Chapter 30

TW: Blood

Taylor's house felt like living inside a blush-toned dream—soft pastels on every wall, polite laughter tinkling like china. Sunlight poured through gauzy, vanilla-scented curtains that carried a faint whisper of newly opened champagne, and every surface was dotted with floral centrepieces—blush peonies, cream roses—perfectly primped, and perfectly at odds with the tight ache in Amelia's chest.

The rest of the drive had continued in relative silence, Amelia at war with herself on if she wanted to say more or not. There was a part of her that knew how to be nasty, knew how to twist the knife into Belly and get her to back off. But Amelia had been raised better than that, and she refused to let a petty girl cause her to go against her desire to be kind.

Amelia trailed behind Belly along the brick front path, her fingers curled around pale pink gift bags she'd almost abandoned in the car. She plastered on a polite smile as Taylor swung the door open, cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Belly! Finally, you're here!" Taylor's arms enveloped her best friend in a warm hug. Then she turned, shoot­ing Amelia a smile so carefully measured it felt chilly. "And you must be Amelia."

"That's me," Amelia said, cradling her bags as Taylor's eyes scanned them.

Taylor's lips curved—thin, dismissive. "Oh, multiple. That's... so generous." She took the bags with a half-nod. "I'll set them with the others." Behind her tone lurked a twist of irony.

Inside, festooned banners spelled Bride-to-Be, each glittering letter dangling over a long table lined with flutes of mimosas, pastel cupcakes, and crustless tea sandwiches. The air was thick with perfume and giggles, as deliberately arranged as the slanted rose petals on every napkin. Belly was quickly swallowed into a swirl of congratulations—hugs, whispers about wedding colours, exclamations over her engagement ring. Amelia hovered at the threshold, her grip tight on a champagne flute, until Laurel materialized beside her.

"Amelia!" Laurel stepped forward, warm as the growing afternoon sun, and squeezed her shoulders. "I'm so glad you made it."

Amelia laughed softly. "Honestly, I think you're the only one who really wanted me here."

Steven, stretched out in a nearby armchair with a plate of fruit skewers in one hand, tipped his head at her. "Welcome to the circus," he murmured. "You'll acclimate."

Laurel took Amelia by the elbow, steering her through the crowd with motherly determination. "This is Amelia," she announced again and again, to faces that either flickered with recognition or remained blankly pleasant. Some women's eyes widened slightly at "Conrad's girlfriend," their gazes lingering a beat too long on Amelia's face. Others just smiled politely, oblivious to the tangled history between the Fisher brothers and the bride-to-be. By the time Laurel deposited her beside Steven, Amelia's cheeks ached from smiling.

He passed her a mimosa with a knowing look, and soon they were trading stories about impossible college assignments and American supermarket oddities that made her forget, momentarily, the weight of stares from across the room. But when Taylor reappeared carrying champagne flute in hand and a mischievous gleam in her eyes, the tension snapped taut again.

"So," Taylor began, leaning across the table, "you're the famous Amelia I've heard so much about."

Amelia levelled her smile. "Seems I've picked up a reputation."

Taylor sipped her bubbly. "All good things, I'm sure. Belly mentioned how put-together you are—you know, the sort who's got her life sorted."

A sweetness that clung like syrup. Steven shot Taylor a look, but Taylor just raised an eyebrow, unconcerned.

"I appreciate that," Amelia said with measured calm. "But trust me, I'm definitely not as organised as she probably thinks."

Taylor's hum was skeptical. "Well, if anyone can think too highly of someone, it's Belly."

The comment drifted between them and so Amelia deflected with a shift of subject back to Steven's travel plans. Still, she could feel Taylor's gaze—like a spotlight—judging every breath.

Then came the gift opening. Belly claimed the mantle at the head of the low coffee table, ripping through tissue paper as laughter rippled around her—sleek kitchen gadgets, plush throw blankets, a photo album chronicling her and Jeremiah's relationship. Each gift was met with coos of approval, until Taylor passed over another last package; slender, wrapped in gold paper, tied with a cream ribbon.

Belly tore it open. A gasp. The room tittered at the set of personalized stationery stamped, in elegant calligraphy, "Isabel Fisher."

A hush fell. A murmur. Belly's fingers froze on the letterhead. "Wow—'Isabel Fisher.' That's... that's me," she stammered, blinking. "Sorry, Mrs. Evans. It's just—I... seeing it like that feels so strange."

Mrs. Evans, Belly's long time neighbour, tsked lightly. "Of course you'll change it once you marry, dear."

