Becca

His name fades from the screen, leaving behind a black void and the weight of everything I didn’t get to say.

I try to breathe, but my chest won’t expand all the way. There’s a lump lodged in my throat, thick and heavy, like if I even try to swallow it down, I’ll choke on the ache.

I don’t cry.

I won’t.

I refuse to.

Not because I don’t want to, but because if I start, I won’t stop. So I wipe away the silent tears slipping down my cheeks, determined to shove the pain into a box I can seal up tight, somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind.

Behind me, there’s movement. The scrape of a chair being pushed back in. The soft rustle of a paper bag being crushed and tossed into the trash. Though he can see me standing here, staring at my phone, Nick doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Doesn’t ask if I’m okay. 

And I’m glad.

Instead, he crosses the room, and from the corner of my eye, I see him crouch down near the TV stand. There, he digs into a bag—one I hadn’t noticed before. A beat later, he pulls out what looks like a black game console.

I blink. My brows pulling together as he starts connecting cables to the back of my TV. 

“What are you doing?”

He glances up with a shrug. “Hooking this up. Figured we could play. You know, team up, blow some shit up, kill some bad guys. Pure chaos, but trust me… it’s the cure for what you’re feeling.”

I swallow hard, the edge of a laugh catching on the raw ache still burning in my chest. “You brought a game console with you? Along with your motorcycle and a stash of boxed mac and cheese? Should I ask what else you’ve got in that bag?”

He lifts a brow. “You act like all that’s weird.”

I shake my head faintly. “No. It’s not weird, it’s just…”

Nick. 

It’s who he is. Always prepared for anything. Something I can relate to. 

In my case, it’s a byproduct of trauma, of having to fend for myself from a very young age. But with him, I wonder what made him this way? Could it be that we share the same trauma, just different versions of the same fight?

I grew up poor and neglected. But at least I was spared the brutality of being raised by a sociopath like Charles Kline. And the more I think about it, the more I realize: no amount of money or nice things could ever make up for the kind of damage a man like that would’ve inflicted on his only son. 

As I watch Nick—dark hair, dark eyes, same strong build, and squared jaw—I see the resemblance. He’s a spitting image of his father. But that’s where the similarities end. Because Nick… he’s the light to his father’s dark. He’s kind. Thoughtful. Steady. Exactly the person I never knew I needed in my life, especially now.

So I set my phone down on the counter and make my way over to the couch, the numbness still pressing in from all sides—but somehow, it’s not quite as suffocating. Not with Nick here. Not with him offering me a distraction.

“Alright then,” I say, sinking into the cushions. “Let’s blow some shit up.”

A few minutes later, I’m clutching a controller like it might explode in my hands.

“There’s… a lot of buttons,” I murmur, eyeing the screen as my character stumbles sideways into a wall, then promptly sets herself on fire.

Nick snorts beside me. “Okay, wow. That was—impressive.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, trying to aim at whatever just shot me from a rooftop. “How do I switch weapons again?”

“Left trigger. No—other left. There you go.”

The screen explodes in a haze of smoke, and my character’s rag doll body flops dramatically off a ledge.

“You sure this is fun?” I grumble.

Nick grins, completely unbothered. “Absolutely. You’re just really bad at it, which honestly, is the best part.”

I glare at him, which only makes him laugh harder. 

“You know,” I mutter, “most people would appreciate how hard I’m trying.”

“Oh, I do,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his. “This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

I narrow my eyes at the screen, then promptly unload a rocket launcher into a pack of enemies with surprising success.

“Holy crap,” I breathe. “Did I just—?”

“You did,” he says, mock awe in his voice. “You beautiful, chaotic menace. You clearly take after me.”

I grin. For real this time.

The tension, the helplessness, the grief… they’re all still there, but somehow slip to the background, softened by the absurdity of the moment. We fall into a rhythm, yelling at the screen, cheering each other on, laughing every time something ridiculous happens. Like when I blow myself up again five minutes later and Nick loses it, wheezing with laughter.

The first genuine laugh I’ve let out all day slips free before I can stop it, loud and a little shaky, but real.

Nick pauses, eyes flicking toward me. I see the way his smile softens, like maybe he knows what that laugh just meant to me.

I don’t say anything. 

I don’t have to, because he gets it. 

He gets me.

For now, we’re not worrying about Shane, or the headlines, or what’s coming next. We’re just two people, having fun, blowing up bad guys. And for the first time since I got home today, I feel just a little more like myself again.

About an hour later, Nick sets the controller aside and leans forward to shut off the console. The room falls quiet again, the only sounds the faint hum of the heater and the wind whispering against the windows.

I tuck my feet beneath me on the couch, still catching my breath from laughing so hard, while trying to ignore the phantom ache that hasn’t left me all day.

It’s almost eight o’clock, which means Shane is minutes away from getting engaged to Amanda… or maybe he already has. 

At the thought, my eyes fill with tears, but I keep the smile planted on my face, hoping Nick doesn’t notice these tears aren’t from laughter.

He places the controllers neatly on the TV stand. There’s no rush in his movements, but there is a quiet undercurrent. A shift in the air that tells me he wants to say something, so I brace.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” he says as he comes back to the couch and settles in beside me. “But I think it’s important you be ready.”

