about school—but then he…” My throat tightens, and I stop.
Brooks shifts beside me, not closer, not further, just enough to let me know he’s still there. “Take your time.”
“He started saying things—calling me pretty, saying I was special. But it wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right at least. I tried to brush it off, but then he cornered me. He kissed me, and I—” My voice cracks. I can’t look at Brooks. “I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t stop. He held me there, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even make a sound.”
I never understood how much of it I’d been bearing on my own, how much it had worn on me until now. My hands curl in my lap, trembling with a rage I can’t control. I hate it. I hate the way it strips me down.
“I’ve never told anyone,” I admit, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “No one’s ever asked. At least not the right questions, and I never…told? I didn’t know how to bring it up.” My voice wavers, the anger and shame bearing down on me.
Brooks shifts, and then his arms are around me again, pulling me close like he can shield me from everything, even the past. He doesn’t say a word—no promises, no clichés about how it’s not my fault. Just holds me like he’s bracing me until I’m secure again.
“I didn’t know what to do,” I whisper, voice raw. “I couldn’t even tell my mom. She wouldn’t have believed me, and even if she did…” I trail off, the enmity rising up like bile.
“She should’ve protected you,” Brooks says quietly. His voice is calm, but there’s a steel edge beneath it like he’s grinding his teeth to keep himself in check. “None of that was on you.”
My shoulders sag, the discomfort bleeding out slowly. “She didn’t. And after he left her, she just…drank more. Like if she stayed numb, she could trick herself into believing she wasn’t alone again.”
I keep talking—about how I’d buried it, how I’d convinced myself I could just forget everything, even when it haunted me in ways I couldn’t explain. I mention how I kept to myself, avoiding friendships, thinking it was easier that way. Brooks listens, never interrupting, while all I want to do is crumble, and somehow, that resolve in him makes it feel like I can.
Eventually, the tears stop, draining me until nothing’s left but emptiness. Fatigue sinks into my bones, crushing and unrelenting. Without thought, I collapse into him, and he doesn’t shift, doesn’t let me fall.
After all this time, the isolation loosens its grip, and the darkness cracks. Someone’s standing in the storm with me.
I wake up to a quiet room, the kind of stillness that attempts to stifle the air in my chest. My body feels leaden, even though I haven’t moved an inch. The curtains are drawn, leaving the room dim, and for a second, I consider rolling over and pulling the comforter over my head. Staying here, hiding, feels safer. Easier.
A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts, enough to draw my attention. I lift my head as Brooks steps inside. His brown hair tumbles in messy waves over his forehead, and his green eyes, hazy and half-lidded, blink slowly as though the morning hasn’t caught up to him yet. There’s a softness to him in this state, bathed in the gentle half-light of morning, that brings a sense of calm to my heart.
“You’re awake.” His voice carries a quiet assurance, and it’s comforting, to not feel like I’m something that might fall apart.
“You’re still here.”
“Of course,” he replies, sitting on the edge of the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Beckett let me crash in his room.”
For a heartbeat, a queasy feeling rises in my stomach. “Did you tell him anything?” The thought of Beckett knowing sets off a flare of anxiety deep in my gut.
Brooks shakes his head firmly. “God, no. I wouldn’t do that.”
I exhale, a wave of relief following, and I sink back against the pillow. “Thanks,” I rasp, but the word tastes too feeble, too insignificant for what I’m feeling.
“How are you feeling?”
I stall, words slipping through my fingers like sand. “Numb,” I mutter, the only thing that doesn’t feel like a lie.
Brooks leans forward, his hand finding mine. He doesn’t squeeze or pull—just leaves it there.
“You’re not alone in this, Dylan. You’ve got me. And Beckett, if you ever want to tell him.”
My throat constricts, my fingers tightening slightly around his without meaning to. There’s no way Beckett could handle this, not without making it his problem to solve. But Brooks? He’s different. He knows how to just be here, and that’s enough.
Instead of saying anything, I shift forward and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him in. It’s not something I think about—it just happens. A silent thank you.