Belly's smile flickered. Before she could respond, Taylor piped up, chin propped on her hand. "Oh, you could hyphenate. Conklin-Fisher—has a nice ring, don't you think? Kinda sexy."

A ripple of laughter. Belly's cheeks flamed. "Um, I thought I'd just keep my name. Like my mum did."

"Of course," Mrs. Evans said breezily—then pivoted to Amelia as though drawing breath. "Maybe Amelia here will carry on the Fisher name, too, once she ties the knot with Conrad."

Silence stretched, heavy and intrusive. Amelia's cheeks warmed and she forced a light chuckle, raising her glass. "That's a bit premature," she said softly. "Let's not schedule my wedding just yet."

Laurel's eyes flickered to her in sympathy. From his chair, Steven muttered, "Jesus." Amelia returned his small, conspiratorial smile.

She endured the final rounds of gifts and toasts, each cheer making her skin crawl. The pastel walls seemed to lean in, the laughter grew tinny. When the party games were announced—a cringe-inducing raffle for Bride and Groom trivia—Amelia seized her moment.

"I'm just going to get some air," she murmured, slipping past the crowd and out into the front yard. The surprisingly cool summer breeze was a relief, scented with gardenias and night-blooming jasmine. She leaned against the railing, closed her eyes, drew in a shaky breath.

Inside, cheers and guffaws blossomed through the door like unwanted echoes. Amelia pulled her phone from her purse, thumb hovering before she tapped out a message to Conrad:

Please tell me your day is going better than mine

She sent it, exhaled, and let her gaze drift to the bird bath nestled among some flowers—its still water catching the afternoon light in one perfect, golden ripple. Her heart pounded against the hush of the garden, as far removed from the hellscape that was this event as she could get.

___

The tailor's shop smelled faintly of cedar and starch — pressed suits lined the walls in tidy rows, the soft shuffle of fabric and low hum of jazz filling the space.

Conrad stood in front of a mirror, buttoning the jacket of a dark navy suit while Adam adjusted his tie. Jeremiah lounged in a nearby chair, scrolling absently through his phone, one leg bouncing with restless energy.

"Looks good," Adam said, stepping back to admire his eldest. "You clean up well, kid."

Conrad gave a half-smile. "You're just saying that because you're paying for it."

Adam chuckled. "Maybe. But I still mean it."

Jeremiah glanced up from his phone, expression unreadable. "Pretty sure I'm the one getting married, but yeah, sure, let's all admire Conrad."

Conrad shot him a look, but before he could respond, his phone buzzed. He slipped it out, eyes flicking to the screen.

Please tell me your day is going better than mine.

A small, private smile tugged at his lips. Adam noticed. "That Amelia?"

Conrad nodded, tucking the phone back into his pocket. "Yeah."

Adam's expression softened. "I honestly do think she's good for you," he said, almost thoughtfully. "Grounded. Kind. You've done well with her, Connie." Adam gave him a strong pat on the back before moving back to the store associate to ask questions regarding the tailoring.

The words landed heavier than intended — a mix of pride and something quieter. Jeremiah straightened slightly in his chair, his grin brittle.

"Wow," he said. "Official stamp of approval. Guess we can all rest easy now that Conrad's relationship has been father-verified."

Conrad frowned. "Jere—"

Jeremiah stood, brushing invisible lint from his pants. "No, it's fine. I'm just saying, it's good that someone here is living up to expectations."

The air shifted, a thread pulled taut. Conrad exhaled slowly through his nose, tone careful. "What's your problem?"

"Nothing," Jeremiah said, too quickly. "I just think it's funny. You've been here five minutes and suddenly it's all Conrad this, Amelia that."

Conrad's jaw tightened. "I thought you said you liked Amelia."

"She's fine," Jeremiah said, shoulders lifting in a half-hearted shrug. "But Dad's spent more time asking about your girlfriend than my actual wedding. Even Mum's memorial garden somehow became about you two." His voice cracked slightly. "This was supposed to be my moment, Con."

Conrad's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to that dangerous quiet Jeremiah recognized from childhood arguments. "So that's what this is about? You're jealous of the attention?"

Something flickered across Jeremiah's face—a flash of raw hurt before the defensiveness returned. "You show up with her and suddenly it's the Conrad and Amelia show. Even Laurel can't stop talking about how perfect you two are."

"Whatever's happening with you right now—that's on you. Don't drag Amelia into it."

"I'm not doing anything—"

"The comments, Jere. The side-eye. The little digs." Conrad's words were measured, precise. "It stops now."

