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The summer house creaks differently at 3 AM.
Belly has memorized every sound—the way the floorboards groan under footsteps, how the wind rattles the windows facing the ocean, the subtle shift of settling wood that's weathered decades of storms. But tonight, something pulls her from sleep that isn't the familiar symphony of the old house breathing.
She finds Conrad on the front porch.
He's sitting on the top step, elbows braced on his knees, shoulders curved inward like he's trying to make himself smaller. In the pale moonlight filtering through the trees, she can see the tremor running through his frame—a fine, constant shaking that has nothing to do with the cool night air.
"Con?" Her voice comes out softer than a whisper.
He doesn't turn around, but his back goes rigid. "Go back to bed, Belly."
She's learned to read the careful control in his voice, the way he modulates each word when he's barely holding on. Three years of loving Conrad Fisher has taught her the difference between his everyday reserve and the brittle composure that means he's about to shatter.
Instead of going back inside, she settles beside him on the step, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin despite the trembling. He's wearing the same Stanford t-shirt he'd fallen asleep in, the cotton damp with sweat at the collar and under his arms.
"Bad dream?" she asks, though she already knows it's more than that.
Conrad's laugh comes out hollow and sharp. "Something like that."
The silence stretches between them, filled with the distant crash of waves and the rustle of beach grass in the breeze. Belly waits. She's learned patience with Conrad, learned that pushing only makes him retreat further into himself.
Finally, he speaks. "I keep thinking I smell her perfume."
The words hit Belly like a physical blow. Susannah. Even now, two years after the funeral, her absence echoes through this house like a missing heartbeat.
"In my dream, she was in the kitchen making those blueberry pancakes," Conrad continues, his voice barely audible. "The ones she used to make when we were kids. And I could smell her perfume mixing with the vanilla extract, and I was so—" His breath catches. "I was so happy. For just a minute, I forgot."
Belly reaches for his hand, but Conrad pulls away, scrubbing his palms against his jeans.
"I woke up and I could still smell it," he says. "The perfume. And for a second, I thought—" He stops, jaw clenching. "God, I'm pathetic."
"You're not pathetic."
"I am." The words come out harsh, self-loathing. "It's been two years, Belly. Two years, and I still wake up expecting her to be here. I still reach for my phone to call her when something good happens, or when I'm stressed about finals, or when—" He presses the heel of his hand against his forehead. "When I want to tell her about you. About us."
The grief in his voice is raw and fresh as an open wound. Belly feels her heart clench, the familiar ache of watching someone she loves in pain and being unable to fix it.
"I think she'd like us together," Belly says quietly.
Conrad makes a sound that might be agreement or might be pain. "She always said you were going to break hearts someday. Said I should watch out because you'd probably break mine too."
"Did I?"
He looks at her for the first time since she sat down, and in the moonlight she can see his eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. "You put it back together."
The tenderness in his voice nearly undoes her, but before she can respond, Conrad lurches to his feet. He makes it three steps toward the porch railing before doubling over, one hand braced against the wooden post.
"Con—"
"I'm fine," he gasps, but his knuckles are white where he's gripping the railing, and Belly can see the way his throat works as he fights down nausea.
She's beside him in an instant, one hand on his back as his shoulders heave. "It's okay," she murmurs. "Just breathe."
But breathing seems to be the problem. Conrad's chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow gasps that sound painful. The trembling has gotten worse, spreading from his hands up through his arms.
"I can't—" he starts, then stops, pressing his forehead against the railing post. "God, why can't I just—"
"Conrad." Belly keeps her voice calm and steady even as panic flutters in her chest. "Look at me."
He shakes his head, still fighting for air.
"Please. Just look at me."
Slowly, Conrad turns his head. His pupils are dilated, unfocused, and there's a grayish tinge to his skin that makes Belly's stomach clench with worry.
"I need you to breathe with me, okay?" She demonstrates, taking a slow, deep breath in through her nose. "In for four counts."
Conrad tries to follow, but his breath hitches on the second count.
"It's okay," Belly says. "Try again. In—two—three—four."
This time he manages it, though his exhale comes out shaky.
"Good. Again."
They breathe together in the quiet darkness, Conrad's hand finding the railing again as an anchor. Gradually, the awful gray color fades from his face, and his breathing evens out.
"Better?" Belly asks.
Conrad nods, but he doesn't let go of the railing. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I was fine earlier. We had dinner, watched that stupid movie Jere picked, went to bed normal. And then—" He swallows hard. "It just hit me all at once. Like I'm drowning."
