-Rowan.
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I finally found him slumped on one of those molded plastic chairs lined against the corridor wall—white, impersonal, the kind of place meant for waiting, not for mourning.
He was sitting still, too still, like someone had pressed pause on a life already too quiet. His head hung low, his shoulders curved inward. Even from a distance, I could see how broken he looked.
I walked toward him slowly, careful not to make the moment about me.
When he looked up, it hit me like a punch to the ribs.
His eyes were bloodshot, swollen, his skin pale in the cold hospital light. Grief didn't just sit on his face—it hollowed it out. He stood, slow and stiff, and when he did, he didn't say anything. Just lifted his arms slightly and let them fall again, as if the weight of his own breath was too much to hold.
"Reed—" I whispered, the name catching in my throat.
He looked at me, like he was trying to recognize something in a face he hadn't decided if he could trust anymore.
"Rowan." He said it without inflection. Not accusing. Not warm. Just... defeated.
I'd always wanted to hear him say my real name. But not like that. Not when it sounded like an aftershock.
I opened my arms—no words, just an offering. And, thank god, he stepped into it.
He crumpled in an instant.
Collapsed against me, all breath and sobs and jagged, messy grief. His hands clutched the fabric of my coat like he didn't know where else to put them. His face buried into my chest, shaking with each cry that tore through him.
I didn't say I'm sorry. I didn't tell him it's okay. Because it wasn't. And those phrases—they weren't meant for real grief. They were scaffolding people used when they didn't know how to build anything better.
So I stayed silent.
Held him tighter. Let him cry everything out, let him need me without question, without explanation. I kissed the top of his head gently, rested my chin there, just holding on. I wasn't good at this. I never had been. But I could stay.
Then I felt it—his legs started to give. His whole weight leaned into me like his body was no longer interested in performing the act of standing.
I steadied him, moved us carefully back down to the chairs. We sank together, arms still locked around each other. He didn't move, didn't shift or try to reclaim space. He just stayed curled into me, like the grief had softened into silence.
I don't know how long we sat like that.
The sobs faded. The silence thickened. But he never let go.
"Excuse me?"
A voice broke through, female, polite in that practiced way that came with discomfort. I turned slowly, still keeping my arms around Reed.
A woman stood nearby—late 40s, maybe. Hair dyed black and pulled back tightly. Her eyes caught me off guard. The same gray as Reed's, but less storm, more glass.
He lifted his head, heavy and slow, and blinked at her.
"Aunt Sammie," he said, voice barely there.
She gasped, rushing forward to the other side of him. She cupped his face between her palms, smoothing his cheeks like she hadn't just arrived fifteen minutes too late.
"Oh my god, baby," she whispered. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm not," he said, flat. Unapologetic. There was no energy left for lying.
She turned to me, as if realizing only now that someone else was here. Her eyes narrowed just briefly—subtle, but practiced.
"I'm Lucien," I said quietly, forcing myself to say the name he first knew me by. "Reed's friend."
"Hello," she said, smiling with a gratitude so fake I could practically see the seams holding it together. "Thank you for being here for him."
"Of course," I said, not breaking eye contact. "He's very dear to my heart."
Reed turned to me with the most expressive side-eye I'd ever seen. A dry, razor-edged flick of his gaze that said really? now?
Then he turned away from both of us, slumping back into the chair.
And that's when she did it.
"As for the burial," she began, "we can have it at David's family memorial. It's really a lovely place. They just installed new sprinklers to keep the grass fresh. Spent a lot."
Reed snapped.
"For once, Sammie, can we not talk about your fucking husband's fortune?"
Her mouth opened slightly, eyes widening.
"You don't even seem upset," he went on, voice rising, raw and cracking. "You walked in here with full makeup like it's a goddamn luncheon. Are you kidding me?"
She looked stunned. Like she hadn't expected him to speak, let alone turn into a blade mid-sentence.
I reached for his arms immediately. "Hey. Hey." I stood up, gently pulling him with me. "Excuse us for a minute," I said over my shoulder.
Sammie nodded, silent now.
I led him just down the hallway, out of earshot, away from the fluorescent light and the polite masks.