Adam cleared his throat, walking over as he sees the argument brewing. "Let's take a minute—"

Neither brother acknowledged him.

Finally, Jeremiah laughed—that hollow sound Conrad had known since they were kids, the one that meant his brother was hurt but would rather die than admit it. He snatched his jacket off the chair, fabric catching on the armrest.

"You know what, forget it. I'll be in the car."

He walked out without looking back. The door chimed behind him, the sound lingering like an accusation.

Conrad sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. The familiar weight of being the Jeremiah's jealousy settled on his shoulders again—unwanted, unasked for.

Adam clasped a hand on his shoulder, his palm warm and heavy. "He's just tense. The wedding, the pressure... you know how he gets. Always wore his heart where everyone could see it."

"Yeah," Conrad murmured, remembering summers when that openness had been Jeremiah's superpower, not his weakness. "I know."

Adam gave him a look—the kind a father gives when he's proud but doesn't want to make it obvious, the same look he'd given Conrad when he got into Stanford, when he'd chosen pre-med. "For what it's worth, I meant what I said. Don't let Jeremiah take away from the good you've got going. She balances you out. Reminds me of your mother sometimes."

Conrad's throat tightened at the comparison, that unexpected gift. He nodded. "Thanks, Dad."

Outside, Jeremiah leaned against the car, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses—the same ones he'd worn to their mother's funeral. Conrad could already feel the tension waiting to follow them on the drive, thick as summer humidity.

The drive back to the city was quiet for the first stretch — the kind of silence that hummed with unspoken words. Conrad leaned into the passenger door, the window cracked just enough for a ribbon of cool air to mess with his hair as he watched the city's edge recede. Adam gripped the wheel ahead of him, knuckles whitening as his thumb tapped a nervous pattern on the leather rim. In the back, Jeremiah sat rigid, eyes trailing the horizon of concrete and steel as it blurred past.

Every few minutes Adam's gaze darted sideways. He studied Conrad's clenched jaw, the faraway look settling in his eyes like dust.

Suddenly Jeremiah's phone buzzed against the leather seat. He fished it out and grinned. "Whoa—Laurel just showed up at the bridal shower. She's got to be coming to the wedding now, right?" Adam's shoulders relaxed, a low chuckle rumbling through him. "Good to hear that she came around to the idea." Conrad's lips twitched into a soft, uncertain smile. "I'm happy for you two," he said quietly.

Jeremiah cleared his throat and leaned forward. "So, Conrad—has Amelia said anything about making friends? I'm trying to finalize seating charts." Conrad frowned, puzzled. "You mean... among the guests? She hasn't really had the chance to meet anyone yet." Jeremiah rolled his eyes as though Conrad had missed the point entirely. "Then where do we put her? She obviously won't sit next to you—she's not in the bridal party." His tone dripped condescension.

Conrad bristled despite himself. "I know she's not part of the wedding party. Maybe she could sit with Laurel and John? Honestly, she'll be fine anywhere. We're not chained to our chairs the whole night." Before Jeremiah could respond, Adam cut in, voice low but firm. He reached out and killed the radio's soft hum. "Actually—while we're on the subject..." He paused, clearing his throat. The tiny glint of dashboard light caught the tension in his expression. "I've met someone, and I want her at the wedding. She's—she's kind, she's thoughtful, she's beautiful." Conrad turned in his seat, eyebrows arched, disbelief flickering in his eyes. Adam pressed on, "you already know her."

Silence stretched until Conrad exchanged a bewildered glance with Jeremiah—an unspoken "what the hell" passing between them. Adam took a breath. "It's Kayleigh."

Conrad let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You're serious? Kayleigh?" The name hovered in the narrow cabin, stubborn and impossible. Jeremiah leaned forward, hand resting on Conrad's shoulder in a gesture meant for comfort but landing awkwardly. "Con—" Conrad jerked away, his spine stiffening so that Jeremiah's hand slid off.

"No, I'm asking—are you actually serious right now?" Adam met his son's gaze, sorrow and determination warring in his eyes. "Yeah. It's been four years since your mom passed, and...Kayleigh means a lot to me."

Jeremiah's voice softened. "Dad, I'm glad you've found someone who makes you happy."

Adam's shoulders slumped in relief. He offered his younger son a tender smile in the mirror. "Thanks, bud."

Conrad pressed his palms against his thighs, nails digging into his skin through the fabric of his pants, "Dad, it's not that I mind you moving on...it's who you're moving on with." He exhaled, voice tighter than he felt. "Kayleigh?"

