Chapter 16

The air in Conrad's apartment always smells like a combination of burnt coffee and printer paper. He likes it that way: the stale, constant presence of caffeine and productivity, the hum of his desk lamp, the way the clutter forms a fort against the rest of the world. It's late afternoon, but the cheap blackout curtains never really let the sun in, so every hour feels like twilight.

He sits at his desk, knees drawn up, hunched over an open physiology textbook, pencil tapping a slow, steady rhythm. The page is half-highlighted, a neat stripe of neon orange bisecting the phrase "acute myocardial infarction." He's been staring at that term for at least ten minutes, unable to decide if he hates the word "infarction" more for the way it looks or the way it sounds.

A knock sounds—a brisk, purposeful rat-a-tat—before the door flies open. He doesn't have time to brace himself before Amelia bursts in, hair windblown, cheeks flushed, holding aloft a single Funfetti cupcake that's topped with a sparking, hissing firework of a sparkler. In her other hand, a clumsily wrapped box dangles from a piece of twine. She's wearing a coat that's too big for her and the same scuffed Chelsea boots she's had since freshman year.

"Happy two-year friend-aversary, you absolute hermit!" She plants the cupcake on his keyboard, sparklers showering tiny stars onto the space bar, and brandishes the present like it's a winning lottery ticket.

Conrad blinks, momentarily at a loss. "What," he says, then: "Today?"

"Yes, today. You can't seriously have forgotten." She throws her coat onto the back of his chair, nearly knocking over his half-empty coffee mug, and fixes him with a look that manages to be both exasperated and fond. "You tried to keep me at arms length, but low and behold, here we are today!'"

He presses a palm to his forehead, feigning defeat, but the corners of his mouth pull up anyway. "Yeah. That was a mistake."

"I took you at your word," she says, tone arch. She jams the present into his hands and sinks onto the edge of his bed, crossing her legs at the ankles. "Go on then, open it."

He regards the box like it might explode, then tears into the paper with surprising delicacy. Inside is a mug—white, oversized, the sort you'd find in an old diner. Across the side, in loopy black script, it says, Future McDreamy.

He can't help it; he laughs. "That's—wow."

"I know, right?" Amelia grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Now you have to drink out of it exclusively, otherwise you'll fail out of med school. It's basically a scientific fact."

He stands, walks to the cramped kitchenette, and rinses the mug under the tap, just to buy a few seconds of not having to look at her. When he returns, she's already making herself at home, flipping through the nearest stack of note cards, feet kicked up onto the bottom rung of his desk chair.

The apartment is small, but they've blurred the boundaries between his and hers until it's hard to tell whose is whose. String lights trail from the tops of his overstuffed bookcases to the far corner, where Amelia's beanbag and blanket nestle against the window. Her computer science textbooks intermingle with his med school tomes; their shared collection of takeout menus covers the fridge in a patchwork of neon. Every surface is a tug-of-war between Conrad's instinct for order and Amelia's love of casual chaos.

He sets the mug on the desk, sliding it across to her without thinking. "You want coffee?"

"Only if you make it," she says, and there's an unspoken understanding to the ritual. He knows how she takes it: strong, two sugars, just a hint of milk, because anything more is "an insult to the bean." He fixes two mugs, hands hers over, and watches as she sips, smirks, and wipes a dab of foam from her nose with the back of her hand.

He sits across from her, the cupcake smoldering between them, and for a moment the only sound is the quiet fizz of the sparkler and the shuffle of pages as Amelia absently rifles through his flashcards. She's never content to just sit still; she's always moving, even if it's just drumming her fingers or doodling in the margins of a notebook.

"So," he says, picking at the edge of the cupcake wrapper. "Are we commemorating, or are you just looking for an excuse to break into my apartment again?"

"Both," she admits, then leans forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And because you need a break. You haven't left this room in three days, and I'm worried you'll turn into a pupa or something."

He huffs, but the effect is ruined by the smile threatening to take over his face. "I do not pupate."

"You do," she insists, "and it's tragic. Luckily, I'm here to save you from yourself. Again."

He rolls his eyes, but the sparkler is burning low, and he doesn't argue when she grabs a fork from the drawer and divides the cupcake cleanly in half.

They eat in companionable silence, the kind that's been forged by late-night study sessions and shared catastrophes. It's a routine now: her dropping by at all hours, him pretending to be annoyed, the two of them sharing a lopsided meal or a bottle of cheap wine on the roof. He's never had a friend like her before—never wanted one, not really—but now he can't remember what it was like to live without her steady, impossible presence.