He didn't resist. Not even a little.
We stopped walking near the hospital reception, tucked beside a potted plastic plant and an outdated sign pointing toward Radiology. The overhead light buzzed softly, the sound of quiet pages turning behind the desk filling in the space we hadn't yet spoken into.
"Hey," I said gently, placing both hands on his face, cupping it like it might fall apart without support. "Be careful. We might end up needing her."
He flinched a little, not at my touch, but at the words.
"Why would I ever need that piece of trash?" His voice didn't rise—it just shook, steady in its fury. "Ever since she got married, she stopped visiting Grandma. Like she wasn't the woman who raised her. She talks about David this, David that—how much they spend, how fresh the flowers are in their garden, how 'softer' their water is after the filtration system was installed. Meanwhile, Grandma and I were rationing heating in the winter."
His eyes were red again, lashes wet, but he held his ground.
"She's a piece of shit."
"I know," I said, brushing my thumbs against his cheeks. "She does look the part. But don't you want your grandmother to rest somewhere beautiful?"
"Does it matter?" he asked, voice breaking in the middle, crumbling at the edges.
There it was again—those tears he kept trying to outrun.
"Maybe it does matter," I said softly. "All I'm saying is… you might need her help. You carried your grandmother all your life—emotionally, financially, physically. Maybe it's time someone else picked up even a fraction of that."
He looked at me, bitter and tender at once, the way only Reed could manage.
"But you're here," he said, voice small, like he was embarrassed to even ask it. "You can help me, right?"
The question gutted me.
"Sweetheart," I whispered, "I don't have a burial place. I don't know what'll ever happen to me if I die. There's no plot waiting for me. No fresh grass. No headstone. Just… air. But David—he has a family memorial site. Private. Established. Permanent."
Reed blinked. The shift was immediate. "Are you joking right now, Rowan?"
I winced. "Can you not—please, just… call me Lucien? Just around people. I'm sorry. I know this isn't about me. It's just a simple request."
He let out a breath that sounded like part-sigh, part-surrender. "Whatever," he muttered, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, his movements stiff and tired.
"Let's get back to the Bratz doll," I said, deadpan.
And he laughed. Really laughed.
It burst out of him, raw and breathy, like it had been waiting behind his grief, hiding in a corner until the moment could hold it. His head tipped forward slightly, forehead pressed into my shoulder, still shaking with quiet snickers.
It was the first sound that didn't hurt.
And god—it was such a relief.
We eventually did the handover to Sammie.
There was no ceremony to it—just a quiet shift of responsibility. Reed signed the final document, the one that gave her access to manage the burial site and logistics. She smiled like she'd won something. Like inheritance came with applause.
"Can you put me on the list for visitors?" Reed asked, voice low but clear.
"Of course, honey," she chirped. "I'll even send you the QR code so you can enter whenever you want!"
Reed exhaled, eyes closing for a beat. "Oh for fuck's sake," he muttered under his breath. Then, louder, "I'll go say goodbye."
He walked off before she could respond, heading toward the room where his grandmother was. His shoulders looked heavier again, each step slower, like that one line from her had pulled the weight right back onto him.
That left me alone with her.
She turned to me with a practiced smile, like this was a charity gala and I was an intern who'd spilled wine on the wrong person.
"So," she began, saccharine sweet, "have you been friends for long? You two seem really close."
"We are, yes," I said, polite but bland.
I tilted my head slightly. "What does your husband do for work?"
Instantly, her posture straightened. "He's the CEO of AdvDream," she said, puffing her chest slightly. The name landed with all the subtlety of a dropped crystal chandelier. Her grin beamed like she expected trumpets.
"Oh," I nodded slowly, keeping my expression unreadable. "What's that?"
Her face froze for just a split second—just long enough to register the disbelief.
"You don't know AdvDream?" she repeated, as if I'd confessed to not knowing oxygen.
"Never heard of it," I said flatly.
Her smile faltered, eyebrows inching upward. "Well… you sure do need more education," she replied with a condescending chuckle, like she'd just tossed a glittery insult into the wind and assumed it would fly.
I smiled—just slightly. "Or your husband needs to work better on marketing."
