Fan Behavior

Powder's POV:

When did things change?

Powder remembered the old days as if they were etched into her memory, vivid and unyielding. To a stranger, Ekko was just another mischievous kid who talked too much, did too much, and listened to adults too little. Teachers would sigh at the sound of his name; parents would warn their kids not to follow his lead, and they still either idolized or envied him. To strangers, Ekko was trouble in sneakers—a walking hurricane of scraped knees, clever schemes, and loud opinions.

But anyone who truly knew him—who really saw him—understood he was so much more than the chaos he brought with him. He was kind, fiercely so. Creative, in ways that turned the ordinary into the extraordinary. And no, he wasn't nearly as misbehaved as people liked to claim. He was just a kid, weren't they all? Messy, flawed, and endlessly curious about a world that didn't always make sense.

He had always been there for her. Even when it wasn't easy, even when he wanted to do anything else, Ekko listened. Sure, his hands might have been itching to tinker with his latest project or race down the street on his bike, but when Powder needed someone, he stopped and stayed. His patience wasn't always perfect, but he gave her his time anyway. 

He shared everything he had, even when it was the last piece of candy in his pocket, sticky and half-melted, or the only working tool in his kit. He never joined in with the kids who liked to tease her, who spat cruel names and laughed at the tears they caused. Instead, Ekko stood between them and her, half their size and twice as stubborn, defending her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And, honestly? He hadn't changed much. Not really.

Powder could see it. Beneath the years they'd gathered like layers of dust, Ekko was still the boy who always had her back. The boy who could make her laugh so hard her sides ached. The boy who turned even the worst days into something survivable. She could almost forget everything they'd been through, everything they'd lost. He was still the same boy who shared his snacks and his secrets, who stayed when others walked away, who turned broken scraps into something beautiful. Maybe his laugh had grown deeper, his movements a little more deliberate, his ideas sharper and harder to keep up with—but the heart of him, that fierce kindness and endless creativity, was as steady as ever.

They'd grown up, sure—longer legs, broader shoulders, voices deeper than they used to be. But to Powder, Ekko was still the same. Around him, she felt like a kid again, as though no time had passed at all. He had this way of grounding her in the best parts of her past, reminding her of who she was before the world got so complicated. When she looked at him, she couldn't help but see the little boy she'd known so well. He was still there, tucked beneath the surface, as familiar as ever.

So why did he feel so different?

Powder glanced down at her hands, caked in dirt and streaked with blood. It wasn't the worst shape she'd been in, but it wasn't great either. She felt his hand on her arm, steady and firm yet impossibly gentle. It wasn't the first time he'd touched her like this, offering comfort in the quiet way only he could. But there was something different about it now—a weight, a purpose she couldn't quite name. His touch felt the same as it always had, and yet it wasn't. It carried an intimacy she hadn't noticed before, or maybe had refused to notice until now.

When he leaned down and pressed his lips to her palm, she froze. The gesture wasn't rushed or awkward like so many things had been between them as kids. It was deliberate, soft, and achingly warm. Time seemed to slow, the world narrowing to just the two of them and the way his breath lingered against her skin. It sent a shiver through her, one she couldn't quite suppress. Powder swallowed hard, her thoughts tangling in ways she couldn't begin to unravel.

His face, once boyish and round with the soft edges of childhood, had sharpened with time. His jawline was more defined, his features more mature, yet they still carried that same openness, that same quiet understanding that had always made her feel safe. His eyes, deep and expressive, held a steadiness she didn't recognize, a maturity that made her feel suddenly small. He wasn't just Ekko anymore—not the scrappy kid who spent afternoons fixing broken gadgets or dodging consequences.

He wasn't a boy anymore. He was a man.

When did that happen?

She found herself searching his face, as if the answer might be written there. But the more she looked, the more contradictions she saw. He was different, yes—stronger, steadier, more self-assured. Yet he was the same in all the ways that mattered. He still carried the same spark of mischief, the same quick wit, the same fierce protectiveness that had made her feel like she could face anything, so long as he was by her side.

Her chest tightened as she watched him. How was it possible for someone to change so much and so little at the same time? He still carried that glow, the quick wit that could pull a laugh from her even on the worst days. But there was something else now, something deeper, something that made her feel small in a way she didn't entirely dislike. He wasn't just Ekko anymore—not the scrappy kid who spent afternoons drawing or sneaking them into places they weren't supposed to be. Somewhere along the way, he'd become more.

And maybe, possibly, she was starting to see him as something more too.

She swallowed hard, her throat tight, the weight of her emotions pressing against her ribcage like a vice. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the faint hum of the world around them. Without meaning to, she risked a glance at him, her eyes darting up hesitantly, as though the act itself might break the fragile balance between them.

Ekko was close—closer than she'd realized. The realization struck her with the force of a crashing wave, leaving her momentarily breathless. She could see the delicate edges of his face, the faint curve of his lips caught somewhere between a smile and silence, the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. But it was his eyes that held her captive.

Dark and steady, they caught the faint flicker of sunlight, transforming it into something warm and alive. It wasn't just the light itself that made her mesmerized; it was the way it reflected in his gaze, like it held pieces of a story she'd never been brave enough to read. There was something hidden in their depths, something quiet but undeniable, like a truth waiting to be spoken.

"Let me see," he said softly, his voice low and even, though it carried that same steady authority it always had when it came to her. Gently, he reached for her hands, his fingers brushing against hers as he turned them over, inspecting the damage. Powder stiffened, instinctively wanting to pull away, but she didn't. She couldn't. His touch was so careful, so deliberate, that it froze her in place.

"It's not bad," she muttered, even though they both knew it wasn't true. The blood on her hands had begun to dry, crusting in tacky streaks that cracked against her skin, and the cuts underneath were deeper than she wanted to admit. She winced as Ekko turned her palm toward the light, the sting flaring anew with the shift.

His lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "You always say that." He shook his head, a soft laugh escaping him, though it lacked any real amusement. His thumb moved over the back of her hand, feather-light and fleeting, but enough to make her shiver. "Doesn't mean I'm not gonna fix it."

Her breath hitched, and she wasn't sure if it was from the pain or something else entirely. There was a softness in his voice she couldn't quite handle, a tenderness that made her chest feel too tight and too hollow all at once. He'd always been like this with her—quietly protective, fiercely loyal—but now it felt like more. It felt like too much and not enough, all tangled up in a way she couldn't make sense of.

"Ekko, you don't have to—" Powder started, her voice soft, barely more than a whisper.

He didn't let her finish. "I know," he said, not looking up as he reached into his bag and pulled out a scrap of cloth. "But I'm gonna."

