Chapter 27

The beach house is quiet when Conrad and Amelia return, the only sound the faint creak of the screen door as it shuts behind them. The salt-heavy air lingers in the living room, mingling with the faint scent of old wood. Adam is there, pacing, phone in hand, his jacket tossed carelessly over the back of a chair. He doesn't even look up when they walk in—he's too focused, too wound tight.

Conrad freezes, the familiar spark of irritation igniting in his chest. "I thought we had finally settled this when I visited months ago. He's figuring things out, Dad. You keep holding every slip-up over his head."

Adam's brows shoot up, his laugh humourless. "Slip-up? You haven't seen the credit card statements. It's not just tuition. It's the clothes, the alcohol, the ten grand he blew in Cabo over spring break. Do you know how that looks? And now what? I have to pay for this shot gun wedding? No. I refuse. I know that you believe I treat you both differently, but this has absolutely nothing to do with you and everything to do with him being irresponsible."

The words hang heavy. Conrad glances at Amelia, who has perched on the arm of the sofa, her eyes flicking between them. She doesn't speak, but her presence is steady—like a reminder to breathe.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Conrad says finally, stepping forward, voice low but edged. "You reduce him to numbers and receipts, like that's all he is. He's your son. My brother."

Adam exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And being my son doesn't excuse irresponsibility. Do you want me to just keep bailing him out until he's thirty? Connie, I love you both to death. But you know that he's far too young and reckless for this and that me being pissed is valid."

Conrad swallows hard, wanting to argue, to defend Jeremiah the way no one else seems to, but also hearing the truth buried in Adam's frustration. He hates that—hates feeling torn down the middle.

Adam shakes his head, runs a hand down his face. " Be honest with me Connie, do you agree with it? The wedding?"

The silence stretches before Conrad shifts, his tone quieter, more careful. "It doesn't matter if I agree or disagree. The point is, they're set on it. And if you refuse to stand by him, he'll resent you. That's what you need to think about—not whether you approve."

The words land heavy, and Adam lets out a deep breath. On the couch, Amelia folds her hands in her lap. Her eyes flick to Conrad, a softness there, a kind of you're not alone she doesn't need to say out loud.

"I'm sorry Connie. I just—I can't agree to this. Not a wedding that is so obviously rushed. It would be different if it was you and Amelia—"

"Jesus, Dad. I can't believe you're honestly still—" Conrad's jaw clenches, the muscle there jumping visibly. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, then release, a rhythm of tension he's practiced since childhood.

"No, just. Let me explain, okay?" Adam's voice softens, his shoulders dropping as he gestures with open palms. "You and Amelia live together, share a life. You wake up every morning and choose each other. They still live in separate dorms, for Christ's sake. You guys spend your college breaks building something real—cooking dinners together, meeting each other's friends, planning for a future. I've seen it."

He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, eyes darting to Amelia with something like apology before continuing. "Meanwhile, they go to frat parties and beach weekends with a revolving door of people we've never even heard of. I'm not a monk nor was I born yesterday. I know what happens at those places, and it doesn't exactly scream 'ready for marriage.'"

Adam's voice raises slightly on the last word. He clears his throat, looking down at the floor. "And they swear that she isn't pregnant, so why the rush? I just don't get it, Conrad."

The lines around Adam's eyes deepen, genuine stress etched into every feature. The silence stretches between them, heavy with years of misunderstandings and expectations.

Finally, Amelia uncrosses her ankles and leans forward, her voice quiet but steady. "Like Conrad said, they seem determined to go for it regardless of what anyone else thinks." Her British accent becomes more pronounced, as it always does when she's choosing her words carefully. "The reasoning behind it doesn't really matter at the moment because to them, whatever reasoning they have is worth it."

She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, meeting Adam's gaze directly. "You don't have to agree one hundred percent, and by no means does that mean you have to foot the bill. But if you can show any form of support—even reluctant support—that will mean the most to him." Her voice softens further. "He's already having his wedding day without his mother. He shouldn't have to do it without his father, too."

Amelia cuts a look to Conrad, the silent "or his brother" goes unsaid, but hangs in the air between them like a challenge. Her eyes hold his, steady and sure, reminding him of promises made on rooftops under Stanford stars. Adam checked his phone, sighing as he slipped it back into his pocket. "I should get on the road. Traffic back to Boston will be hell if I wait much longer."

Conrad rose halfway from his chair, a stiff politeness in his movement. Adam clapped his shoulder on the way past, and the gesture felt both familiar and foreign, like trying to slip into an old jacket that didn't quite fit anymore.