Amelia nudges the box of candles across the desk with her knuckles. "Make a wish," she says, and he almost laughs at how childish it is, but instead he closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of burnt sugar and frosting.

He remembers the first time he saw her, standing outside his apartment door with a plate of cookies, still warm from the oven, her gentle London accent, pushing the plate into his hands before he could refuse. That was two years ago. Since then, their lives have tangled together in a hundred tiny ways.

He blows out the candle. Amelia claps, then leans back, balancing the chair precariously on two legs.

"Did you wish for a passing grade on your MCAT, or for the sweet release of death?" she teases.

"Both," he says, and she cackles, almost spilling her coffee. He watches the way her hair falls into her face when she laughs, the way she tosses it back with a careless flick of her hand.

The rest of the afternoon drifts by in flashes, the present punctuated by memories that flare up with the taste of icing or the smell of burnt espresso.

He remembers last summer, when they rented a tiny beach house in Santa Cruz with a bunch of friends. He'd tried to teach Amelia to surf, but she spent more time shrieking in the shallows than on the board. Later, they stole a sailboat—borrowed, technically—and drifted out past the breakers, salt spray stinging their faces. She asked him if the ocean ever made him feel small, and he didn't have an answer, so he just handed her a beer and let the wind carry their silence.

He remembers her birthday, the way she invited everyone she knew (and her roommate invited half the campus she didn't), the living room filled with balloons and off-key singing, Conrad pressed into a corner with a party hat askew on his head. Amelia made him dance, spinning him around until he forgot how much he hated crowds.

He remembers finals week, when he locked himself in his room and tried to memorize years' worth of organic chemistry in seventy-two hours. Amelia showed up every night with tupperware containers of homemade curry—her dad's recipe, heavy on the cardamom—and sat across from him, eating in silence until he looked up, laughed, and told her she was a freak for liking things so spicy.

He remembers their second "orphan Christmas," just the two of them and a $10 tree from the parking lot, stringing popcorn garlands and drinking boxed wine. They danced to Michael Bublé in ugly sweaters and opened gifts with the solemnity of a royal ceremony.

He remembers every rooftop, every midnight, every time he found her waiting outside his building with a scarf wrapped up to her chin, breath clouding in the cold.

Now, in the warmth of his apartment, with the residue of frosting stuck to his thumb and Amelia grinning across the desk, it feels like all those moments are layered on top of the present—like a stack of transparencies, each one adding colour to the grayscale of his day-to-day.

He watches as Amelia licks a smear of icing from the fork, then stands to survey his bookshelf. "You still haven't read any of these, have you?"

"I've read some," he lies. "More than you, probably."

She snorts. "Name one."

He glances at the spines—Medical Microbiology, Molecular Biology of the Cell, The Emperor of All Maladies. He picks up the last one, waves it in her direction. "This one. About cancer."

She sobers, just for a moment. "Was it any good?"

He nods. "You'd like it. Lots of stories about people who won't quit, even when the odds are stacked."

She smiles, a slow, genuine curve of her mouth. "That's my favourite kind."

A pause stretches between them, not awkward but full—like there's something important in the air that neither of them wants to disturb.

Amelia breaks the tension first, flopping back onto the bed with a groan. "I've got a lecture at eight tomorrow. If you don't hear from me by noon, assume I've been eaten alive by a pack of rabid TAs."

Conrad sets the mug in the sink, wipes down the counter, and returns to his desk. He glances at her, sprawled on his couch like she owns the place, and feels a sudden, sharp gratitude that she does. That they've built this strange, unofficial life together, piece by piece.

He picks up his pencil, flips to a fresh page, and starts to outline the next chapter. Behind him, Amelia's breathing slows, her eyes drifting closed, and he knows she'll be asleep in minutes. He lets her rest, lets himself listen to the soft, steady cadence of her breath.

The next time he looks up, the sky outside is dark, and his desk lamp casts a golden halo over the two halves of the cupcake, the empty mugs, and the Future McDreamy mug, already smudged with fingerprints.

He doesn't make a sound as he moves through the room, tucks a blanket over Amelia's shoulder, and turns out the lamp.

If he's careful, maybe he can keep this moment alive for just a little longer.

The next morning, sunlight manages to worm its way through the cracks in the curtains, splashing gold across the small table where Conrad nurses his first coffee of the day. Amelia is already awake and in motion, perched cross-legged on the countertop in her leggings and an ancient sweatshirt, typing furiously on her phone as she devours a piece of sourdough toast.

"Tell me you're not pulling another all-dayer," she says, not looking up. "You promised. Yesterday was supposed to count for the whole week."

