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But he doesn't. He’s too busy reassuring Livia that she’s not in the way. His voice has gone gentle in the protective way I adore, the same that made me trust him with pieces of myself I thought would stay locked up for years. I love that part of him so much it scares me sometimes. But I also feel myself disappearing more from the room with every added reassurance. The realization leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, tugging at a feeling I know too well. Nathan used to make decisions for me too, ignoring me in front of others.

I bury the unease beneath a faked smile and hope no one notices. Livia is his sister and she needs stability. Tilly needs her mother to have space to recover without being rushed into independence before she's ready. Ollie is doing what any good brother would do. And if he'd asked, I would've said yes without hesitation. The decision isn't what hurts. It's the familiarity of sitting at a table while someone else decides your life, never stopping to wonder whether your voice belongs in the conversation.

By the time Livia yawns and says she wants to lie down, the unease beneath my ribs has become impossible to ignore. I wait until she disappears into the guest room and Chase takes Tilly into the nursery.

“Can we go outside for a few minutes?” I ask Ollie.

He stills, the plates he was piling forgotten on the table. “Of course. What’s up?”

“I'd rather discuss it when we’re alone.”

Ollie pauses by the nursery door to tell Chase we'll be right back and we make it downstairs without saying a word. Outside, the air is warm but not unbearable. A couple walks past with takeout bags swinging between them. Someone across the street laughs loudly into their phone and a delivery bike glides by. Everything seems so ordinary while my thoughts knot themselves tighter with every step.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” Ollie says, his voice as gentle as it always is when he senses something's wrong.

The nickname unravels me. I look down at my hands, at the pale pink manicure Haisley talked me into, the same one Ollie noticed earlier with the same attention he gives to every small detail. He sees so much. That’s part of the problem. I don't understand how he missed this.

“I don't want any of this to come out wrong,” I tell him.

His expression tightens. “That sounds like whatever you’re about to say is going to hurt.”

“It already does.”

Ollie exhales slowly and looks toward the end of the street before bringing his attention back to me. “Is this about Livia staying?”

I nod, then shake my head, frustrated with myself. “It's connected to that, yes, but it's not only about her. I don't want you to consider this as me thinking she shouldn't be here.”

He says nothing, giving me the space to find the right words. Usually, I’d appreciate that. Tonight, the silence only feeds the anxious part of me that keeps wondering whether he’s hearing something I never intended to say.

“I mean that, Ollie. I think her staying makes sense. She needs our support. You and Chase need time with her too, and Tilly…” My voice softens despite everything. “Tilly deserves the chance to know her mother when Livia is ready for that.”

Some of the tension leaves his face, but not all of it. He’s gone still in the way he does when he’s bracing for impact, his shoulders squared and jaw set in a tight line. “Then what's wrong exactly?”

I fold my arms around myself and stare at the building across the street instead of him. “When she asked, I kept waiting for you to look at me.”

Ollie's brow furrows. “At dinner?”

“Mhm. But you didn't,” I say gently. That's the part I need him to understand. I'm not trying to make him feel guilty, but to see my point of view. “You answered your sister without stopping to ask what I thought.”

His frown deepens. “I didn't think you'd say no.”

“I wouldn't have.”

“I’m confused—” He stops himself and rubs the back of his neck. “Peyton, I had to give her an answer. I also didn't want her to feel like she had to convince anyone she was worth helping.”

That is so Ollie I could cry. Of course the wounded kid inside him responded before anyone else could. He took one look at his sister asking for a place to land and couldn’t bear the idea of hesitation feeling like rejection.

“I love how you cared about that,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than expected. “I really do.”

He steps closer, instinct pulling him toward comfort even while the conversation keeps him uncertain. “But?”

“But I live here too.”

His expression flickers. There it is. Not understanding exactly, but the first crack in the wall between what he meant and what I felt.

“I know you do,” he says.

The words land badly, though I don't think he means them. “Do you really?”