"Call me if anything changes," Adam said, glancing between Conrad and Amelia. "And—" his gaze lingered on Conrad "—make sure you pop round before you fly back. I don't see you enough as is."

With that, he was gone, the screen door snapping shut in his wake. The house seemed to exhale, silence rushing in where Adam's presence had filled the room.

Later that night, Conrad and Amelia lay side by side under the thin cotton sheets, the moonlight slicing through the blinds in ghostly ribbons that danced across the low ceiling. The room smelled faintly of chamomile and linen, and outside, a lone car engine idled before fading into the distance. It wasn't exactly tense, but the silence between them felt substantial, like a hand pressing down on their chests.

"Are we going to talk about it?" Amelia murmured into the quiet, her voice soft and cautious, as though she were stepping into a field strewn with hidden landmines.

Conrad shifted, releasing a short, ragged breath. He stared upward at the ceiling's pale slats. "Do we need to?"

She tilted her head toward him, brushing a lock of hair back from her face. "I don't know." Her words hovered in the air. "Do we?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply through his teeth. Finally he rolled onto his side, and their hands collided, fingers brushing. The contact was electric in the stillness. He laced his fingers with hers, eyes fixed on the shapes of shadow overhead. "I don't agree with it. Not because..." He faltered, searching for the right way to say it. "Not because it's her. But because of the same things my Dad mentioned." His words stumbled out in a rush.

Amelia stayed quiet. Her thumb found his knuckles and began tracing slow, absent patterns, as if soothing a restless animal. The soft friction of her skin against his was a tiny reclamation of calm.

"I just... it's so fucking dumb," he muttered, voice low and rough, frustration seeping into every syllable. "And I know if I say anything, it'll look like I'm disapproving just because of who she is, what she was."

A gentle hum escaped her lips—a sound meant to hold open the space for him to keep talking. She didn't press him, only stayed present, an anchor tethering him to reason.

He swallowed, the shape of his next words caught in his throat. "And I can't help but think of Mum." His voice cracked. "How she'd react to all this. Would she jump right in, give her blessing? Or would she be more like Laurel—practical, reminding them exactly how unprepared they are?" He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as he pictured his mother's clear-eyed gaze.

The quiet lengthened, growing denser. Amelia turned toward him, her propped-up elbow brushing the pillow fluff into disarray. In the slanted silver light, her eyes searched his profile, trying to read the unspoken worry lines.

"Can I please say something and not have you immediately interrupt?" The question trembled on her lips.

His brows drew together, but he nodded stiffly. "Of course."

She drew in a steady breath, wetting her lips. The air around them felt cooler now, like the moment before a storm breaks. "I think Belly still has feelings for you."

He sat up so fast the sheets rustled. A scoff tore through his chest. "Amelia, come on. Be real."

She pushed herself up too, planting both hands on the mattress. In her eyes lay calm steel. "I am being real. I'm not saying she's head over heels in love with you. I've known her scarcely twelve hours. But—the distance between you two, the years of no contact—I don't think she's processed the finality of what you had."

He shook his head, mouth opening to retort, yet his mind drifted. He remembered her gaze earlier in the kitchen, the way it had lingered—quiet, measuring—like she was comparing him to a long-buried memory. Like she was wondering if he'd changed enough to be someone new.

"I don't think it's about her having feelings," he said at last, voice firmer now, though an edge of exhaustion remained. "I think it's her trying to figure out who I am now. Like you said—it's been years." He pressed his palms into the mattress, as if anchoring himself.

His tone wasn't harsh, but it carried the weight of exhaustion—the tired refusal to argue further. Amelia's shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. She studied him for a heartbeat longer, saw the tension twisting in his neck, and then lay back down.

A soft "okay" drifted from her lips. She turned onto her side, her back arching away from him, and the bed settled again into a hushing darkness. Overhead, the moon continued its slow crawl, its pale beams drifting until they vanished.

They'd quibbled before—over the wrong tea bags, or the tendrils of flour she always left clinging to the counter after a late-night baking spree—but never had they drifted toward sleep burdened by silence so heavy. Usually the back and forth of small disputes was swept away by laughter or a shared slice of cake the next morning. But this time, as they lay side by side beneath tangled sheets, the unspoken words between them felt alive, pulsing with resentment and regret. Conrad felt their weight in the press of the mattress against his hips; Amelia felt it in the way her fingers curled instinctively around the hem of the sheet. Neither dared to be the first to unravel the quiet.

