Within Amelia's Mind

By the time Ryan pulled up in front of the Shepherd house, the sun had fully risen, casting long golden streaks across the pavement. The warmth of it should've felt comforting, but all it did was remind Amelia that she'd have to walk inside and face whatever storm was waiting for her.

Ryan killed the engine and rested his hands on the steering wheel, glancing at her. "You gonna be okay?"

She let out a breath, forcing a smirk. "Define 'okay.'"

Ryan rolled his eyes, but there was something softer underneath his usual exasperation. He didn't push, though. He never did.

Amelia reached for the door handle, hesitated. "Thanks."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

She shrugged. "For not being an asshole. For driving around all night. For...not making me feel crazy."

Ryan's expression flickered, like he wanted to say something, but instead, he just nodded. "Anytime, Mia."

She should've corrected him—told him to stop calling her that.

But she didn't.

She stepped out of the car and shut the door behind her, shoving her hands into her hoodie pocket as she walked up the driveway.

The second she stepped inside, she knew she was in for it.

Derek was waiting.

He stood in the foyer, arms crossed, his expression tight with barely contained frustration.

"Amelia."

She sighed, toeing off her sneakers like she had all the time in the world. "Morning."

"Don't." His voice was sharp. "Where were you?"

She shrugged. "Out."

Derek's jaw clenched. "That's not an answer."

"Well, it's the only one you're getting."

Derek exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "Jesus, Amelia, do you even care that people were worried about you?"

Something inside her bristled. "I didn't ask you to worry."

"That's not how this works!" Derek snapped, his voice rising. "You don't just get to disappear all night and pretend like it's not a big deal!"

Amelia's heart was pounding, but she kept her expression blank. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine!" Derek took a step closer, lowering his voice, like he was trying to keep himself in check. "You've been spiraling for weeks, Amelia. The drinking, the disappearing, the reckless shit you keep pulling—it's not normal. It's not okay."

She clenched her jaw. "So what, you're diagnosing me now?"

Derek's eyes flashed with something unreadable. "I don't have to diagnose you to know that you need help."

Her breath caught in her throat.

Help.

She hated that word. Hated what it meant.

Hated that for half a second, she almost wanted to say I know.

But she didn't.

Instead, she scoffed. "Right. Because you have it all figured out, huh? Because you're so much better than me?"

Derek flinched, just barely. "That's not what I'm saying."

"It's what you mean," she shot back. "You think I don't see it? The way you look at me? Like I'm some screw-up you have to clean up after? Like I'm some—" Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, forcing it down. "I never asked for that."

Derek was silent for a moment. Then, quietly, "You don't have to ask."

Something inside her twisted.

She hated him for that. Hated that he cared.

Because if he cared, it meant she could hurt him. And that was the last thing she wanted.

Before he could say anything else, she turned on her heel. "I'm going to bed."

"Amelia—"

But she was already halfway up the stairs, shutting the door behind her before he could try to fix something that was too broken to fix.

She pressed her forehead against the cool wood, her breathing unsteady.

She should apologize.

She should explain.

She should let him help.

But instead, she slid down to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, feeling the weight of everything settle in her bones.

She was so, so tired.