Eli's room had always been quieter than the rest of the house.
Cleaner. Simpler. Less decorated.
When Nora sat on the edge of his bed, it felt like stepping into the part of him he didn't show anyone else.
He closed the door halfway.
Not fully.
Old habit.
Boundaries built into muscle memory.
"What's up?" he asked.
She didn't answer right away.
The rain had stopped, but the air still felt charged — like the storm hadn't finished.
"I feel weird," she admitted.
"Weird how?"
She stared at her hands.
"I don't know if I'm doing the right thing."
His chest tightened.
He knew what she meant.
He just needed to hear it.
"About Liam?" he asked carefully.
She nodded.
"He's good," she said quickly. "He's kind. He shows up. He tries."
Eli forced himself to nod.
"That's important."
"I know."
Silence.
"But?"
There it was.
She looked up at him then.
And for a second, everything in the room shifted.
"I keep comparing," she said quietly.
His pulse picked up.
"To what?"
She swallowed.
"To you."
The word landed between them like glass.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
She continued, voice barely above a whisper.
"I don't mean to. I just… every time he says something, or does something, I think about what you would've said. Or how you would've handled it."
Eli's jaw tightened slightly.
"That's not fair to him," he said, though it cost him.
"I know."
"Then stop."
She let out a shaky breath.
"I don't know how."
That broke something small inside him.
Because she wasn't saying it lightly.
She wasn't playing with the idea.
She was lost.
"Why are you really here?" he asked softly.
The question wasn't accusing.
It was an invitation.
She stood up then, pacing once across the room.
The space felt too small.
"I don't know what I'm feeling," she said, frustrated. "And I don't want to ruin anything. I don't want to mess this up."
"Mess what up?"
"Us."
The word echoed.
Us.
Not family. Not house. Not routine.
Us.
He stood slowly.
Not close enough to touch her.
But not far either.
"There is no 'us' to mess up," he said carefully.
It was the biggest lie he'd ever told.
She looked at him like she knew it.
"You don't feel it?" she asked.
There it was.
Bare. Terrifying.
The question he'd been dodging for months.
His heart was pounding now.
If he said yes—
Everything could shift. The house. Their parents. Her trust.
If he said no—
He'd be protecting her. But lying.
She stepped closer.
Not dramatic.
Just honest.
"I think I—"
She stopped.
The words caught in her throat.
He could see them there.
I think I love you.
He saw it.
Felt it.
Wanted it.
But fear moved faster than courage.
"You're confused," he said gently. "You're seventeen. You've been around me your whole life. Of course it feels intense."
Her face fell slightly.
"That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?" he asked, too sharply.
Silence.
She searched his face.
Looking for permission.
For confirmation.
For something to meet her halfway.
He didn't give it.
Because loving her meant protecting her.
Even from this.
"You have a boyfriend," he said quietly. "A good one. Don't sabotage that because you're comfortable with me."
Comfortable.
The word hurt her.
"I'm not mistaking comfort for anything," she said softly.
He looked away first.
And that was answer enough.
Her shoulders dropped.
Something in her closed.
"Okay," she whispered.
The room felt colder suddenly.
She stepped back toward the door.
"I shouldn't have come in here."
"You can always come in here," he said immediately.
But it sounded different now.
Smaller.
She opened the door.
Paused.
"You don't get to decide what I'm feeling," she said, not angry — just clear.
Then she walked down the hallway.
Eli stood there long after she left.
Hands shaking slightly.
Because she had almost said it.
And he had almost answered.
And almost might be the most painful word in the world.