His scent is a solid comfort, like pine and earth after rainfall. It’s primal, something I’ve now come to associate with safety. When I finally let go, he watches me with a tenderness that hurts, then his hand moves like it’s been aching for this moment. He hooks his fingers into my hair, cupping the base of my neck, but it burns like it’s stitching up the broken parts of me.
“You’ve got paint on your face,” he chuckles, ending the silence.
I touch my cheek instinctively, feeling the dry, cracked texture of yesterday’s mess.
“It suits you.”
Sitting up, I brush at the spot halfheartedly. The comfort of staying in bed all day is tempting, but a different idea begins to form–one that feels less confining.
“Would you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“I want to go back to the church. I think I’m ready to work on the mural again.”
His eyes don’t leave mine as he stands, holding out a hand. “Then let’s go.”
The morning sun is still climbing, casting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange. Our drive is peaceful, and as we park and step onto the brick path, I’m struck by an unexpected sense of happiness. The church looms ahead, its silhouette a quiet promise. My pulse quickens, not with anxiety, but with something more akin to eager expectation.
I pause at the door, my hand hovering just above the handle. There’s a brief moment where I reconsider, where I wonder if entering will ruin the fantasy that my healing is nothing more than a facade. But then I look back at Brooks. My fear is still there, but it no longer holds me with the same grip. I’ve fought against every fucking thing that has tried to bury me. I’ve survived, even when I thought I wouldn’t.
It only took one person— him —to crack through the walls I’ve stacked so high around myself. To show me that I’m worth more than the scraps I’ve been settling for, that I deserve better than the endless ache I’ve lived with for so long.
He’s my better. The kind of better I never thought I deserved, never thought I’d see. But now, I do. I see it—he’s the answer I never knew I was waiting for.
I take a breath and push the door open with vigor. The familiar scent of aged wood mingles with traces of paint, filling my senses as sunlight filters through the windows.
The moment my eyes land on the mural, a strange sort of calm settles over me. It’s unfinished, imperfect, but it’s mine.
Brooks walks further into the room, stopping near the center. He looks around for a second before lowering himself to the floor, leaning back against the wall. I drop my bag beside me and sit cross-legged near the mural.
“You’re just going to sit there?” I ask, pulling out my paints.
He shrugs. “I’m here for moral support. And documentation.” He raises the camera I hadn’t seen him bring, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I roll my eyes. He’s always got that damn camera on him—capturing me, random trees, or the way the clouds move like they’ve got something to say. It’s one of the things I can’t help but admire about him. He spots what everyone else misses, sees the world in ways that make it feel a little less ordinary.
As I begin painting, the room narrows to the colors on my palette and the strokes of my brush. Blues, purples, greens—they all blend together in a way that feels natural, like they were always meant to exist in this exact combination.
Time slips away. I lose track of how long I’ve been working, only pausing when Brooks’ camera clicks or when he mutters something under his breath about “lighting.” At one point, I look up and notice him lying flat on his back, aiming his camera at the ceiling.
“What are you even doing?”
“Finding the angles,” he explains, as though it’s self-evident.
The butterflies I’ve painted twist and shift in the light like they’re about to break free. They aren’t just paint. They’re pieces of me—the fractured parts I can’t undo. Each one captures something I can’t say, pressed into color, leaving behind something that may never actually fly but still feels like it’s trying.
By the time the sun begins to dip below the horizon, my arms ache, and my palms smeared with paint. I drop my brush and lean back, finally taking a moment to breathe.
Brooks scoots closer, settling beside me on the floor. Without a word, he slips his arm around my waist, and I lean into him.
The church is quiet except for the faint sound of birds outside and I feel…lighter.
His eyes search mine, and there’s something hidden in his expression. “Can I tell you something?”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued.
“That first day we met, when we came here? I knew I was done for. You walked in like a storm, completely out of place in this quiet town, and I was lost in you from the moment you stepped through the door. Even now, in this room full of your art, my eyes are drawn to only you.”
His words knock the air from my lungs, stranded in a space between reaction and silence. It’s strange how a point in time can feel like the end of one thing, yet hold a spark to the start of another.
My surroundings dissolve as he inches closer, his lips a breath away from mine, leaving behind the start of a memory that will somehow always feel like home.