Adam shot him a sharp, measuring look—firm but pleading. "I know why you're upset, Connie. I really do. But she makes me happy. Can't that be enough?"

Conrad stared at his father for a long, aching moment before the tension in his shoulders finally sagged. "Okay," he said softly, "whatever." The word drifted away, carried off by the hum of the engine and the city that waited beyond the tunnel.

Conrad and Adam exchanged a glance, letting Jeremiah's bewildered expression hang in the air between them. Let him ask Dad himself, Conrad thought, watching his brother's eyebrows knit together. This wasn't his mess to explain.

___

Taylor clapped her hands together, eyes shining with mischief. "Okay, everyone! Trivia time! Let's see who really knows Belly and Jeremiah best!"

A cheer went up. Amelia tried to blend into the background, standing beside Laurel, who looked about as comfortable as she felt. Anika, one of Belly's college friends apparently, took the next question card and grinned. "Ooh, this one's cute! Does Belly know the name of Jeremiah's first pet?"

Belly's face lit up, confident. "Easy! Rosie — the dog. Jere found her on the beach, and she ran right up to him and covered him with kisses. It was probably the sweetest thing I've ever seen."

There were a few awws around the room. Amelia smiled faintly, sipping her drink — until Steven, sitting a few seats over, frowned and said, "Uh, no. Hold up. The winning point should go to me. Conrad found Rosie. Not Jere."

The room quieted just slightly. Belly blinked. "Uh, no. Jere definitely found Rosie. You're wrong."

Steven leaned forward, smirking. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

They siblings went back and forth, the tension beneath the laughter sharp enough to feel.

And that's when Amelia noticed it — the hesitation, the way Belly's cheeks flushed pink, the flicker of panic when Conrad's name was said aloud. It was small, fleeting — but unmistakable.

The laughter carried on, the trivia game rolling forward, but Amelia had already checked out.

Something inside her clicked into place — calm, certain, done.

As the trivia game wound down and guests dispersed into clusters around the room, Amelia remained against the wall. Her eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the floral centrepieces, though she didn't miss the hushed, urgent conversation between Belly and Taylor across the room.

When they finally parted ways, Amelia pushed herself from the wall. Laurel glanced up, concern etching lines between her brows. "Heading out already?" Laurel asked, soft with understanding.

"I think I've hit my sugar quota for the month," Amelia replied with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "And it's probably time for me to head back anyway." Before Laurel could say more, Amelia had already pulled Laurel into a hug with a quick goodbye.

She was almost to the door having waving politely to the room and murmed a few goodbyes to people when Belly intercepted her, confusion clouding her face. "Wait—you're leaving? But we're supposed to stay here in Philly tonight." Amelia shifted her weight, avoiding direct eye contact. "I know, I'm sorry, but I need to head back. Work things, you know?" Belly's expression hardened. "So how am I supposed to get back?" Amelia sighed, fingers tightening around her bag strap like a lifeline. "I don't know, Belly. I'm sorry, honestly, but I need to go, okay?"

Amelia brushed past Belly and stepped into the afternoon air, letting the door swing shut behind her. She inhaled deeply, shoulders dropping as the tension in her chest loosened slightly. Her eyes stung, but she blinked hard, refusing to give this moment any more power than it already had. She pulled out her phone, thumbs hovering for just a moment before typing.

Heading home now. Will see you tomorrow x

Message sent, she tucked the phone away and strode toward her car without a backward glance.

Inside Taylor's house, Belly's fingers were already scrolling to Jeremiah's name, her jaw clenched tight as she stepped away from the curious glances of the other guests.

___

The restaurant hummed with low conversation and the clink of cutlery, the kind of place Adam Fisher always chose — upscale but understated. The three of them sat at a table near the window, Conrad half-listening as his father talked about wine pairings.

"...and apparently the caterer switched suppliers. Organic now." Adam said, glancing between his sons as if searching for approval.

Conrad's phone buzzed. He glanced down, expecting something mundane, unimportant. Instead, it was a message from Amelia.

Heading home now. Will see you tomorrow x

Conrad stared at the message, his thumb frozen above the screen. Something twisted in his gut. Amelia was supposed to stay with Belly at Laurel's tonight.

"Everything okay?" Adam said, setting down his fork.

Conrad typed quickly drive safe, message me when you're home x before locking his phone. "It's nothing. Amelia's heading back early, that's all."