He grunts, "I have biochem at ten," then, with a sideways glance, "and I wouldn't be caught dead at Café Lumière in pyjamas."

"That's exactly why I'm your social life manager," Amelia says, sliding off the counter and sticking the landing with gymnast flair. "Today, I'm enforcing normalcy. Caffeine, carbs, and sunshine. You're coming with, and you will act like a human."

He tries to glare at her, but it's half-hearted at best. "Is there a reason I need a chaperone for coffee?"

"Only that last time you left the house, you nearly started a fight with the bagel guy." She flashes him a triumphant smile, like she's caught him mid-crime. "Go, shower. I'll pick out your outfit. No Stanford hoodies. I'm burning them."

He retreats to the bathroom, the sound of her humming leaking through the door. By the time he emerges—hair damp, jeans swapped for something less wrinkled—she's waiting by the door, keys spinning on her finger and a knit scarf looped around her neck despite the fifty-degree weather.

They cut across campus, dodging skateboarders and slow-moving undergrads. The air is brisk, tinged with eucalyptus and the faint sweetness of bakery exhaust from the row of cafés near the quad. The closer they get to Lumière, the more packed the sidewalk becomes— people buzzing in and out, gesturing wildly with their coffee cups, earbuds trailing like party streamers.

Inside, the noise hits Conrad first: the clatter of plates, the sizzle of milk steamers, the laughter and overshared stories pouring out of every table. He instinctively scans for a quiet spot, but Amelia beelines for the corner booth where two of their friends— Theo and Agnes, both currently arguing over the merits of a new calendar app—have already staked their claim.

"Conrad!" Agnes calls, waving a fork like a wand. "Come sit, you can help us mediate."

He slides in beside Amelia, wedged between her and the window. She's greeted by a barrage of inside jokes and friendly insults, most of which he ignores, content to let their conversation wash over him.

"Wait, wait," says Agnes, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. "How was the friend-aversary. That was the other day wasn't it? Or are you two finally admitting you're a couple?"

Conrad chokes on his coffee. "We're not—"

"—just friends," Amelia says at the exact same time, their voices in perfect sync. The table explodes in laughter, Theo nearly snorting coffee out his nose. Even the barista behind the counter looks up, amused.

Tyler, another member who joined their growing group over the past year, appears late as usual, sliding into the seat across from them with a reckless grin. "If you guys ever do hook up, the world will probably end. Like, we'll see a news alert and just know. That's the energy."

Conrad shakes his head, trying to play it off. "Not happening."

Tyler leans in, elbows on the table. "Sure, man. Just... the way you both deny it is almost romantic. Textbook case of protest too much, you know?"

Amelia elbows Conrad, shooting him a mock glare. "You'd think after two years, they'd stop being so bloody obsessed with our sex lives."

He shrugs, not trusting himself to look at her just yet. The conversation shifts, spiralling out into stories about their professors, dorm drama, the best places to eat off-campus. For a while, Conrad just listens, occasionally chiming in with a dry comment that gets a laugh. It's easy, the way it's supposed to be, and for a fleeting second he feels like he belongs.

At the counter, he orders their usuals—Americano for him, a latte for her. He barely finishes reciting Amelia's absurdly detailed coffee order when his phone buzzes against his thigh. He glances down, expecting a text from some group chat, but the screen flashes, ADAM.

He presses ignore. The phone buzzes again, this time a voicemail notification. He pockets it, jaw tight, and grabs the coffees as the barista sets them down, both cups marked with little hearts in Sharpie. Amelia's eyes linger on his face as he returns to the table, and for a split second he's sure she's about to ask, but she just accepts her cup and says, "Thanks, Con," like it's any other day.

They spend an hour at Lumière. It's easy to lose track of time in the rhythm of other people's problems, the comfort of knowing that nothing here is life or death. Amelia tells a story about her mum's latest attempt to set her up with the son of a gallery patron, and Conrad gets roped into offering fake medical advice for Theo's "undiagnosed case of tragic laziness." He's halfway through diagnosing "chronic procrastinitis" when Tyler interrupts.

"So, Amelia, you seeing anyone back home? Or do I have a shot?"

The table bursts into laughter, but Conrad goes still. His fork freezes midair, the air in his lungs suddenly heavier, like someone has pressed a weight against his ribs. He doesn't look up right away, just forces himself to stab at the remains of his food like the question means nothing.

Amelia, unbothered, raises an eyebrow. "I think you're a bit out of my league, Ty."

"Damn," Tyler says, though he's grinning, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth.

