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Jason glanced over. “I can.”

“You wanted to finish the movie.”

“So did you.”

Byron gathered Caldwell’s sketchbook and water bottle. “I’ve seen this already.”

“It came out three years ago,” Jason said. “You said you hadn’t.”

“Let me clarify,” Byron said. “I have seen enough.”

Hudson grinned.

Byron crouched beside Caldwell. “Book?”

Caldwell nodded.

“Which one?”

Caldwell held up two fingers.

“Two books?”

Another nod.

“That violates the usual agreement.”

Caldwell added a third finger.

Byron snorted. “Negotiating upward is not allowed.”

Caldwell smiled.

“Two,” Byron said. “And one short poem.”

Caldwell considered this, then nodded and lifted his arms.

Byron lifted him easily and carried him across the lawn, his brother’s head resting against his shoulder. Nobody complained. Nobody called Caldwell difficult. The family adjusted around his needs so naturally that the moment barely registered for them.

It registered for me, though.

My parents had treated nearly every childhood need as evidence of poor preparation. Hunger meant I should have packed something. Fatigue meant I had managed my time badly. Anxiety meant I was focusing on the negative. And even now, loneliness meant I needed to put myself out there, usually with a man they had selected.

Nothing was allowed to be a need on its own. It had to become a failure first. The Blackwells didn’t seem to operate that way.

If Caldwell became overwhelmed, someone sat with him. He became tired, so someone carried him home. The littles needed supervision during pack runs, so adults rotated the responsibility rather than deciding one person should always sacrifice.

People took care of one another without expecting anything in return. I wanted that with an intensity that embarrassed me. But with the desire came another fear. Maybe I didn’t know how to belong to something healthy.

Maybe years of being raised to minimize myself had left permanent damage. I could learn to eat breakfast and answer messages. I could exercise and buy scent blockers. None of that meant I knew how to receive love without mistrusting it or ruining it.

Perhaps something fundamental had been built incorrectly inside me.

Hudson shifted beside me.

Hudson: You okay?

I turned my head slightly, catching the dark silhouette of his profile as he stared straight ahead at the screen, pretending to be utterly absorbed in the film. I tapped out my reply with one thumb.