Blaze's POV
The Sunday afternoon sun filters through my parents' backyard, casting dappled shadows across the terrace where I sit alone, phone in hand.
From the kitchen, I can hear Sophie and my mother chatting about florists, their voices blending with the occasional sizzle from Dad's barbecue station.
This should feel normal. Peaceful, even. The kind of family gathering I used to love before everything got complicated. Instead, guilt coils in my stomach like a living thing, making it impossible to focus on anything except the memory of yesterday afternoon.
Asher's skin against mine. The way he whispered my name like a prayer. The desperate, aching tenderness that made everything feel impossibly right—until reality crashed back in and reminded us why we can't have this.
I stare at the empty message thread with his name at the top, cursor blinking in the text box like a challenge.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trying to find words for everything churning in my chest.
I missed your body. Delete.
Yesterday was a mistake. Delete.
Every time I was with Sophie, I imagined you. Delete.
Each attempt feels either too revealing or too cold, too honest or not honest enough. How do you text someone after crossing every line you've spent years maintaining? How do you acknowledge what happened without making promises you can't keep?
"Blaze, honey, could you grab the salad from the kitchen?" Mom calls from the doorway.
"Sure," I reply, quickly closing my phone. "Be right there."
But instead of going inside immediately, I try one more time: You're not alone. Whatever Jackson has planned, I'll help.
I send it before I can second-guess myself, then slip the phone into my pocket and head toward the kitchen.
Sophie stands at the island, helping my mother arrange a fruit platter, her engagement ring catching the overhead light. She looks perfectly at home here, laughing at something Mom said, sleeves rolled up like she belongs in this kitchen.
She deserves so much better than this. Better than someone who lies to her about technical errors with wedding invitations when the truth is I deliberately deleted every single one.
Better than someone who's stringing her along while his heart belongs entirely to someone else.
"There he is," Sophie says, smiling when she sees me. "Your mom was just telling me about the time you tried to barbecue for her birthday when you were twelve."
"And nearly burned down the deck," Mom adds with a laugh. "Your father still won't let him near the grill unsupervised."
"I was twelve," I protest, but I'm smiling despite everything. "And the fire was very small."
"The fire department would disagree," Dad calls from outside. "Still have the incident report somewhere."
Sophie giggles, and something twists in my chest. She fits here. Fits with my family in ways that should make me happy but instead make the guilt worse.
She deserves someone who can love her without reservation, someone who isn't constantly thinking about someone else.
I grab the salad bowl and escape back to the terrace, needing air and space to think.
"How are the steaks coming, Dad?"
"Almost ready. Medium rare, right? Like civilized people eat them?"
"Perfect."
I settle back into my chair, pulling out my phone again. Still no response from Asher, but that's not surprising. He's probably trying to figure out how to handle the Jackson situation, how to prove his betrayal without destroying his own career in the process.
My mother appears beside me again, holding two glasses of iced tea, her expression soft and unreadable.
"Mind if I sit?" she asks.
"Of course not."
She hands me one of the glasses and settles into the chair beside me. For a moment, we just sit in comfortable silence, watching Dad flip steaks and listening to the distant sound of Sophie's laughter from inside.
"She's lovely," Mom says finally. "Sophie. She fits in so well with the family."
"She does." The words feel heavy on my tongue.
"Your father and I are so happy for you both. This wedding is going to be beautiful." She pauses, taking a sip of her tea. "Though I noticed you haven't sent out the invitations yet."
My chest tightens. Another lie I'll have to maintain. "Technical issue with the printing. Should be resolved this week."
"Of course. These things happen."
But there's something in her tone that makes me think she doesn't entirely believe me. My mother has always been good at reading between the lines, at sensing when something isn't quite right.
"You know," she says carefully, "I've been thinking a lot lately about choices. About the difference between what we think we want and what actually makes us happy."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that sometimes we make decisions based on what we think is right, or what other people expect from us, instead of listening to what our hearts are telling us."
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with meaning I'm not sure I'm ready to examine.
"Mom…"
"I'm not saying that's what you're doing," her voice gentle but steady. "I'm just saying that if you ever felt like... like certain circumstances had made you doubt how much your father and I love you, I want you to know that nothing could ever change that."
My throat tightens. We're talking in circles, never naming anything directly, but somehow I hear exactly what she's trying to say.
"You're my son," she’s reaching over to squeeze my hand. "My beautiful, kind, stubborn son who's made me proud every single day of his life. Not because of who you're dating or what choices you make about your personal life, but because of who you are as a person."
The careful walls I've built around this topic start to crack. "I know things have been... complicated. With the family. With expectations."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Years of assumed disappointment, of careful distance, of choosing safety over honesty—and maybe I was wrong about what my parents actually wanted.
"I'm just glad you're back in our lives," she continues. "Whatever that means, whatever form it takes. We missed you. More than you know."
My vision blurs slightly, and for a moment I can't speak. The conversation I've been avoiding for years is finally happening, wrapped in careful euphemisms but unmistakably real.
"I missed you too," I manage to say.
"Good." Mom squeezes my hand one more time, then starts to stand. "That's all I needed to hear."
"Mom, wait. What exactly you were—" I open my mouth to respond properly, to maybe finally have the conversation we've been dancing around.
"Barbecue's ready!" Dad calls from across the patio. "Come and get it before it gets cold!"
The moment shatters like glass. Mom releases my hand and smooths down her dress, but there's something soft and hopeful in her expression.
"We should go," she says. "Sophie will be wondering where we are."
"Yeah," I agree, standing on unsteady legs. "Don't want to keep everyone waiting."
But as we walk toward the barbecue where Sophie is already helping Dad plate the steaks, something fragile and hopeful takes root in my chest.
Not everything is lost. Not everyone has given up on the possibility of understanding.
Maybe, just maybe, there's still room for honesty in this family. Even if I'm not sure about anything anymore.