The others pick it up instantly, tossing jokes across the table, their voices overlapping in easy camaraderie. But Conrad's not laughing. His jaw is tight, shoulders wound up, every muscle locked in place as if bracing for an impact that never comes. It's stupid, he knows. Amelia can handle herself—she just did. Still, something in him thrums sharp and unsettled, like a struck chord vibrating in his chest.

When the check comes, it's a mess of Venmo requests and split bills. He barely registers the numbers, more focused on the way Amelia waves off Theo's offer to cover her coffee, or the way Tyler's grin lingers a beat too long. Outside, the weak morning sun spills over the sidewalk, and everyone lingers, unwilling to break the spell of a rare easy morning.

Then, quietly, a hand settles on his shoulder—Amelia's, warm through his jacket.

Conrad exhales, tension bleeding out by degrees.

"Walk me back?" she says. It's not a question.

They take the long way home, past the sculpture garden and the empty soccer field, both content to walk in silence. The air is sharp, and the sky impossibly blue. Every so often, Amelia bumps his arm with hers, as if to keep the connection alive.

"You okay?" she asks, quietly, when they're halfway back.

He considers lying, but the effort seems pointless. "Dad called."

"Want to talk about it?"

"No." He looks at her, and for a second he wonders if she's going to push. But she doesn't. She just nods, then shifts the conversation to a coding project she's struggling with, and Conrad lets himself be distracted.

As they approach their building, his phone buzzes again. This time, it's Jeremiah. He hesitates, thumb hovering over the notification, then locks the phone and slips it into his pocket.

"Ignore him, too?" Amelia asks, her tone light.

He laughs, but there's an edge to it. "For now. I can only handle one Fisher Man Meltdown per day."

"Fair." She holds the door for him, and they step into the dim hallway, the scent of old carpet and lemon cleaner greeting them like an old friend.

They pause at the base of the stairs. For a heartbeat, neither moves. Then Amelia says, "See you at lunch?" and he nods, already picturing her back in his kitchen, stealing bites of his sandwich and arguing about who gets the last Oreo.

He heads up to his apartment, closes the door behind him, and leans against it, letting the morning's chatter echo in his head. He reaches for his phone, swiping through the notifications without reading them, and catches a glimpse of an old photo—Belly on the sand, hair blown wild by the wind, her smile bright and ferocious.

He stares at the picture for a moment, waiting for the usual ache to start. But nothing happens. No sudden twist in his gut, no urge to throw the phone across the room. He sets it down, feeling lighter than he has in months.

Maybe healing is just this, a collection of mornings, each a little less heavy than the one before.

Friday nights are for rituals. For Conrad and Amelia, that means the world's laziest takeout, two pairs of sweatpants, and a Netflix algorithm that is utterly broken from years of competing tastes. The apartment is warm, the string lights wound around the bookshelves glowing soft pink and gold. Conrad plates up cold sesame noodles and a double order of vegetable dumplings, arranging them with absurd precision on the battered coffee table.

Amelia floats out of the bathroom in one of Conrad's old Stanford crewnecks, hair up in a scrunchie, armed with a stack of chocolate bars and a running commentary about which movie will "rot our brains the most efficiently." She flops onto the sofa, feet tucked under her, scrolling through endless options with theatrical sighs.

"Do you want murder, heartbreak, or spaceships?" she calls, tossing him a remote with terrifying accuracy.

"Anything but murder," Conrad says, which is how he knows she'll put on a true crime documentary anyway. She loves to tease, to see how quickly she can get a rise out of him. Tonight, he lets her win, just because her laugh is lighter than usual, and he wants to keep it that way.

They settle in. For the first twenty minutes, neither really watches the screen. Instead, there's an unspoken competition to see who can eat the most dumplings, who can construct the most elaborate insults for the documentary's narrator, "He sounds like a dial-up modem trying to do a British accent," Amelia declares, and Conrad nearly chokes on his noodles. When the documentary sours into interviews with sombre experts, Amelia tucks her head onto Conrad's shoulder, making a low noise of protest.

"This is too grim," she says, voice muffled by sweatshirt. "Switch it."

Conrad fumbles for the remote and flips through mindlessly, pausing on a nature special about octopuses. "Better?"

"Marginally," she concedes. "Though I could always just quiz you on enzyme cascades instead."

He groans, but the threat is half-hearted. The evening is easy, the kind of comfort that settles under the skin and makes it hard to remember a time before this. Amelia's leg is pressed against his, their hands occasionally bumping as they both reach for more noodles, neither pulling away.