There was no hesitation, no flourish, just a quiet certainty that made Powder's protests catch in her throat. He was like that—always moving forward, always doing what he thought was right, even if it was inconvenient or unasked for. Especially then.

She watched as Ekko unscrewed the cap of his water bottle, the cool liquid splashing into the cloth in careful bursts. Each drop was deliberate, measured, like everything he did these days. When he looked up at her, his gaze was steady, full of that quiet determination she had come to expect from him. He didn't rush—he never rushed, not when it came to things like this. He moved with an unhurried precision, as if every small detail mattered. Powder couldn't help but be mesmerized by the way his fingers handled the cloth, folding it just right before he crouched in front of her, positioning himself with a familiarity that was almost too comfortable.

His hand brushed against hers briefly, his touch soft but deliberate, his thumb skimming over her knuckles in a way that made her heart stumble. She wondered if he even realized he was doing it. The pressure was light, almost unconscious, yet it lingered like a promise she didn't quite know how to accept.

"Hold still," he said, his voice soft but firm, and though she tried to keep her hand steady, there was an uneasy flutter in her chest. He was so careful—too careful—and it made the world feel too small, like it was just the two of them. She could feel her breath catching in her throat as he dabbed at the cuts on her palm, the cloth cool against her skin, its touch both soothing and unbearable at the same time. Each motion he made was slow, deliberate, and she felt it in her bones: Ekko wasn't just tending to her wounds. He was doing something more. Something she wasn't sure how to name.

The sting of the cloth against her wounds should've been enough to keep her focused, but it wasn't. Powder squirmed slightly, her other hand clenched by her side, unsure of what to do with it. It wasn't the physical pain that unsettled her. It was the weight of his attention, the way he hovered, so intent on the task at hand, as if it was the most important thing in the world.

"This might sting a little," he murmured, almost absentmindedly, his eyes never leaving her hands.

She smiled awkwardly, though he wasn't looking to see it. "I think I can handle it."

He huffed a quiet laugh, barely more than an exhale. "Yeah, you can. You always do."

The words, casual as they seemed, lingered in the air, heavy with meaning she couldn't quite place. They weren't just a part of their usual banter. There was something else in them, something different. Maybe it was the way his voice cracked at the end, just a little, or the way his hands didn't shake even though his focus never wavered. Whatever it was, it felt like a secret she wasn't meant to hear—like Ekko was giving her something he hadn't given anyone else. And it was more than she could carry. 

She looked away, trying to focus on the sensation—the gentle scrape of fabric against her skin, the sting of water on fresh cuts—but her mind kept slipping back to him, to the quiet way he moved, the soft furrow between his brows as he worked. She couldn't escape it. She couldn't escape him.

The physical pain was something she could understand. It was simple. Clean cut, wash hands, repeat. But this—this was different. This was something she couldn't touch. She didn't know how to hold onto it, or how to make sense of it. She looked away, down at the hand he was tending to, trying to drown out the sudden swell of unfamiliar emotion rising in her chest.

Everything felt like a thousand little things all at once: Ekko's care, his quiet attention, his presence. It was all too much, and not enough, and the guilt began to press into her like a weight she didn't know how to shake. Why didn't she do this for him?

He was always there for her—always, without question, without hesitation. He patched her up when the world knocked her down, he fixed her broken things, and he stood in the way of anyone who dared hurt her. She could remember a thousand moments like this, where he put her first without ever asking for anything in return. He was the one who got hurt, who stayed up all night fixing his own messes because no one else was there to see them. She was supposed to be the one looking out for him, wasn't she? The one who cared enough to be there when the world had its claws in him.

She caught herself wondering, not for the first time, how many times he'd done this before—how many times he'd fixed himself in silence, without a single soul to witness it, without anyone to care. It was hard to imagine, really, because Ekko never let on. He wore his scars like they were badges of honor, but not the kind that demanded recognition. No, his were the quiet ones, the ones that didn't show up on display, the ones hidden beneath the layers of his quick smiles and quick steps.

She'd seen him come back home so many times, looking like a scrapheap of bruises and cuts—dark purple and blue splotches painting his arms like some kind of forgotten map. She could almost hear the hiss of air between his teeth as he ignored the sting of a scraped knee or a thumb that bent just the wrong way, which were the results of his unfortunate skateboard adventures. She didn't know how many times she'd seen him limp home with blood on his hands and dirt in his hair, face twisted into that same look—something between defiance and resignation—and yet, he never once mentioned it. Not a single word about how he'd fallen too hard or how his body had taken the toll of every reckless move.

No one else ever asked, either. It was easier not to, and it was already too late; the wounds had been treated. He never gave them any reason to look deeper. 

He moved like he didn't need anyone, like he could handle everything on his own, and most people believed it. He never let anyone see him falter, never gave anyone the satisfaction of watching him struggle. If anything, he made it look easy. Like everything was just another thing to fix, just another puzzle to solve. The world around him was nothing but a bunch of broken gears and missing parts, and Ekko? He was the one who could always make them work again.

Who was there to clean up the messes he made? Who was there to wipe the sweat from his brow, or kiss his bruises better when he came home covered in more damage than he was willing to admit?

Her chest ached with the thought. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She should be the one taking care of him. She should be the one treating his wounds, cleaning his cuts, offering him the same quiet gentleness he gave her so freely.

But she was the one here, and he was the one kneeling in front of her, taking care of every small scrape like it was the most important thing in the world. And she couldn't stop herself from feeling like she didn't deserve this. Not when it had always been him, the one who needed someone to hold him together.

But here he was, making sure she was okay. He was the one keeping the world at bay for just a moment longer, his hands steady as they worked, and she felt herself slipping, her heart too full to hold all the things she wanted to say. But she couldn't find the right words. She never had the right words when it came to him. So she let the silence stretch, heavy but not uncomfortable, between them, and she focused on the way his fingers brushed lightly over her skin, each touch a quiet promise that he was here. That he was hers, in this small, fragile way that felt like it could break her all over again.

Ekko didn't need to speak. He never did. His presence alone was enough—so much more than words. The way he moved, the way he concentrated on her wounds, the way his lips pressed into a thin line of quiet focus, all of it said everything. He didn't need to say that he cared. She knew. She had always known. But knowing didn't make it any easier. God , she didn't know how to deal with this feeling, the one that curled up in the pit of her stomach every time his eyes found hers. 

How could she deserve this? How could she deserve someone like him? Someone who didn't flinch away when she needed him most, when all she wanted was to disappear, to hide from everything that was too big to hold.