Jeremiah's phone vibrated against the table, rattling the silverware. "Belly," he muttered, pushing back his chair to take the call.

As soon as Jeremiah was out of earshot, Adam leaned across the table. "About Kayleigh," he said, voice softening. "I appreciate you not making a scene. I'll tell your brother everything after the wedding. No sense in ruining his image of marriage."

Conrad's eyebrows lifted. "Just make sure you do tell him."

"I will." Adam twirled his wine glass by the stem, the red liquid catching the light. "And Con? I know you hate hearing this, but I'm proud of you."

The words landed awkwardly between them—sincere but somehow still missing the mark.

Jeremiah slumped back into his seat, phone clenched in his fist, jaw tight. He raked his fingers through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Your girlfriend ditched Belly," he said flatly. "Now I've got to deal with the fallout."

Conrad's fingers tightened around his fork. "I'm sure Amelia had her reasons."

"Right." Jeremiah swirled his drink, ice clinking against glass. "The supposedly mature one, running off without a word? Real adult behaviour."

Conrad set his fork down with precise control. "You have no idea what happened."

"Work emergency." Jeremiah made air quotes. "Convenient timing."

Adam leaned forward. "Jeremiah, that's hardly—"

"What's convenient," Conrad cut in, voice low but carrying, "is how everyone forgets Amelia's been nothing but gracious while you two play your little games. Maybe focus on your own relationship instead of criticizing mine."

The restaurant seemed to quiet around them. Jeremiah's mouth opened, then closed.

Adam glanced between his sons, his expression carefully neutral.

"I won't allow you to keep talking about my girl like that," Conrad added, the calm in his voice belied by the tension in his shoulders.

Jeremiah muttered something indistinct, eyes fixed on his plate.

"Boys." Adam's voice was gentle but firm. "Let's remember where we are."

Conrad reached for his phone, thumb hovering over Amelia's message. The restaurant, his family, this whole situation suddenly felt suffocating. He wanted California, their apartment, anywhere but here.

___

The door clicked softly behind Conrad as the first pale fingers of the mornings sunlight reached through the curtains. The house held that particular stillness of early morning, when even the floorboards seemed to be holding their breath. He left his sneakers by the door, padding quietly up the stairs in sock feet. Their bedroom door stood ajar, Amelia's rhythmic breathing flowing out into the hallway.

She shifted beneath the covers as he entered, her voice cracking with the residue of sleep. "Hey, you're back."

"Yeah, just got in ." The mattress dipped as he perched on its edge, yesterday's weight still visible in the slope of his shoulders. He lent forward giving her a gentle kiss, his features softening as he looked at her. Amelia propped herself up on one elbow, squinting at him through the sunlight that had made it's way into the room. "How was it?"

"A disaster." His laugh was dry. ""Let's just say I'm ready to head back to California and never want to attend another family bonding event"

"Join the club." She reached for his hand, thumb brushing his knuckles. "I think I reached that point around lunchtime.."

Conrad tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. "Want to talk about what happened?"

"Later." She settled against him, cheek pressed to his chest. "Right now I'm just... tired. Of all of it."

"Yeah." His palm made slow, steady circles on her back. "Me too."

The house creaked around them as the morning warmed the old wood. Neither spoke, the silence between them comfortable, known.

Amelia tilted her face up, voice soft with something like wonder. "You know, I actually love this house."

Conrad's smile pressed against her temple. "Do you?"

"Mm." Her eyelids grew heavy again. "I can see us having a family here. Growing old."

He glanced around at the morning light spilling across the worn floorboards, at the familiar angles of the room. The image hit him with unexpected force: Amelia here years from now, a child with her eyes running down these halls, weekends spent on the beach below. His throat tightened. "Yeah," he murmured, surprised by how badly he wanted that future, wanted her, in ways he'd never let himself imagine before.

___

The morning light bounced off the waves as Conrad paddled out into the surf, the cold Atlantic stinging his skin. Each wave he rode felt like a small relief from the tension back at the house, but even out here, his mind drifted to Amelia. The way she'd held herself together through this whole mess, her quiet dignity in the face of Belly's thinly veiled hostility. He caught another wave, feeling the momentary weightlessness as he stood.

In all their time knowing each other, she'd never once pushed him to move faster than he was ready for. Even when he'd wake up sweating from dreams of his mother, Amelia would just hold his hand in the dark, patient, present. The water crashed around him as he wiped spray from his eyes.

