Brandon – POV
I carried the tray upstairs exactly ten minutes later, just like Mum had said, though it felt like ten hours had passed inside my chest.
Every step made my heart thud harder, louder, as if it were trying to outrun me. I was nervous—terrified, actually—but beneath that fear was something embarrassingly lighter. Something reckless and hopeful. Like a kid being promised a trip to the park after a bad week. Or a lollipop after a needle.
Chloe was my lollipop.
I stopped in front of her door, the tray balanced carefully in my hands. Oatmeal with sliced bananas and honey. Scrambled eggs. Avocado toast cut neatly into triangles. A small bowl of fruit. A glass of water and another of warm tea. Mum had gone all out—protein, iron, vitamins, everything she said Chloe needed to "get her strength back."
I raised my hand to knock.
Then I froze.
My knuckles hovered inches from the door, my arm suddenly heavy, like my liver—or maybe my courage—had failed me at the last second.