My stomach knots. “Ready? For what?”

“For what’s about to happen. The headlines,” he clarifies. “The photos. Whatever carefully staged bullshit hits the press in the coming days. For the paparazzi that are gonna descend on this town for the next few weeks—maybe months.”

I swallow hard. “You think it’ll be that bad?”

He lets out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “His mom’s behind it all. So yeah. I think it’s going to be very, very… curated. Romantic. Picture-perfect.” He glances over at me. “Designed to make the world believe it, and to make you doubt everything you know.”

He watches me absorb the words, each one making me feel smaller and more defeated with every second that passes.

“Look,” he says, resting his elbows on his knees. “The Montgomerys. The Klines. The Matthews. Families like ours don’t live in a small town like Ruby Creek by accident. They live here because of what it gives them. Because here, their wealth makes them royalty. Whereas if they lived in L.A., or Manhattan, or Palm Beach? They’d be ordinary. Hell, less than ordinary since out there, there’s always someone richer.” 

He shrugs, a bitter edge slipping into his voice, like he hates even admitting it. “But here? Here, they’re the elite. The untouchable. The family everyone envies, idolizes, tries to cozy up to. And twisted as it is, the fact that they’ve chosen to live in some quaint little town? It paints them as humble. Grounded. The press eats that shit up, which gives them even more power, more clout. They become this rare diamond in the rough. And Ruby Creek? It’s the perfect backdrop—charming, scenic, accessible. Makes them look even shinier by contrast.”

I blink hard, forcing my eyes to stay on the blank TV screen instead of the tension coiling in his jaw. 

I’ll never understand the world they come from. It all seems so fake. So intangible. So… sad.

“It’s all an act. A carefully choreographed life. And our parents?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “They’re masters at it. Spinning the story. Controlling the narrative. Doesn’t matter what’s real—only what the rest of the world thinks is real.”

He leans back, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance. “They’re going to sell this. Within hours, they’ll have the world convinced of the fairy tale romance between Shane Montgomery and Amanda Kline. Which just so happens to mean the merging of two powerful families, and their multi-billion-dollar empires. It’ll feel so true, so perfectly packaged… I’m not going to lie to you, it’s going to hurt like hell.” 

He turns to me again, eyes sad, but determined to make me understand. “The dissonance will be real, and it’ll be brutal. So effective, you’ll start to question what you know. But you can’t let them fool you. You can’t let what they put out into the world destroy you, or what you and Shane are fighting so damn hard to build.”

A long pause stretches between us.

He doesn’t fill it.

He just lets me sit with what he’s said—lets me breathe through the sharp, cold ache blooming behind my ribs.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this,” I whisper, the doubt choking me, barely letting me get the words out.

“You are.” His answer is immediate. Certain. “But you don’t have to be strong every second, either. That’s the point of having people in your life who want to help.”

I glance at him then.

He’s not looking at me, just adjusting the corner of the blanket draped over the back of the couch. His blanket, since this is where he’s been sleeping. 

“I’ll be here for you always,” he says, softer now. “But especially when it’s something Shane can’t help you fix.”

That breaks something in me—something small and quiet and raw. I don’t respond out loud, just nod once and let him pull the blanket over me like armor.

For the first time, I don’t see him as Shane’s best friend. Not even as the guy who teased me or offered to make me laugh. 

I see him as my brother.

Nick glances at me once more, like he’s debating whether to say anything else. Then, calm and sure, he must decide he should. “It’s gonna be okay. Just… remember, nothing you see or hear is real. Nothing at all, unless it comes from Shane or me. If you have a question. Ask. If you start to doubt. Come talk to me. Together, Shane and I will get you through this.”

I nod, the words settling deep, wrapping around the most fragile parts inside me.

Nick grabs the remote and flips on the TV. A moment later, that familiar jingle from childhood fills the room, and there he is. Frosty the Snowman, waddling across the screen like some ridiculous holiday time capsule. 

I huff a quiet breath that’s almost a laugh. 

It’s so stupid. So innocent. So not what I expected to be doing on Christmas Eve while my heart quietly breaks… with Nick Kline, of all people.

Nick doesn’t ask if I want to watch it. He just slides down to the floor beside the couch, leaning back against it. Close, but not crowding me. His presence is enough to steady me. To fill me with a sense of warmth and safety, I blissfully soak in, even knowing it won’t last. Because no matter how hard they try, I get the sense there are things Nick and Shane won’t be able to protect me from.

I pull the throw blanket up to my neck and lie down on my side, facing the screen. The couch cushions curve around me, soft and familiar. The cartoon hums in the background, silly and sweet, full of bad animation and old-fashioned cheer.

And still… all I can think about is him.

Shane.

Because right about now, he’s probably already engaged to her. And by tomorrow, the whole world will have seen it. The photos. The headlines. The perfect smiles, complete with a diamond ring.

But Nick is right. 

I can’t let it break me.

The storm is coming. I can feel it rising in the distance, close enough that I can smell it in the air. And while I don’t know if I’m ready for what’s coming … 

At least I won’t have to face it alone.

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