He wanted to marry her. The thought didn't scare him. Calling Amelia his wife felt right, inevitable. What terrified him was how he'd failed to protect her here, letting old loyalties silence him when Belly pushed too far. The next wave approached, and Conrad turned his board, jaw set. No more. When he got back to shore, things would change.

Back inside, Amelia moved around the kitchen humming softly, the smell of sizzling eggs and coffee filling the room. The quiet was domestic, peaceful, a sharp contrast to the storm that had been following them for days.

The tranquillity shattered the moment the front door slammed open.

"Fuck!" Amelia yelped, the knife in her hand slipping. It cut her palm, and she jerked back instinctively, hitting her head against the cabinet. The kitchen suddenly looked like a crime scene — blood dripping, splattering, pooling on the floor.

Belly froze where she stood, eyes wide, stomach twisting. "Oh my God! Amelia!" she shouted, rushing forward. "Are you okay?"

Blood smeared across Amelia's throat as she touched the back of her head, her hand spreading crimson everywhere. She swayed, a soft groan escaping her lips as Belly gripped her shoulders.

"Upstairs," Belly said, voice tight with urgency. "Can you walk?"

The bathroom tiles felt cold beneath Amelia as Belly lowered her to sit on the edge of the tub. "Hold still," Belly commanded, pressing a white towel against the cut that was quickly blooming red.

"Conrad should—" Amelia's words slurred at the edges, her eyes unfocused.

Belly reached for the medicine cabinet. "You need something for the pain." She twisted open a bottle of pills, shaking one into her palm. "Here."

Amelia's fingers trembled as she reached for it. "I'm not sure if—"

"Trust me," Belly insisted, already filling a glass with water. "It'll help."

The pill slid down Amelia's throat. Her shoulders relaxed slightly as Belly continued to apply pressure to the wound, her movements efficient, almost clinical. Inside, Belly's pulse raced. She hadn't caused this accident, but somehow, she'd become responsible for fixing it.

The house was quiet when Conrad came back, his hair dripping saltwater as he made his way through the back door.

"Amelia?" he called out, voice casual at first. He expected her to answer from the kitchen, maybe tease him for tracking sand inside again.

Silence.

He frowned, moving towards the kitchen. "Amelia?"

The sight stopped him cold—crimson droplets scattered across the pale floorboards like macabre breadcrumbs. His lungs seized mid-breath. Following the trail, he found the kitchen where smears of red marked a path toward the staircase. Smoke rose from the pan on the stove, eggs now charred black.

Ice flooded his veins. He lunged for the burner, twisting the knob with shaking fingers.

"Amelia!" The name tore from his throat.

Conrad bounded up the stairs, each heartbeat a thunder in his ears. When he rounded the corner to the bathroom, the scene before him knocked the air from his lungs.

There was Belly, hovering over Amelia who slumped against the bathtub's edge. A once-white towel, now stained scarlet, wrapped around Amelia's hand. Her face had gone ghostly, blood smeared down her arms and face, her gaze drifting somewhere beyond the bathroom walls.

"Amelia?" The name escaped him like a prayer as he crashed to his knees beside her. "What happened to you?" His medical training battled with his panic as his fingers, suddenly clumsy, peeled back the soaked fabric to reveal the wound beneath.

Belly's words tumbled out, "I found her bleeding—she cut herself and hit her head against—"

"She's barely conscious," Conrad interrupted, his focus entirely on Amelia. "Did you give her something?"

"Just something for the pain—"

"What. Exactly." Each word landed like a blow as his knuckles whitened around Amelia's wrist.

"The Advil from the—"

"Advil? Thats a fucking blood thinner Belly!" His voice cracked with urgency. "Move. Now."

Belly stepped back, her hand frozen mid-reach. "I didn't know—" "That's the problem, isn't it?" His jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped visibly beneath his skin. "You never do." He turned back to Amelia, shoulders hunched protectively around her. "I'm the one studying medicine here. Just go. You've done enough." The air between them crystallized, brittle with finality.

Conrad pivoted toward Amelia, forgetting Belly's existence entirely as his fingers cradled her injured palm with the delicate precision of someone handling something infinitely precious. "Hey, hey—look at me. You're okay. I've got you." Amelia's eyelids fluttered as she tried to anchor herself to his voice, to the familiar cadence of her name on his lips.

From the shadows of the hallway, Belly watched, suddenly a stranger in a house she once called home.

__________

Sorry for the delay with this chapter! I've been struggling a bit creatively while trying to stick to the show's canon events. I'm slowly getting there, not completely happy with how it's turning out, but one day I'll probably go back and rewrite it all.