Her gaze flickered down to his hands again, the steady rhythm of his work grounding her, and she tried to focus on the sting of her injuries, the physical pain that was still so real, so immediate. But everything else felt louder—the way his body moved in the warm light of the sun, the way his eyes softened when they met hers, the subtle curve of his smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth as if he knew exactly what was going on in her head, even if she didn't say a word. 

It was all too much, too soft, too kind—and she wasn't ready for it. Not yet. She wasn't ready to look at the way he cared about her in a way that felt different . Not now. Not when the silence between them was full of things they hadn't said, things neither of them could quite reach out and name yet.

Her hand felt impossibly small in his, as though it might break from the weight of his care. The tenderness in the way he held her wrist, the way his thumb traced the length of her skin as if memorizing the delicate arc of her bones, made her feel both fragile and cherished in ways she couldn't quite fathom. She almost wanted to pull away, to slip out from under the weight of his attention, but something held her there, anchored in place by his quiet strength. She couldn't move. She couldn't leave. So instead, she swallowed down the words that were building up inside of her, words that might have made everything worse. She let the thoughts twist inside her like a tangled knot.

Ekko shifted slightly, his body lowering even more as he worked his way to the other side, cleaning the fresh scrapes on her other hand. His posture was awkward, hunched, the strain evident in the way his legs shifted against the warm concrete beneath them, but it didn't seem to bother him. 

He was there, every part of him focused on her, his attention unwavering, his expression set in that quiet, intense concentration that he always wore when he was working on something important. And she couldn't help but think—he was like that with everything. His dedication, his refusal to settle for anything less than perfection, it was all part of him. He didn't just fix things, he became them. And as much as she wanted to think of herself as unfixable, something about the way he held her together made her wonder if maybe she wasn't broken after all. Maybe he was the missing piece, the one who could make her whole again.

"Why do you always do that?"

The words slipped out before Powder could stop herself—soft, hesitant, barely audible above the ambient hum of the world around them. Children laughed faintly in the distance, a dog barked somewhere down the block, and the occasional gust of wind rustled the leaves in the trees. Yet, even in the quiet chaos of the city night, her voice felt too loud. Too exposed. She immediately regretted it, wishing she could grab those words, stuff them back into her mouth, and pretend she hadn't spoken at all. But it was too late. They lingered in the air between them, fragile and raw, like a wound laid bare.

Ekko didn't respond right away. His hands kept moving, steady and precise, his fingers caressing her scraped palm. The motion was soothing, almost rhythmic, and for a second, she thought he might have missed her question entirely. But then she noticed the faint pause in his movements—a subtle hitch, like a record skipping a beat. His touch softened, his fingers brushing her skin more delicately now, as though he was giving her a chance to pull away if she wanted. She didn't.

"Do what?" he asked at last, his voice low and even, though there was a note of curiosity beneath the surface. He didn't look up, his focus still on her hand, but the slight furrow in his brow gave him away. That crease between his eyebrows—a telltale sign that her question had thrown him off balance just enough to make him think. She hadn't meant to catch him off guard.

Powder hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip as she searched for the right words. Her gaze flickered down to where his fingers worked over her hand, his touch so gentle it was almost unbearable. "Take care of me," she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. "Even when I don't deserve it."

That made him stop.

The cloth stilled against her palm, and suddenly the world felt impossibly quiet. No more laughter, no more rustling leaves—just the faint sound of their breathing and the relentless pounding of her heart in her ears. Ekko froze, his posture going still but not stiff, like her words had stunned him in a way he hadn't been prepared for. Slowly, carefully, he lowered the cloth to his lap, his movements deliberate, almost methodical. He didn't look at her right away, his head tilted slightly downward as though he was trying to process what she'd said, turning her words over in his mind until they made sense.

When he finally did look up, his eyes found hers immediately. And the weight of his gaze—it was like a punch to the gut. Not because it was harsh or judgmental, but because it was so steady, so intent, that she felt like he was seeing straight through her. His expression wasn't what she had feared. It wasn't frustration or annoyance or even pity. It was something deeper, something that made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a cliff with nowhere to run.

"You think you don't deserve it?" His voice was quieter now, carrying a thread of something she couldn't quite place—concern, maybe, or hurt, or both.

She couldn't hold his gaze any longer. Her eyes dropped to the ground, tracing the cracks in the concrete beneath their feet like they might hold the answer she couldn't find in him. Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks, the kind of warmth that made her want to disappear entirely. She hated this feeling, hated how vulnerable she felt under his scrutiny, hated how easily he seemed to strip away her defenses without even trying.

"I don't know," she muttered, her voice so small it felt like it might break apart. She wrapped her arms around herself, a poor attempt at shielding the part of her that felt so exposed. "Maybe. Sometimes. Most of the time."

Ekko tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, though the sharp crease in his brow softened just enough to make him look more patient than frustrated. He didn't speak right away, giving her the space she seemed to need, though the weight of his gaze lingered like a question hanging in the air. Powder could feel it—the quiet expectation behind his silence, the way he was waiting for her to say something, anything. When she didn't, he exhaled softly, the sound almost imperceptible, and leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees, bringing him closer, his body angling toward her with a quiet determination that made it clear she couldn't avoid him much longer.

"Pow," he said gently, her name falling from his lips in a tone so steady it might as well have been an anchor. It wasn't sharp or demanding; it didn't cut through the moment like a blade. Instead, it settled over her like a warm blanket, grounding her in the here and now. "Look at me."

She hesitated, her heart beating too fast in her chest, but the softness in his voice left little room for refusal. Slowly, reluctantly, her eyes lifted to meet his. The intensity in his gaze made her breath hitch, a sharp intake she barely managed to swallow. There was something raw in his expression, something so achingly sincere it made her feel like he could see straight through her. Past the nervous fidgeting, past the excuses she wanted to make, past the walls she had so carefully built.

"I take care of you because you're important," he said, his words deliberate, steady, and free of hesitation. Like it was a simple truth, not something he needed to justify. "And because you do deserve it, even if you don't think you do."

Her lower lip quivered, the weight of her emotions threatening to break through the fragile barrier she was desperately trying to maintain. The sting of tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, hot and insistent, and she clenched her fists at her sides, hating the vulnerability that came with crying. She hated the way it made her feel exposed, like an open wound for the world to see. But it was the tenderness in his voice, the unwavering gentleness in the way he said her name, that made it impossible to hold back. 