When Conrad finally stirred, the pale light of dawn filtered through gossamer curtains, bathing the room in a soft, sombre grey. The ocean breeze drifted inside, carrying the faint taste of salt and seaweed, slipping around the ankles of the bed before wandering back out again. Amelia sat at the foot of the mattress, legs crossed, her laptop poised on her thighs like a rigid tablet. The glow of the screen traced her cheekbones and the tension in her jaw. Conrad blinked against the half-light, startled to find her already awake, her posture rigid in the hush. When her eyes met his, she offered a small, tentative smile—one that didn't quite reach the corners of her mouth.

"Morning," she said, her voice soft but measured, as though she were testing each syllable for cracks.

"Morning," he replied, the single word catching on the rough edge of something unsaid. He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and bent to pull a T-shirt from the chair as though the movement could shield him from whatever still lingered between them

Downstairs, the house was hushed except for the faint, steady hum of the refrigerator and the distant car moving past the street. Conrad paused at the bottom step, listening. In the living room, Jeremiah and Belly lay curled together on the couch, a blanket half-slid to the floor.. Belly's hair spilled across Jeremiah's shoulder, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. For a moment, the sight struck Conrad—so familiar, yet different. His jaw tensed.

He turned slightly, catching Amelia's eye. She gave him a quiet look, neither judgmental nor forgiving, just steady. Without a word, she slipped past him into the kitchen, her feet light on the polished wood floor, and set the kettle to boil. The faint click of the switch sounded in the hush like a starting pistol.

Conrad moved into the living room, the stale scent of last night's snack bowls still lingering in the air. He knelt and nudged Jeremiah's leg gently with his knee. "Jere," he whispered, careful not to raise his voice.

Jeremiah blinked awake, his lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks. He winced as though waking to a bright light. "What?" he rasped, voice thick with sleep and something else—defensiveness, maybe.

"Can we talk?" Conrad kept his voice low, nodding toward the hallway. "Just for a minute."

Jeremiah frowned but lifted himself off the couch with a grudging grace, draping the blanket back over Belly. He glanced at her, still curled, breathing in slow, even rhythms. Then he followed Conrad through the kitchen, past the counter where Amelia now stood with her back to them, clutching a mug as steam spiralled upward. Conrad resisted the urge to reach out and touch her shoulder—silence still held them in its grip.

They slipped out through the sliding glass doors onto the patio. The morning air was crisp, a sharp foil to their hot temperaments. Around the pool, droplets of condensation dotted the deck chairs like dewdrops. The surface of the water rippled as if exhaling, reflecting the pale sky and the two brothers standing at opposite ends of a gulf.

Jeremiah crossed his arms. His shoulders were still rounded with sleep, but his stance was already defensive. "What's this about?" he asked, voice rough.

Conrad shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. He watched Jeremiah's expression, familiar and frustrating all at once. "Look, Jere, Dad's going to come around," he began, forcing the words out evenly. "He's just... hesitant because of, you know, everything."

"Everything?" Jeremiah echoed, flat and hard. He looked away, as if checking that the house was still there to witness this confrontation.

Conrad exhaled slowly, his hand cutting through the air between them "Finch. Cabo. The tuition mess—"

"Cabo?" Jeremiah snapped, head snapping back. "Why are you talking about Cabo? What the hell did anyone say about Cabo?" His voice cracked, cutting through the morning quiet like a whip.

Conrad blinked as though struck. "Nothing... just that you spent ten grand within one week Jere?

Jeremiah's laugh was bitter, a hollow sound under the open sky. "You don't get it, Conrad. You never have to get it." He took a step closer, so close that Conrad could smell the faint tang of his brothers favourite lemon body wash. "You're Dad's favourite. You always have been. Straight-A kid, Stanford grad, ready for med school. I'm just... me."

"You think this is about favouritism?" Conrad's voice rose, anxiety and irritation coiling in his chest. "This isn't about being his favourite. It's about responsibility—about the fact that Dad wants you to settle into something stable before getting married."

Jeremiah's eyes flared. "Responsibility?" he spat. "Newsflash—Belly still chose me. She'll always choose me over you." His words slashed through the thin morning air like blades.

Conrad's breath caught, his muscles tightening involuntarily. He stared at Jeremiah, genuinely stunned. "What the hell does that have to do with—" He stopped, swallowing against a lump in his throat. "I'm with Amelia. I love Amelia. What does Belly have to do with any of this?"

Jeremiah's smirk wavered, the edges trembling. "Just saying," he whispered, voice sharp. "You don't always get to be on top, Con. And Amelia? She's too perfect for you. You'll screw it up eventually."