And with that, I turned and walked away, leaving her standing there in her designer shoes and powdered smugness, blinking like she couldn't quite believe someone had spoken to her without asking for her skincare routine.
Some people wore wealth like armor. Others like costume jewelry.
But Sammie? She wore it like a sticker she handed out in place of substance.
And I had no interest in being stuck.
The car ride home was quiet.
Just quiet in that strange, suspended way that follows grief like a shadow. The kind of silence that doesn't need to be broken because it's already doing the speaking. The sky outside was dimming into soft ash-blue, city lights flickering on like cautious witnesses to a day that had gone on too long.
Reed sat beside me, slouched into the passenger seat, legs pulled slightly in, arms folded—not defensively, just… inward. His head rested against the window. He hadn't spoken since we left the cemetery. He hadn't needed to. The goodbye had carved him open enough.
I kept my eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. Every so often, I glanced at him—just to be sure he was still here. Still breathing. Still holding on.
"Where would you like me to drop you off?" I asked finally, voice low so it wouldn't jar the moment too hard.
He didn't answer right away.
Then, without looking at me, he said, "My apartment."
That landed with weight. Not sharp, but final. Like a door clicking shut.
He stared out the window as if the answer explained itself. "I can't go back to Grandma's place. No way."
I nodded.
Didn't press. Didn't offer alternatives. Just nodded and flicked on the turn signal.
I understood.
You don't return to places that now echo in the wrong key. You don't sleep in a house where the silence feels haunted by familiarity. Where the armchair still waits. Where the light in the kitchen still flickers like she just walked through it.
Reed's apartment may have been cluttered, loud with his own memories, soaked in the aftermath of everything that happened between us—but at least it was his.
At least there, the grief belonged to him.
We drove the rest of the way without speaking. The hum of the engine filled the space between us like a blanket we didn't ask for but didn't throw off either.
I didn't know what tomorrow looked like.
But tonight, at least, I could bring him home.
Even if it wasn't the one he wanted. Just the one he had left.
The apartment smelled stale the moment we stepped in. Unlived in. Like time had paused the minute he left and refused to resume without permission.
Reed walked in ahead of me, dropped his keys on the counter with a soft clink that somehow echoed. He didn't turn on the main lights, just flicked on the small lamp near the window—the one that cast long shadows and made the room look softer than it really was.
He didn't say anything at first. Just toed off his shoes and headed toward the kitchen, running the tap like muscle memory. He filled a glass halfway, stared at it for a moment like he wasn't sure if it was what he needed, then drank anyway.
I hovered near the entrance. Not close, not far. Waiting.
"Do you want me to heat something up?" I asked after a beat, my voice low, careful.
He glanced at me, blinking like I'd spoken from underwater. Then he shook his head. "No. I'm not hungry."
I didn't push. I knew that feeling too well—when food tastes like ash and chewing feels like grief given texture.
He stood there for another moment, then walked into the living room and sat down slowly on the couch. He didn't collapse. He lowered himself like everything might break if he moved too fast—including him.
I followed quietly, moving to sit on the edge of the armchair opposite. I didn't reach for him. I didn't speak.
I just sat.
After a few minutes, Reed looked over at me, his eyes soft and dark, rimmed with the kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix.
"Can you…" His voice caught, but he didn't look away. "Can you stay the night?"
He said it like he hated asking. Like it made him feel small.
"Just... stay?" he added, after a beat. "I don't think I can sleep alone. I'm scared."
The last word landed like a truth he hadn't said out loud in years.
I nodded before he could finish the sentence.
"Of course," I said. "I'll stay."
And I meant it in every way that mattered.
I moved beside him on the couch, close enough for him to lean into if he wanted, but not pressing. Just there.
He looked at me for a second longer—just long enough to decide something invisible—then leaned in, resting his head against my shoulder, his entire body slackening like he was finally allowed to rest.
I wrapped an arm around him, gentle, grounding.
Outside, the city moved on. Tires over wet asphalt. Someone yelling down the street. A dog barked once, then fell silent.
But inside, here, in the quiet of this dim apartment with its lopsided lamp and sagging furniture—he was safe.
And I would not leave.