"You don't know that," she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. The words stumbled out of her, raw and unguarded, before she could stop them. Her gaze dropped to the floor, to the toes of her boots, anything to avoid the intensity of his eyes. "You know all the stuff I've done, the ways I've messed up. How annoying I am. I thought you'd—"

"I'd what?" Ekko interrupted gently, his voice soft but firm. He leaned in a little closer, his expression resolute. "Stop caring? Stop being your friend? You really think there's anything you could do that'd change how I feel about you?" 

Powder's breath hitched, and for a moment, all she could do was stare at him. The sincerity in his eyes was almost too much, too raw, too real. She tried to look away, but he didn't let her. His gaze held her there, rooted her to the spot, made her feel like she couldn't hide even if she wanted to.

"I…" She tried again, but her voice broke, caught somewhere between a sob and a whisper. Her hands curled into the fabric of her jacket, her knuckles white with the effort of holding herself together. "I don't know. I—I've messed up so much. I don't even know why you still—"

"Exactly," he interrupted, his voice taking on a quiet intensity that made her breath catch. "You don't have to know. You don't have to figure out why. That's not your job, Pow. You don't have to earn my care, my time, my…" He paused, his jaw tightening for just a second before his voice softened. "…anything. You're worth it just because you're you."

The words hit her like a wave, powerful and undeniable, and she felt the last of her defenses crumble. A single tear escaped, tracing a hot line down her cheek, and before she could swipe at it, more followed. They came faster than she could stop them, falling in relentless streams that blurred her vision. Her chest felt tight, her heart thundering in her ribcage as she let out a shaky laugh, one that was part disbelief and part humiliation.

Her hand lifted instinctively, fingers fumbling to wipe away the tears, but Ekko was faster. He reached out, his hand brushing against hers for only a second before he moved to her face. His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, catching a tear and brushing it away with a tenderness that made her knees weak. His touch was warm, grounding her in a way she hadn't realized she needed.

"Okay?" he asked softly, quietly, his voice so low it felt like a whisper meant only for her. The way he said it wasn't dismissive or impatient; it was filled with understanding, like he was giving her permission to fall apart, to feel everything she was feeling without shame.

Powder blinked up at him, her vision blurry from the tears still clinging to her lashes. She nodded, her voice trembling as she whispered, "Okay."

Ekko smiled then, the small, quiet curve of his lips the only hint of emotion at first. It was subtle, a soft movement that barely registered on his face, but it carried a warmth with it—something that sent a ripple of unexpected comfort through her body. The way he looked at her, as though the entire world had paused just for a second, made her feel a little less lost, a little less like she was floundering in an ocean of her own uncertainty. His voice, when it came, was steady and low, threaded with something gentle that somehow still managed to have a weight to it. "Good," he said, his gaze never leaving hers. "Because Vander would absolutely kill me if he found out I made his daughter cry."

The laugh that bubbled up from Powder's chest was entirely involuntary—a soft, breathy, hiccupping sound that felt out of place after all the tears she'd spilled just moments before. It startled her almost as much as it surprised Ekko, the vulnerability in her voice raw and unrefined. For a second, she thought she might stop it, shove it back down with a snarky comment or a sharp retort, but instead, it kept coming. "Yeah," she muttered, sniffling as she wiped the tears that stubbornly clung to her nose with the back of her hand. "He'd probably make you clean the bar top for a week."

"At least," Ekko agreed, a grin spreading across his face, a little crooked but wide enough to make his eyes sparkle with something mischievous. It was a playful expression, teasing, but it softened the air between them in a way she hadn't expected. Then, with a purposeful shift in his posture, he straightened up, the gesture fluid and effortless, before offering her a hand to help her to her feet. "Come on, Pow," he said, wiggling his fingers in a teasing motion when she didn't immediately move. "Up you go. Don't make me drag you."

For a moment, she just stared at his outstretched hand. Her mind was slow to process the simple gesture, as though it required more from her than she could give in that moment. She noticed everything in that brief second—the way the sun caught on his skin, the way his fingers flexed slightly as he waited, the small scars that marked his knuckles like a map of his past. His hand was firm, slightly calloused, but there was something soft about the way he held it out to her—something that made her chest tighten, just a little.

Her smile, small and shy, tugged at the corners of her lips as she finally reached out. Her fingers brushed his, hesitant at first, before his hand closed around hers, warm and sure. He pulled her up with a gentleness, steadying her when her legs wobbled, as though he was acutely aware of how fragile she felt in that moment.

For a second, they stood there, too close, too caught up in each other's presence. She could feel the warmth radiating off him, the quiet confidence that seemed to wrap around her like a shield. The space between them was small—almost too small—but it felt like a world of difference, like they were balancing on the edge of something liberating, exciting.

When Ekko finally let go of her arm, the absence of his touch was almost jarring. Her skin felt colder without him, like the warmth he had left was a part of her that had been suddenly taken away. She stood there for a moment, the tension in her chest growing sharper. The weight of his attention, the way he had looked at her moments ago, made her feel like she was something worth holding onto. She wasn't used to that. She wasn't used to anyone looking at her like that, like she mattered. And the thought of wanting to return that feeling, to give him something in return, was a strange one.

Before she could think too much about it, before her mind could race through the many reasons this was a terrible idea, her fingers moved almost of their own accord. She didn't know what she was doing—didn't know what possessed her to touch him like this. She reached up, her hand brushing gently against his cheek. His skin was warm, almost impossibly so, beneath her fingertips. She let her thumb rest just below his cheekbone, feeling the slight roughness of his skin beneath the softness, the contrast between the smooth curve of his jaw and the sharpness of his features. And for a heartbeat, she swore she could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat beneath her touch, each beat strong and steady.

Ekko froze.

His eyes widened just slightly, like he hadn't expected it, like he didn't know how to process what was happening. His lips parted, but no words came. His gaze flickered—across her face, over her shoulder, anywhere but at her, like he was trying to find the right place to land. His usual self-assurance seemed to vanish, leaving him unsettled and unsure, something that felt so different from the confident Ekko she knew. She felt her heart rate spike in her chest, the pressure of the moment pushing against her ribs, making it hard to breathe.

Powder's breath caught in her throat, the realization hitting her hard. What was she doing? Why was she doing this? This wasn't her—this was... too much, too fast. Her heart was pounding now, loud in her ears, and a flush crept up her neck, settling into her cheeks. Her hand fell away from his face like it had been burned, and she instinctively pulled back, stumbling slightly as the world seemed to rush back into focus. This was weird—so weird, even for her.

"Uh," she stammered, trying to fill the silence with something, anything. Her voice was thin, too high-pitched for her own liking. "You, um... you have a leaf in your hair."