His final words hung in the air, as hateful and exact as pouring acid. Conrad's vision blurred for a second with shock and something darker—rage. He pivoted away so abruptly that the world spun.

Conrad stalked back through the sliding doors, past the kitchen where the echo of raised voices drifted and out to the front of the house. Jeremiah's groan of "Fuck!" and the sound of a chair toppling followed him through the house like a grim accompaniment.

In the living room, Belly stirred awake to the echo of raised voices drifting through the glass doors. The blanket fell from her lap and pooled on the floor. Her lashes fluttered open, confusion pooling in her dark eyes, then narrowing when she registered the argument unfolding

She shook her head, rubbing tired fingers against her temples, then pushed herself to her feet. Pale light pooled around her where the door to the patio stood ajar. Belly followed the sounds into the kitchen, each step tentative, as though she expected the walls to snap back into place and cut her off.

Amelia was there, leaning against the island, one hip cocked. Her tea stewed in a white mug she held with both hands, fingers wrapped tight around its warmth. Steam threaded upward, coiling into the still morning air. Her gaze hovered at some distant point beyond Belly's shoulder, calm and measured.

"Are you... eavesdropping?" Belly asked, voice teetering between accusation and disbelief.

Amelia turned her head slowly, lips quirked in a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "If my name comes up," she replied lightly, "it's fair game."

The words landed with the weight of a declaration. Belly's stomach tightened; she felt her cheeks flush. She wanted to call Amelia nosy, manipulative, to brand her intrusion with some sharp name—but Amelia's unruffled composure made the words stick in her throat.

The sound of the brothers' voices still carried faintly, jagged and sharp. At that moment Jeremiahs voice is heard clearly, "And Amelia? She's too perfect for you. You'll screw it up eventually." Belly's head snapped towards the open window before whipping back to Amelia who let out a deep sigh through her nose. Amelia felt the weight of Belly's glare, turning to meet her gaze. Distantly, they hear the crunch of gravel as Conrad storms off, followed by Jeremiah's loud groan of "Fuck!" and the clatter of a toppled deck chair.

Belly crossed her arms, jaw working as she looked away toward the sliding doors, where sunlight sifted across the wooden floor. "I'm curious," she said, her tone flat but edged with curiosity, surprise, and an undercurrent of something like hurt. "How long have you and Conrad been together?"

Amelia set her teacup on the island with deliberate care, eyes locking on Belly's face. Her posture was perfect—shoulders squared, spine straight—yet it radiated a quiet ease. "We met during his first week at Stanford," she said evenly, voice soft but firm. Belly lingers on the answer, clearly waiting for more, but Amelia doesn't take the bait.

Belly swallowed. "And you... started dating then?" she pressed, words deliberate, her tone deceptively casual. "Isn't that—quick?"

Amelia's lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile. For a heartbeat, Belly thought she detected amusement behind Amelia's serene mask. Internally, Amelia thinks, No quicker than you flipping from one brother to the next. Yet outwardly her expression remained composed. "No," she said at last, inflection even. "We began as friends. We didn't start dating until about a year and a half ago."

Belly nodded, hands tightening at her sides. "Right. And it's been... good?" Her voice trailed upward, the question shrugged on a note of innocent doubt.

Amelia's brow lifted, just slightly, as if surprised she would even ask. She took a measured sip of tea, letting silence stretch until Belly squirmed. The question is absurd, and Belly realizes it a beat too late. "I mean, I just..." Belly stammers, heat rising in her cheeks. "I haven't spoken to him in so long, and I just... we grew up together, you know—" Amelia hums into her next sip of tea, a note of quiet amusement slipping through. "Yes," she says, tone soft but deliberate. "I know."

Belly freezes, the words lodging in her chest. What exactly did Amelia mean by I know? That she knows who Belly is—Conrad's childhood friend—or that she knows that their relationship once was something deeper, more intimate?"

Belly's chest jumped with a sudden rush of irritation, pressing her lips together, searching Amelia's face for a crack but finding only polished composure.

Before Belly could formulate another question, Jeremiah re enters the room. His expression falters when he sees Belly, but it's Amelia who makes his eyes widen. "Amelia... I, uh—"

She moves past him, rinsing the last of her tea down the sink, before turning and leaning casually against the counter. Her voice is calm, but there's steel beneath it. "Jeremiah," she said, meeting his eyes directly, "I'm fond of you in the sense that you're my boyfriend's little brother. I think you're great. And your disagreements with Conrad don't equal disagreements with me. But if you ever try to use me as ammunition against him again..." She paused, her gaze unblinking. "We're going to have a fucking problem. Understood?"

