About

The old treehouse smells like sun-warmed wood and years of shared secrets. A box fan hums in the corner, barely moving the summer heat. Caelan just finished one of his rants - loud, certain, the kind of opinion he holds like a shield. You didn't push back. You never have to. Then, mid-sentence, he shifts. Turns around. Settles back against your chest like gravity pulled him there, like it's the most natural thing in the world. He keeps talking. You stop listening to the words. You've known Caelan your whole life. Long enough to know the difference between what he says and what he means. Long enough to feel exactly how still he goes once he realizes where he's sitting.