He blinked, the confusion still lingering in his expression as his brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't say anything right away. He just looked at her, waiting. And when she realized she had no idea how to get herself out of this—this mess she'd made of the moment—she acted without thinking. Her hand shot up, brushing through his curls in a sweeping motion, pretending to flick something away. But there was no leaf, no reason for her touch other than the desperate need to escape the tension that had built up between them.

"There," she said, her voice forced in its brightness, her smile too quick, too stiff. "Got it."

For a long, agonizing moment, Ekko didn't say anything. He just stared at her, his dark eyes flicking over her face like he was trying to decipher some kind of riddle. His lips parted again as if he wanted to speak, but yet again, he remained speechless. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—a small, lopsided smile that softened his features, making him seem suddenly more human, more real than he had in the moments before. It was a smile she knew well, one that she'd seen a thousand times before, but now, it felt different. It was a smile just for her, for this moment.

"You're ridiculous," he said, his voice light but tinged with something else, something warmer, something that made her heart flutter in her chest. "You know that?"

"Yeah, well," she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest in an attempt to seem unaffected, like it didn't bother her at all that her heart was hammering in her ribs. "You're stuck with me, so…"

"Wouldn't have it any other way," he said, his voice low and steady, carrying with it the weight of unspoken promises. His words were simple, but they wrapped around her like a lifeline, pulling her closer to something she wasn't sure how to handle. But for once, she didn't want to let go.

They stayed in the city, lingering in the gaps of the day as they waited for the lessons to end. The last thing they wanted was to raise suspicion, not after skipping school, not after slipping away from the watchful eyes of teachers and classmates alike. It was a small rebellion, but one that felt somehow necessary, the kind of freedom that only came when the world outside felt like too much to bear. They spent hours in the park, wandering through the quiet spaces, talking about nothing and everything, their voices soft against the hum of the city in the distance.

Later, they wandered to the ice cream stand, the warm afternoon air still lingering, making everything feel a little more surreal. Powder insisted on paying—out of habit, perhaps, or maybe out of some fleeting sense of pride, but Ekko wouldn't have it. No, he was too stubborn. Too protective, in his own way. Even though his pockets weren't any deeper than hers, he insisted on always paying for her. It was a gesture, simple and small, but it spoke volumes about the way he cared for her, about the way he always seemed to have her back, even in the smallest of ways. Powder didn't argue this time, not because she didn't want to, but because she realized there was no use. Ekko was stubborn—impossibly so—and she didn't mind letting him win once in a while. 

Time had a funny way of slipping by when she was with him. The hours stretched and then snapped back in an instant, leaving her wondering where they had gone. One moment they were laughing over something silly, walking side by side through the quiet streets; the next, the sun was dipping lower in the sky, casting streaks of orange and pink against the scattered clouds. The shadows stretched long and thin across the ground, and the familiar ache of endings began to settle in her chest.

They stood outside her front door now, the world around them growing quieter with the late hour. Powder shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling oddly restless despite the calm of the evening. She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, glancing up at Ekko. He was a few paces away, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression steady but unreadable. The soft hues of the sun reflected faintly in his dark eyes, giving him an almost otherworldly glow, like he belonged to the fleeting beauty of this moment more than to the mundane world they lived in.

He always walked her home. It was something she had come to expect without ever having to ask. Ekko was like that—quietly dependable, his actions speaking louder than his words ever could. She wasn't sure when it had started or why he did it, but it had become their unspoken routine. No matter how their days unfolded, no matter where they wandered or how late they stayed out, he was always there, making sure she got back safely.

Powder liked to tell herself it was just Ekko being Ekko. Kind. Thoughtful. Maybe even a little protective. It was what a good friend would do, she reasoned, nothing more, nothing less.

"See you tomorrow?" Ekko asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. He shifted on his feet, like he was waiting for something, but Powder couldn't quite figure out what.

She nodded, her mouth a little dry. "Yeah... tomorrow."

For a moment, they just stood there, neither of them moving, the quiet stretching between them like a fragile thread. Then, slowly, Ekko gave her one of those soft, warm smiles—the kind that always felt like it held a secret only he knew. It was fleeting, there and gone in an instant, as he turned and began walking down the path. He didn't look back, but his pace was slower than usual, like he was giving her one last chance to call him back.

She didn't. She couldn't. Her hand rested on the door handle, her fingers tightening around the cool metal as she watched him disappear around the corner. The quiet of the street settled in, heavy and unyielding, as though it was pressing her back toward the door.

When she finally stepped inside, the weight of the moment hit her all at once. The air in the small entryway felt stifling, and her legs felt heavier than they should as she closed the door behind her. For a long beat, she stayed there, her back pressed against the door, her eyes closed as she tried to calm the storm in her chest. Her thoughts were loud and chaotic, a tangled mess she couldn't make sense of.

Was it all so casual, like she'd thought? The way they'd spent the day together—laughing, talking, teasing, everything just as it had always been—was it really just that? Just Ekko being Ekko? Kind, gentle, comforting, and everything all at once? She had convinced herself, for so long, that it was nothing more than that. She hadn't dared to imagine that there could be more behind it.

After all, they were childhood friends. They had always been this close. No boundaries, no limits on what was acceptable. Personal space was a foreign concept to them; it had never mattered before. So why did it feel so different now? Why did everything seem to shift and fall into place only to slip right through her fingers when she wasn't looking?

Something in the air between them had shifted today, and she wasn't sure why. It all came back to that kiss. That stupid, accidental kiss. The one that shouldn't have meant anything but had meant everything. The one that had somehow changed the way she saw him, the way she felt about him, though she couldn't understand how it happened. All she knew was that after that one, stupid kiss, everything felt different.

It was strange, really. How could something so simple, something that had been a part of their friendship since childhood, feel so incredibly complicated now? Ekko had kissed her bruises so many times when they were kids—gentle little pecks on scraped knees, on bruised elbows, on the spots where they had both fallen too many times to count. And she had always thought it was just a thing friends did, just the way they were—close, no boundaries. They'd play, fight, tease each other, and fall asleep on the same couch after long, exhausting days. Touching had been normal. Comfort had been second nature. 

She shook her head, the memory of it like a flash of heat on a cool night, still lingering in the back of her mind. It had been a moment of tenderness, a small, fleeting thing, but it had sent something racing through her that she couldn't quite define. The kiss had been gentle, warm, nothing more than a soft brush of his lips against the bruise on her palm. She had suggested it—she had. It had been no different than the times when they were younger and Ekko had kissed her scraped knees or bruised elbows. It had always been his way of comforting her, of showing her that things would be okay. But this time, something had changed.