The last word fell heavy. Jeremiah swallowed, eyes flicking to his Belly, who stares at Amelia in disbelief. Then he nodded, hesitantly awkward. Amelia pushed herself off the counter and strode for the door. It clicked softly behind her as she left, leaving the kitchen suddenly colder, emptier.

Belly stared at the spot where Amelia had vanished, heart hammering from the swirl of emotions—admiration, envy, defensiveness, confusion. Jeremiah shuffled forward, avoiding her eyes. "We... should get going," he muttered. "My Dad texted me. He offered me a position at the firm—said it'll help fund the wedding."

Belly blinked, surprised into silence. "Wait. Really?" Her voice was small, fragile around the edges.

Jeremiah shrugged, rubbing his neck as though untangling a tight knot. "I need to work, Belly. And the salary's better than waiting tables or whatever." He met her eyes then, regret and reluctance mingling in his expression.

She nodded, shoulders sagging as though something heavy had finally settled on them. Her palm pressed into the cool countertop, grounding her. She watched him turn and walk back upstairs, the echoes of his footsteps trailing after him. The morning light shifted, painting the room in gold, but Belly felt only a dull ache where the unspoken words between them once lived. She took a breath and followed him, each step weighted by everything they hadn't said.

Conrad slips into the cramped, dimly lit shed, the low doorframe scraping his shoulders as he ducks under it. He pauses for a breath, eyes adjusting to the gloom, taking in the spear of light that slices between stacked surfboards and dusty aluminium cans. The air here tastes of cedar boards damp with sea spray, old rope, and the faintest hint of paint. He runs a hand over a leaning board, its fiberglass surface cold under his fingertips. He pulls at a cardboard box jammed behind a tangled mess of wetsuits and rusted metal, frustration coiling tight in his chest.

Outside, gravel crunches under soft footsteps. Amelia appears in the threshold, leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded—shoulders relaxed, yet her gaze is unwavering. A stray beam of late-morning light catches her hair, tinting it copper. She watches him quietly, as though reading the tension in each of his sharp breaths.

"I just don't get what changed," Conrad says, voice low and taut. He doesn't look at her. His hands rattle a stack of foam boards, fingertips scraping the edges, dust falling like sand through an hourglass. "We were— we were fine when we visited for spring break. So why is he being so... so cruel?" His jaw tightens, pulsing with anger and confusion.

Amelia remains silent, giving him space without pressing, letting the moment stretch until she can feel his frustration begging to spill over.

Conrad's hands clench around a yellowed board, twisting it with more force than necessary. His knuckles whiten. "Every time I think I'm on the right track, that things will actually go quietly, smoothly—" He pauses, swallowing hard. "—something happens that proves how wrong I am." He shoves the board aside, and a battered wrench teeters off the shelf, clattering to the wooden floor.

He emits a harsh "Fuck!"—and his shoulders shake as if he's holding back tears. A single droplet glitters at the corner of his eye. "And then you... us... I just... I obviously have fucked up there." His voice cracks, raw with guilt and fear, and he finally stills, chest heaving.

Amelia steps forward, but stays just inside the beam of light, her presence a steady anchor in his storm. Her voice is a gentle murmur, as though she's speaking directly into his tangled thoughts. "You haven't fucked anything up."

Conrad scoffs, pivoting to face her. "Really? Because this distance between us screams differently."

She tilts her head, searching his eyes. "So we had a disagreement. Can we even call it that? We're adults—two people who chose each other. Disagreement isn't fucking up." Her tone is warm, patient, each word deliberate. "If we never challenged one another, we wouldn't grow."

He narrows his eyes, sarcasm dripping from his lips. "And what, arguing is healthy?"

"Don't be a dick," Amelia replies with a small, firm smile. "Arguing every minute would be toxic, sure. But so is nodding along just to keep the peace. We owe each other honesty, Conrad."

Silence settles back over the shed like a thick quilt. The cedar scent mingles with the salt from the open window near the roof, and somewhere beyond a gull cries, carried in on a distant breeze. Amelia moves closer, stepping into his personal space carefully, her warmth brushing his chilled forearm. Her fingers slip around a tin of surfboard wax he'd been trying to find. He glances down, breath catching, as she holds it out to him—the metal worn, flecked with sand.

"What Jeremiah said was fucked up," she whispers, tone firm but kind. "I'm not perfect—nobody is. And there's zero proof you'll mess up down the line just because he's mad right now. He's lashing out—he's a grown man acting like a child who didn't get what he wanted. But you... you don't have to earn me. I chose you." Her thumb brushes the familiar green label of the wax, the slight pressure steadying his trembling fingers.