They are midway through a segment on cuttlefish camouflage when someone knocks on the door. Not a neighbour's polite tap, but three sharp, confident raps—an announcement, not a request. Conrad's body tenses. He glances at the clock: 8:11 PM. No one ever visits at 8:11 PM.

Amelia sits up, senses the shift instantly. She smooths her hair, wipes her hands on her pants, and gives him a look, are you expecting anyone?

He shakes his head.

The knock comes again, sharper.

He stands, crosses the living room, and cracks the door. What he sees is impossible: his father, Adam Fisher, standing in the hallway in an immaculate charcoal suit, clutching a leather duffel and wearing the wolfish, polished smile Conrad remembers from every school function, every forced family holiday.

"Surprise, Connie," Adam says, like they're picking up a conversation from five minutes ago.

Conrad just stares.

Adam's gaze slips past his son, cataloguing everything: the shoes by the door, the glow of the string lights. His eyes pause on the takeout, the two mugs, the unmistakable lived-in feel of the space. Then he returns his attention to Conrad, smile unchanged but eyes sharp and restless.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Adam says, shifting the duffel to his other hand. He's already halfway through the doorway before Conrad steps aside, brain scrambling to process.

Amelia is standing now, posture straight and careful, as if bracing for a pop quiz. She offers a polite smile, the one she reserves for professors and her visiting mum, and Adam's eyebrows shoot up a fraction with flicker of confusion before he covers it with a practiced smile. "And you are...?"

"Amelia," she says easily, moving to shake his hand. "A friend of Conrad's."

Adam nods, polite but clearly thrown off. "Didn't realize he had company." His gaze flicks to Conrad, an unspoken question hanging between them.

"Mind if I sit?" Adam doesn't wait for a response, just eases himself into the armchair, crossing his legs and setting the bag at his feet.

Conrad hovers by the wall, suddenly aware of how small the apartment is, how close all the evidence of his new life sits to the surface. He waits for his dad to say something, to explain the unannounced visit, but Adam seems content to take in the room, running a critical eye over the shelves, the art, the view out the window.

Amelia perches on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped in her lap. After a few seconds of brittle silence, she says, "Can I get you something? Tea, coffee?"

Adam smiles. "Coffee would be excellent, thank you." He turns to Conrad, eyebrow arched. "You always did make the best cup."

Conrad goes to the kitchenette, hands moving on autopilot. He can feel Adam's gaze following him, weighing, measuring, taking stock of what kind of person his son has become. He hates how easily the old habits snap back in place: the way he checks the label on the beans, the way he wipes down the counter before pouring. He wonders if Adam even notices, or if it's just another thing to silently judge.

When the coffee is finished, he brings it over in the Future McDreamy mug, just to see if his father will comment. He doesn't. He just sips, makes a thoughtful sound, and says, "You've done well here, Conrad."

The compliment is so out of character that it lands like a small bomb in the middle of the room.

"Thanks," Conrad says, voice flat.

Adam leans back, surveying the space again. "You've got a nice setup. Community, routines, even someone to keep you in line." He nods at Amelia, who smiles back, razor-thin.

There's a long pause. Conrad can feel Amelia's gaze flickering between them, trying to decode the family dynamic. He knows exactly what it looks like: a perfect picture, with three people all pretending they're not three different brands of broken.

Adam finally sets the mug on the table, steepling his fingers. "I'm in town for a conference. Thought I'd swing by, see if you were actually alive."

Conrad bristles. "You could have called."

Adam's smile widens. "So that you can ignore it, like all the other times I call?"

Another silence, heavy and coiled.

"So," Adam says, shifting gears, "what are we watching?" He nods at the TV, where the cuttlefish documentary is paused mid-tentacle.

Amelia recovers instantly. "It's a classic," she says, voice bright and sure. "He's obsessed with sea creatures."

Adam laughs. "Of course he is."

Conrad sits on the arm of the sofa, watching his father with the wary patience of someone who's spent a lifetime reading between lines. He waits for the catch—for the request, the criticism, the backhanded compliment.

But Adam just settles in, like he belongs. Like he's been here every Friday night for the last two years.

The three of them sit in brittle silence, the TV flickering. Conrad's leg bounces, hands clenched in his lap, mind racing through a thousand possible conversations and landmines. Across from him, Amelia meets his gaze, gives the faintest nod—We've got this.

But Conrad isn't sure. He can feel the edges of his carefully constructed world beginning to fray, the intrusion of his father's presence like a draft in a house with thin walls.

He stares at the floor, at the shoes lined up by the door, and wonders how long it will take for the old patterns to break through. For now, he just breathes.