He wasn't a kid anymore. And neither was she.

She had known Ekko was handsome, of course—she wasn't blind. But she had always tried to convince herself that he wasn't her type. She didn't even really have a type. She had never been interested in dating, never felt the pull that other people seemed to experience. So why , then, did the memory of that kiss feel so different now? Why did she feel this strange pull in her chest whenever she thought about the way his hand had lingered on her skin, how his touch had seemed to say so much more than words could?

Now that he had grown up, changed in ways that made him undeniably attractive, undeniably... desirable, she wasn't sure what to do with it. He was different now, older, with a quiet confidence that she hadn't seen in him before. But then again, wasn't he always that way? Always there for her, always comforting her with the same easy smile, the same steady gaze. But now... now she wasn't sure if it was friendship or something else entirely.

Her heart twisted with doubt. Why would someone like him look at her, of all people, in that way? She had never given him any reason to see her differently, never shown him anything that might have suggested she was anything more than the girl he'd grown up with. She wasn't special. She wasn't anything worth looking at like that. She was just... herself. And sometimes, she thought, maybe that was enough. But right now, standing on the threshold of her front door, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that maybe she was wrong. Maybe there was something more, and she was just too scared to admit it.

She pressed her palm to her forehead, a frustrated sigh escaping her lips. It didn't make any sense. She couldn't make sense of it. She wanted to convince herself she was just being delusional, that it was all in her head, but deep down, a small voice whispered something different—something that felt too raw, too real to ignore.

She wasn't ready to face that. She didn't want to believe that Ekko, of all people, could feel something deeper for her, something that went beyond the childhood friendship they had always shared. But she couldn't help it. Maybe she was delusional, maybe it was just her mind spinning out of control, but she couldn't stop imagining what it might mean for them.

She felt like she was sinking—sinking into the weight of her own thoughts, the ones that were tangled and knotted like old strings she couldn't untie. Her heart thudded against her chest, each beat louder than the last, as if trying to break free from the cage of her ribcage. She was troubled, lost in a sea of confusion, and the world around her felt both too loud and too quiet at the same time. There was a strange ache in her chest, one she couldn't place, but that felt like it had been there for ages, growing heavier with each passing moment.

Powder stood at the edge of the hallway, her gaze distant, her mind churning with thoughts she didn't want to face. She longed for solitude, the kind that only her cluttered room could offer—the chaos of discarded clothes, forgotten memories, and scattered things that made her feel anchored to something, even if it was just the weight of her own disarray. In that room, the world felt distant, and she could forget, if only for a little while, the things that were gnawing at her from the inside.

But there was a gnawing voice, a quiet whisper that urged her against it. She had learned long ago that too much time alone meant her mind would wander down paths that led nowhere good. Those paths had shadows, dark corners where things she wasn't ready to confront lingered—things she had buried for so long that she'd convinced herself they didn't exist, not really. But they were there, waiting, patient in their silence. If she stayed alone too long, they'd come rushing back, sweeping her into the chaos she so desperately tried to avoid.

Maybe it would be easier to pretend it hadn't happened. To act like nothing had changed, like nothing had shifted between her and Ekko. She could convince herself of that, couldn't she? If she just ignored the way her skin still tingled from his touch, the echo of his words lingering in the air between them like a song she couldn't forget. She could push away the flicker of warmth, the soft tension that had settled between them, like a secret neither of them knew how to voice. She could pretend it didn't matter. Pretend that nothing had happened.

She wanted to forget. To just pretend that nothing had changed, that nothing had happened. But that was impossible. How could she? How could she pretend that the way his hand had felt around hers, so steady and unshakable, hadn't left an imprint on her skin? That the gentle weight of his gaze, the way his words had wrapped around her like a blanket, hadn't sparked something deep inside her? She couldn't. She could tell herself she was just overthinking, that she was reading too much into it, but the truth sat heavy in her chest. She was scared of what it meant, scared of what might happen if she let herself acknowledge it. They were just friends, she told herself over and over, as if repeating it enough would make it true. Nothing more. Just friends.

Instead of retreating up the stairs to the comfort of her familiar chaos, Powder did something she didn't expect. She turned toward the heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway, the one she always hesitated to open but found herself drawn to all the same. It was a door that led somewhere safe—somewhere she knew, somewhere she could lose herself in the rhythm of routine.

When she pushed it open, the mixed scent of bitter alcohol, sweet perfume, and cigarettes immediately greeted her. It was a scent she had grown up with, and even though it should have felt off-putting, it didn't. The Last Drop had always been a second home to her. It was familiar and comforting, a place filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the soft hum of conversation. It was the place her father had poured his heart and soul into, building something with his own hands, with his own sweat. 

He had poured so much of himself into this place, it was practically a part of him. She could feel the love and dedication he'd invested in every detail—the worn wooden bar, the faded stools that had seen years of laughter and spilled drinks, the dim light that hung over the tables. Vander had turned this place into something he could be proud of, and she was proud of him for it. Proud of the way he carried himself, proud of the way he treated everyone who walked through those doors like they mattered.

She stepped into the bar, her boots clicking against the floor, weaving through the scattered tables. The place was busy, as it often was, with people gathered in small groups, lost in conversation or laughter, enjoying the warmth of the space. Music drifted from the old recorder in the corner, a song she had heard countless times but never tired of. It was the kind of music that felt like it belonged here, like it was a part of the air itself, filling the room with something both timeless and familiar.

Her dad was behind the bar, his back to her at first as he cleaned glasses with the precision of someone who had done it a thousand times. He was in his element, moving through the motions without even thinking about it. Powder watched him for a moment, the sight of him so natural that it filled her with a sense of peace. He didn't notice her right away, and she was content with that, content to just watch him work.

The familiar thud of a glass being set down on the bar made her smile, and without thinking, she slid onto the stool that, to her, felt more like her own than anyone else's. In her mind, it had her name written on it in big, bold letters. It was the one closest to the counter, the one she had sat at for as long as she could remember. She rested her arms on the polished surface of the bar and waited for her dad to look up, to see her and recognize her presence.

When he finally did, his eyes caught hers across the room, and a small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips. It was a smile that always made her feel like everything was going to be okay, that everything was still right in the world, no matter what.

"Hello, Pow," he greeted, his deep voice rich and warm, though it was muffled slightly by the music playing in the background. His tone was casual, but the moment he saw her, it shifted—becoming softer, as if the bar could wait for just a moment. "The usual?"

She nodded, unable to suppress the small giggle that bubbled up from her chest. It felt good, the simplicity of the moment. The way things hadn't changed, how she could rely on the small rituals to ground her. "Yeah, the usual," she said, her voice a little lighter than it had been when she entered.