Conrad exhales, the tension draining from his arms as he takes the tin from her. His fingertips graze hers, lingering in the warm hush between them. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, running a hand through it, eyes softening. Relief and residual doubt flicker in his gaze, but beneath them, trust begins to bloom.

Amelia's lips curve into a small, reassuring smile. She releases the wax and offers her hand. "Come on," she says gently, "Let's get out of here."

He nods, finally meeting her eyes, and allows her to guide him outside. The weight of morning's turmoil lingers in his chest, but it's lighter now—tempered by her steady presence and the promise that they'll face whatever comes together.

After blowing off some steam, Conrad drifts on his board, letting the ocean calm his racing thoughts. The sun glints off the water as he glances back to shore and sees Amelia lounging on a towel, a bikini catching the light, head buried in her latest novel. The scene is grounding, a warm, familiar rhythm in contrast to the tension that has followed them all morning.

He paddles back, water dripping down next to her.

"Conrad! I swear if you ruin this paperback!" she laughs, tilting the book to shield it.

He crouches beside her, wiping his hands on her towel before sliding the book carefully into her open tote. Leaning over her, his fringe dripping water onto her sun-kissed skin, he grins at the laugh escaping her lips. And just like that, he feels like he's falling in love with her for the first time all over again.

His hand finds her chin, tilting her face up, and their lips meet.

"You know," he murmurs against her mouth, "when I fell in love with you, it was with sweaters and cozy nights... but this..."

His hand trails from her chin down her throat to her waist, brushing lightly over warm, sandy skin. "Warm, golden, and coated in sand—might be my favourite version of you."

Her hands settle on his chest, playful and tender. "Mm. I'm also quite partial to this version of you."

They kiss again, slow and easy, letting the world shrink around them.

Eventually, they make their way back to the house, the complexity of the morning feeling like a distant memory. But walking up the drive, the sight of Jeremiah by his car, loading a suitcase, yanks them back into reality. Conrad and Amelia hold hands, a quiet, united front. Jeremiah inhales sharply, eyes flicking between them.

"We're heading back to Boston. Dad managed to pull something together so I can earn some money," he begins, voice tight. "I... uh... I'm sorry about earlier. I just... we were so excited to tell everyone, and when everyone reacted the way they did... I'm sorry."

Conrad softens, letting go of Amelia to pull his brother into a hug. "It's okay, Jere. I'm sorry you thought we were all against you."

Jeremiah glances at Amelia. "And I'm sorry for throwing you into it. You're right, it was wrong of me to use you against him."

Amelia lets him linger a moment, then rolls her eyes, tugging him into her own hug. "Don't do it again, and we're fine. Besides, I always wondered what it was like to have a younger brother to piss me off."

Jeremiah laughs, relief flickering across his face. "I always wanted an older sister to annoy, so this works out perfectly."

Amelia flicks him playfully. "Don't test it."

Jeremiah shuts the boot of his car and turns back to Conrad. "I actually wanted to ask you something. I... uh... I already promised Steven he could be my best man, but I was hoping you'd be as well. Co–best man, I mean."

Conrad smiles, warmth flooding through him. "Yeah, of course, man. Let me know what I can do to help, alright?"

The sound of the front door opening draws their attention. Belly stands there with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder, hesitating.

"Hey," she says, awkwardly.

Amelia offers a small, polite smile, tension pulling at her eyes the only sign of this mornings displeasure. Conrad gives a quiet "hey" in response.

"I guess I'll see you both around..." Belly adds, voice trailing.

Conrad slips his arm through Amelia's. "Yeah... we'll be hanging here all summer."

"Oh... uh... I thought you had an internship at the hospital? And that was how you managed to help Steven?" Belly asks,

curiosity and unease threading her tone.

Conrad's jaw tightens. "Uh... yeah. It's on hold at the moment." Amelia squeezes his hand, silent support.

"Oh..." Belly trails off, looking between them.

"Well, we better head off," Jeremiah says, posture stiffening as he glances at Conrad and Belly one last time.

"Drive safe," Amelia says, waving gently.

The front door clicks behind them. Conrad exhales, shoulders slumping as the sound of gravel under Jeremiah's tires fades. He glances at Amelia, and without words, they share a quiet moment of relief, the ocean breeze carrying away the tension of the morning.

The weeks that follow blur into a languid reverie of salt-brushed mornings and sun-drenched afternoons. Each day begins with the briny tang of ocean spray clinging to skin, a faint shimmer of dew on the shoreline's pale sand. They wander barefoot along the waterline, toes digging into the soft grains, shells crunching underfoot. By midday, the heat drapes across the deck like a warm blanket. They stretch out in chaise lounges, book pages fluttering in the breeze, while the hum of distant gull calls lulls them into half-dreams. Amelia's laughter rings out as Conrad recounts some half-remembered childhood tale, and the twilight hours follow suit—nights spent under a canopy of stars, where chuckles echo against the lattice of the porch. Occasionally they swim in the pool, or lean back to watch the moon's silver arc ripple across the water. In each stolen moment, Conrad finds himself astonished at how easily everything falls into place with Amelia by his side, how every glance and whispered word seems to sketch the contours of a life he never dared to imagine—and now can't imagine living without.

This existence feels domestic and extraordinarily blissful. They rise in the morning for coffee brewed strong enough to clamp half-open Conrad's still-groggy eyes, then return at dusk to share simple dinners of grilled fish and salad tossed with olives from a jar. For a while, he almost forgets California and the disappointment of the lost hospital internship, the knot of doubt that had sat in his gut. He floats through days like a man freed from gravity, as though the only weight in the world is the shared warmth of Amelia's hand in his.

But one morning, the hush around them doesn't bring relief—it brings unease. The sun is just warming when Conrad and Amelia slip through the back door, towels swathed around their torsos, hair still damp from their morning swim. The air smells of salt and sunscreen, birdsong drifting lazily through the open windows. Then, from high above, they hear it. A low, ragged sobbing that seeps down the hallway. Amelia halts in the doorway. Her shoulders stiffen, recognizing the voice immediately. She lingers near the stairwell, close enough to hear but far enough not to intrude.

The sobs hang heavy, carrying grief and frustration in equal measure. Amelia's chest tightens, a knot forming in her stomach. She leans against the wall, arms crossed, torn between wanting to comfort and respecting the privacy of someone else's pain.

Conrad glides into view, silent and steady. He has already processed what's happening—Belly is here, and she's crying. His expression softens into a mixture of guilt and helplessness. He leans his head toward hers, voice hushed like a prayer. "She's hurting," Amelia whispers, more to the empty hall than to him.

Conrad runs a hand over his face, fingertips grazing stubble at his jaw as if to rub away the tension. The sun caught in his hair glints gold, but his eyes look dim, distant. "Yeah... I can hear that. I... I don't know what to say. Or do."

Amelia chews on her bottom lip, glancing up at him as though he holds the answers. "Jere sent that message yesterday, asking if I'd go to her bridal shower. From the sound of it... everyone is still against the wedding."

Conrad had shown her the message the night before. Amelia had seen it and promptly tacked it onto the heap of emotions she could barely untangle. The implication was clear. Bridal shower means family gathering. The family was still divided. Jeremiah—her de facto brother-in-law if she stayed with Conrad—and Belly, her future sister-in-law, were lacking that family support.

Amelia closes her eyes for a heartbeat. A large family had always been her dream. Boisterous holiday dinners, crowded birthday parties, the reassuring chaos of clashing voices and shared stories. Her own childhood, by contrast, was small, distant.

She prided herself on empathy, on seeing past mistakes to the person within. She doesn't truly hold Belly's history with Conrad against her—how could she, when she barely knows the girl on a personal level? Yet that jagged line between them feels too wide to cross. Belly's jealousy shines as bright as the morning sky, though what it hides—fear, anger, loss—Amelia can only guess. Listening to those sobs, she feels a tight prickle behind her ribs. The thought of getting married without her father at her side tears her apart— if her mother decided to not be there it would wreck her. She knows—deep in her bones—why Laurel thinks they're too young, too inexperienced, why the wedding seems rushed and half-baked. And yet, she also understands Belly's utter devastation.

She turns back to Conrad. "Can you go to the shops? Get what you would normally get me for my period." Her voice is gentle but firm.

Conrad opens his mouth to protest, but she places a hand on his arm before he can say a word. "I know it's more than that," she continues. "But she needs something. A little self-care. Trust me?" Her eyes plead.

He glances up at the closed door, then back at her. The crease in his brow softens into a tentative smile. "Yeah... okay. You'll be alright here by yourself?"

He means is will you be okay with Belly in this state? Amelia nods, her lips curving upward. "I'll be fine. Need me to text you a list?"

"Nah," he says with a chuckle. "After all my shopping misadventures, I've learned what to get." He brushes a strand of wet hair from her face.