He didn't miss a beat. She watched as he expertly reached for a clean glass and filled it with orange juice, the way he did every time. A small straw followed, placed perfectly into the glass as if it were a tiny finishing touch. She twirled the straw in her fingers as she always did, the rhythmic motion calming her, even if just a little.

He set the drink down in front of her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Powder's gaze wandered over the counter, over the bottles lining the shelves behind her dad, and she felt the familiar hum of comfort spread through her, like she was wrapped in a warm blanket. It was hard to explain, but this place, her dad, this sense of normalcy—it was everything she needed right now.

"How was school?" Vander asked, his voice breaking through the quiet as he wiped his hands on a towel. His question was simple, but it felt like he was asking more, like he was trying to gauge if something was wrong. He didn't suspect a thing, and that was exactly what Powder needed. She wanted to hold onto the illusion that nothing had shifted, that everything was still okay. She didn't want him to see the cracks forming underneath the surface.

"It was good," she mumbled, taking a long sip of her drink. It was sweet and cold, the taste of it familiar and comforting like something from childhood. The citrusy tang filled her mouth, grounding her in the present. "Are you busy?" she asked, glancing up at him as she tried to focus on something else.

"Not so much," he replied, his eyes softening as he looked at her. "And never for you, Pow."

There it was again—the warmth in his voice, the unspoken promise that he would always be there for her. That no matter how lost she felt, no matter how tangled her thoughts became, she could always come back here. She could always find solace in the quiet corners of the bar, in the steady rhythm of her father's work, and in the safety of this place that had been home for as long as she could remember.

"I'm glad... I just wanted to talk." Powder mumbled, her voice soft and uncertain, the words lingering in the air longer than she'd expected. She bit absently at the insides of her cheek, a nervous habit she'd never quite shaken. Her fingers drummed lightly on the countertop, the sound of her nails tapping against the wood soft but rhythmic, like a quiet metronome. It was a distraction, a way to keep herself grounded. Still, the faint ache from earlier—the lingering confusion, the gnawing frustration—refused to fade, reminding her of everything she'd tried to shove down for the moment.

Vander, standing on the other side of the counter, let out a slow sigh, his broad form a solid presence in the room. His voice was low, careful, but unmistakably firm, like a father who had seen enough of the world's cruelties to know exactly how to shield his children from it. "Are you sure nothing's happened at school? I told you, if anyone dares to be mean to you again, you tell me and I'll kick their asses."

Powder couldn't help but snort, a small, incredulous laugh escaping her as she imagined it. Vander, her dad, a mountain of a man with a heart to match, charging into some schoolyard brawl to defend his daughter's honor. The thought was almost absurd. The way he towered over everyone—twice the size of her classmates, with the gentle hands that had held her through every scraped knee and every tear, the same hands that could easily knock out a dozen bullies if he wanted. But still, to her, he was more like a giant teddy bear than a protector. She never feared him, not even a little bit. To her, he was the center of their small, imperfect family, a source of endless love and quiet strength. He was their rock, and no amount of size or toughness could change that.

"I'm sure, Dad." She waved him off, a slight smile tugging at her lips despite herself, even if it felt too tight, too forced. "I just... don't know. Feelings are tough, you know? I'm having a hard time figuring out what's going on inside my head."

Vander's gaze softened at her words, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful. Without another word, he reached across the counter, his massive hand gently resting on top of her head. She closed her eyes at the comforting pressure, his palm warm against her hair. She could feel the way he tugged softly on the tips of her streaked hair, a gesture so small, yet it made her heart ache in a way she wasn't prepared for.

"Is it what I think it is?" he asked, the feigned seriousness in his voice betraying the subtle twinkle in his eyes. He was trying not to smile, she could tell, but it only made the moment feel lighter. Like he was both there for her, and also teasing her just enough to take the edge off.

"No. Yes. Maybe. Maybe not," she replied, grinning playfully, even though a knot was still wound tight in her chest.

Vander made a show of rolling his eyes, his deep chuckle rumbling in his chest like the sound of distant thunder. "You're not helping, little lady. I'm not really good with that stuff. I mean, today's teenagers are a mystery to me, but if you tell me more, I'll try to understand. I'll make an effort."

Powder couldn't help herself; she raised an eyebrow at him, leaning back slightly, a grin tugging at her lips. "What do you mean you're not good with that stuff? I've seen it. You've had that one woman coming back again and again just to flirt with you."

Her words were light, teasing, but there was an undertone of affection behind them. Vander's reputation around town was well-known. The tough guy who could fix anything, and somehow, the women seemed to flock to him, trying to get more than just a drink or a quick fix. Powder had watched it all with a mixture of amusement and mild embarrassment over the years, a fact of life she had come to accept as simply... their reality.

Vander groaned, the sound exaggerated but filled with the kind of playful exasperation that she recognized so well. "Oh god, Pow. Not her." He rolled his eyes, but the look was so familiar to her, so full of affection and mild annoyance, that it made her laugh quietly. It was their dynamic, the kind of banter they had perfected over the years. They were silly with each other, comfortable in a way that didn't need much more than this kind of back-and-forth.

"That's what I mean," Vander continued, his voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. "I suck with that stuff. I can never get my point across. I'm not that great at talking about it, and trying to navigate all this... teenage nonsense? You've got me beat there." He leaned back slightly, eyes softening as he looked at her, a mixture of pride and affection in his gaze. "But, listen, you'll be fine. As long as you don't bring home any fuckboys or anything, I think we'll be alright."

She snorted, surprised at how quickly the tension had lifted. Her dad always had a way of making her laugh, even when she was at her lowest. "Fuckboys?" she repeated, her smile widening. "Really? That's what you're worried about?"

Vander gave her a mock scowl. "Hey, don't roll your eyes at me," he warned, though the corner of his mouth was twitching in amusement. "I just don't want you getting caught up in all that nonsense. You deserve better than that."

Powder's heart softened at his words, the warmth in his tone making her feel a little lighter. She wasn't sure why, but hearing him say that—hearing him speak with such care for her—felt like the first step in figuring out all the confusion swirling in her chest. 

"Thanks, Dad," she said quietly, her voice softer than before. "I know you've got my back."

"Always, kiddo," Vander replied, his hand resting on her shoulder, his voice steady and full of that protective love she had always relied on. "Just remember—you don't have to figure everything out on your own. I'm here."

She nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor as the weight of her emotions pulled her down again. She was grateful—of course she was—to have her father there to hold her up when everything felt like it was crumbling. Vander always knew how to make her feel safe, like the walls she'd built around herself didn't have to be so high. But even his steady presence couldn't erase the ache inside her, the hollow space left by someone she missed so much it hurt.

"I miss Vi," she murmured, her voice small, trembling on the edge of breaking. The words felt heavier than she expected, and she clenched her hands into fists to steady herself, but it didn't stop the sting of tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. It felt childish to admit, like she was holding onto something she should've outgrown by now. But it didn't matter—because it was true.

Vander's broad shoulders sagged, a sigh escaping him that carried with it a kind of understanding that only he could manage. "I know," he said gently, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, soft but sure. "I miss her too."

Powder looked up at him, surprised by the admission. Vander wasn't the kind of man who easily shared his own sadness. He carried it quietly, the way he carried so many burdens. "But," he continued, meeting her gaze with eyes that were both kind and firm, "we both knew this would happen someday. Sooner or later, she was going to go her own way. She's an adult now, Powder. That's what adults do."

The truth in his words stung, but it wasn't new. Powder had known it, deep down, even before Vi had packed her things and moved out. Still, hearing it out loud made the ache in her chest flare, sharp and raw.

"But let's be honest," he added with a wry smile. "You really think Vi would stay in this loud, chaotic house forever? She needs her own space, her own life. And that's a good thing, Powder. It means she's growing, evolving. It's not about leaving you behind—it's about building something for herself."

Powder wanted to argue, to push back against the calm logic of his words. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a frustrated huff. "Yeah, but…" she started, shaking her head as she searched for the right words. "I don't know. She could visit more often. We used to do so much together—goof around, talk for hours, stay up late making plans for... everything. And now, it's like... it's like all of that is just gone ." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she quickly wiped at her eyes, embarrassed by how easily the tears were spilling over again.

"She didn't forget about you, Powder," Vander said firmly, leaning forward. His tone shifted, taking on a gentle but no-nonsense edge, the way it always did when he was trying to get through to her. "Don't let yourself think that. You're her sister—nothing and no one could ever change that. There's enough love in Vi's heart for you, for Caitlyn, and for everyone else in her life. Love doesn't run out just because she's not here all the time."

Powder sniffled, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. She wanted to believe him. She really did. But the jealousy gnawed at her, twisting her feelings into something ugly. "It's just… it feels like she doesn't care as much anymore," she mumbled. "Like she's traded me for her stupid girlfriend."

"Now, that's enough," Vander said, his deep voice firm but not unkind. The tone left no room for argument, the kind of voice that could quiet a bar full of rowdy patrons without a raised hand. "Caitlyn's not the enemy here, Powder, and you know it."

Powder flinched at the words, her instinctive defense bubbling to the surface, but she bit it back, her lips pressing into a thin line. Vander wasn't like everyone else. He didn't scold her in the way that made her feel small, didn't wield his authority to overpower her. When he spoke like this, it wasn't just to reprimand—it was to reach her. It made his words hit harder, their weight sinking into her chest.

"Vi loves you both," Vander continued, softening his tone just enough to take the edge off. "And just because she spends time with Caitlyn doesn't mean she's replaced you." He paused, his keen eyes watching her closely, waiting for the meaning to land before he pushed on. "It's hard, I know it is. When someone moves out, things change. But that doesn't mean they stop caring. If anything, it means they miss you even more."

Powder blinked, a sharp ache blooming behind her ribs. She opened her mouth to argue, to refute what he was saying, but the words wouldn't come. She glanced at the floor instead, the familiar pattern of the wood grain holding her focus. Change. That's what it all came down to, wasn't it? Vi had moved out, moved on, and left her behind. Powder's mind whispered all the things she didn't want to say out loud— If she missed me, why doesn't she come back ? Why doesn't she call? Why does she have Caitlyn, anyway? Why isn't it me?

But before the bitter thoughts could spiral, Vander's voice cut through them like a lifeline. "Vi misses you, Powder," he said, the weight in his voice making her look up. His expression wasn't angry, wasn't impatient—it was understanding in the way only Vander could be. "She talks about you all the time. About how much she wishes you'd call her more often, about how she's waiting for you to reach out."

Powder froze, the words hanging heavy in the air between them. "She does?" she asked, her voice so soft it was barely audible, like she was afraid speaking it louder might shatter the fragile hope that sparked inside her.

Vander's hard edges softened further, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly in a faint, reassuring smile. He reached out, his broad hand settling gently on her shoulder, its weight grounding her. "She does," he confirmed. "You're her sister, Powder. Nothing's ever going to change that. But relationships take effort, even with family. If you miss her, don't sit here stewing about it. Call her. Talk to her. She's waiting for you to make the first move."

Powder swallowed hard, her throat tight as she absorbed his words. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, her fingers twisting together in an anxious rhythm that mirrored the turmoil in her chest. She hated how vulnerable she felt in that moment, like a child all over again. But she couldn't deny the flicker of something Vander's words had sparked in her. Something small, tentative—hope.

"But what if…" she started, her voice faltering as she glanced at him, her brows knitting together in uncertainty. "What if it's weird now? What if she's too busy? What if… what if she doesn't answer?"

Vander's expression didn't waver. He crouched slightly, lowering himself so he was eye-level with her, his presence steady and immovable. "Powder," he said gently, "what if it's not weird? What if she's not too busy? What if she answers, and it's exactly what you both need? You don't know until you try, kid."

The words settled over her like a blanket—warm, heavy, reassuring. She inhaled deeply, her shoulders rising and falling as she wrestled with the knot of nerves in her stomach. Her mind kept circling the same worries, the same fears. But beneath all of it was that tiny spark, the flicker of hope that wouldn't go away no matter how much she tried to dismiss it.

Vander straightened, patting her shoulder firmly before stepping back, giving her space to process. He didn't push, didn't hover. That was the thing about Vander—he always seemed to know when to step in and when to step away, trusting her to find her own way.

Powder stared at her hands, her fingers still twisting together, but her movements slowed. The idea of calling Vi terrified her; the thought of hearing her voice after so long made her heart race in a way that wasn't entirely pleasant. But at the same time, there was a yearning there, too. She missed Vi. Missed her voice, her laugh, the way she could make her feel like the world wasn't so heavy after all.

Slowly, tentatively, she nodded, the motion small but deliberate. "Yeah," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but there was a thread of determination weaving through it now. "Maybe I will."

Vander's expression shifted into something softer, warmer, pride evident in the way he nodded back. "That's all I'm asking," he said, his voice low and steady. "Just try. The rest will follow."