She leans in and kisses him lightly, a hush-soft promise on his lips. "I love you."

He threads his fingers through hers. "I love you, too." He chucks on an abandoned shirt he left in the living room, and then he slips out the back door, towelling his hair as he goes.

Alone, Amelia quickly changes into different clothes, before moving to the kitchen. She pours a tall glass of water and untwists the cap on a bottle of Tylenol. She makes her way upstairs, each step creaks beneath her weight. At the top, the door to Belly's room stands ajar, a narrow slice of dim light cutting through the threshold. Amelia knocks gently. The sobbing stops and the air falls still. Inside, Belly lies curled on her bed, back turned and shoulders shaking. When she sits up, her cheeks glisten and eyes are rimmed thick with red.

"Oh..." Belly says, voice catching as she swallows. "Amelia, I... Sorry, I didn't know you and Conrad were back."

Amelia steps in, setting the water and Tylenol on the bedside table. She offers a small reassuring smile. "No need to apologize. We didn't even hear you come in last night, which—under different circumstances—would have me worried." Her light tone lures a fragile laugh from Belly's lips.

They sit in silence for a moment. Amelia watches as Belly presses her legs against the mattress, hands twisting the sleeve of her shirt. Finally, Amelia tilts her head toward the far edge of the bed. "Mind if I sit?"

Belly shakes her head, and Amelia lowers herself onto the mattress with gentle care, mindful of Belly's space. She smooths her skirt over her knees before speaking.

"Sometimes people—family especially—act out of what they think is your best interest," Amelia begins, voice calm. "But that kind of certainty can backfire. They mean well but overlook the damage they cause. When they're convinced they're right, they don't pause to feel how their words fall on someone already hurting." Amelia turns her gaze toward the window, where the morning sun ripples through gauzy curtains, scattering golden lines across the floor. "Family can cut the deepest."

Belly's eyes settle on her, wary but curious. Amelia lets the moment breathe, letting the unspoken tension settle before continuing.

"I know we barely know each other," she says, finally looking back at Belly. "But if you ever need someone uninvolved—someone who'll just listen—I'm here. Sometimes talking to someone outside the situation can help you sort through everything."

Belly bites her lip, weighing the offer. She absently tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Is this how you got Conrad?" she asks. "With recycled therapy speeches?" She intended for it to be a joke, but it lands dry.

Amelia studies her profile for a long moment before responding. "It's not a secret why Conrad ended up at Stanford the way he did. He carried the grief for Susannah, for his broken relationship with Jeremiah... and for you." The words hang in the air. Belly turns slightly toward the window, eyes unfocused.

"When I first met him, he was... different. I wouldn't have believed the man you see now was the same person who walked with a heaviness each day. He's done the work—therapy, reflection, the hard stuff. He learned how to heal." Amelia meets Belly's gaze directly. "I'm not your enemy. I won't belittle you, and neither will he. If you want support—honest, no-judgment support—you've got it." She reaches out and touches Belly's hand lightly. "I mean that sincerely."

The distant hum of Conrad's car pulling into the driveway drifts through the window. Amelia pats the bed beside her before rising. "You don't have to accept my offer," she says softly. "But it's there. Take these painkillers and water—you'll thank me later." She gives Belly a small nod, then exits the room with measured steps.

In the hallway, she passes Conrad. He looks at her, a silent question in his eyes. She mouths, "Later," and offers a reassuring tilt of her head. He nods, relief and gratitude flickering across his face.

Conrad steps into Belly's room, carrying a plastic bag filled with chocolate, candy, and a few face masks. The corners of his mouth dip into an awkward, hopeful smile.

"I... uh... got you some stuff," he says, voice soft. "Just what Amelia suggested. Thought maybe it'd help, even just a little." He sets the bag on the bed, lifting the plastic handles as if they weigh heavy with meaning. "Let us know if there's anything else you need, alright?"

Without another word, he turns and leaves, closing the door gently behind him. Belly exhales in a long, shaky breath and stares down at the bag. Inside, each item feels like a small lifeline. The sweet indulgence of chocolate, packets of chips and sweets, a selection of facemasks. Her chest tightens with a tangle of gratitude, shame, relief. Belly felt the truth settle heavy, Amelia wasn't just beside Conrad—she was inside the fight, inside the family. And Belly, despite everything, wasn't sure she could handle that.

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tbh I don't know if I'm happy with this chapter or not, the pacing feels off in my opinion but I'm trying to pick and choose which show scenes to incorporate and weave into the story naturally. I guess my question for this chapter is : what has been your favourite line / scene / moment in this story so far?