Belly knows that feeling. She's had her own nights of being ambushed by grief, though hers usually centers around her parents' divorce or the way childhood felt like something that happened to someone else. Conrad's loss runs deeper, carved into the foundation of who he is.
"Grief isn't linear," she says, repeating words her mom had said to her once. "It doesn't follow a schedule."
"I hate it," Conrad says fiercely. "I hate that I can go weeks feeling normal, and then something like a dream, or a song on the radio, or the way the light hits the kitchen in the morning just completely destroys me."
He pushes away from the railing, pacing to the other end of the porch. "I should be over this by now. I should be able to think about her without falling apart."
"Says who?"
Conrad stops pacing, looking at her with surprise.
"Seriously," Belly continues. "Who decided there's a timeline for missing your mom?"
The word hangs in the air between them. Mom. Conrad never says it, always refers to Susannah by name or as "she" or "her," as if using the title might make her absence more real.
"Everyone else seems to manage," he says finally.
"Do they?" Belly stands, moving closer to him. "Because last week I watched Jere cry in the cereal aisle at the grocery store because he saw the brand of granola your mom used to buy. And my mom still can't listen to Fleetwood Mac without tearing up."
Conrad's mouth twists. "That's different."
"How?"
"Because they're not—" He stops, running a hand through his hair. "They don't fall apart like this. They don't wake up in the middle of the night feeling like they're going to throw up from missing someone."
"Maybe they do and you just don't see it."
Conrad is quiet for a long moment, considering this. Then his face crumples slightly, and he sinks back down onto the porch step.
"I just miss her so much," he whispers. "I miss calling her after my organic chemistry exams. I miss her terrible advice about girls. I miss the way she used to hum while she cooked, and how she always burned the edges of grilled cheese but never learned to turn the heat down."
His voice breaks on the last words, and Belly feels tears prick her own eyes.
"I miss the way she worried about everything," Conrad continues. "About whether I was eating enough, sleeping enough, if I was happy. No one worries about me like that anymore."
"I do," Belly says quietly.
Conrad looks up at her, eyes bright with unshed tears. "It's not the same."
"No," Belly agrees. "It's not. But it's something."
She sits back down beside him, and this time when she reaches for his hand, he doesn't pull away. His palm is clammy against hers, but his fingers curl around hers and hold tight.
"I worry about your terrible eating habits," she says. "And the way you stay up too late studying. And how you get that line between your eyebrows when you're stressed but won't admit it."
Conrad's mouth quirks up in the ghost of a smile. "You sound like her."
"Good. Someone has to carry on the tradition."
They sit in comfortable silence for a while, Conrad's breathing finally returned to normal. The nausea seems to have passed too, though Belly can feel the lingering tension in his shoulders.
"Do you want to talk about the dream?" she asks eventually.
Conrad shakes his head. "Not really. It was just—she was so real. And so alive. And for a minute I got to have her back."
"That sounds like a gift."
"It felt like torture."
Belly squeezes his hand. "Maybe it can be both."
Conrad considers this, thumb tracing across her knuckles. "She would have loved seeing you like this," he says eventually.
"Like what?"
"Taking care of people. You've always been good at it, but you're different now. More sure of yourself." He pauses. "She always said you were going to be something special."
"She said that about you too."
"Yeah, well." Conrad's smile is sad but genuine. "Jury's still out on that one."
"Not for me."
The simple statement hangs between them, weighted with two years of growing up together, of learning how to love someone through their worst moments as well as their best.
Conrad lifts their joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You won't have to find out."
"Promise?"
The vulnerability in his voice breaks her heart and puts it back together all at once. "Promise."
They sit together until the sky begins to lighten at the edges, painting the horizon in pale pink and gold. Conrad's head eventually finds its way to Belly's shoulder, and she can feel the moment sleep starts to claim him again—the way his breathing deepens and his grip on her hand relaxes.
"Con?" she whispers.
"Mmm?"
"Do you think she knew? How much you loved her?"
Conrad is quiet for so long that Belly thinks he might have fallen asleep. But then he speaks, voice thick with emotion.
"Yeah," he says. "I think she knew."
As the first rays of sunlight filter through the trees, Belly holds Conrad on the porch where his mother once watched sunrises, and lets herself believe that somewhere, somehow, Susannah Fisher is still watching over the boy who loved her more than words could ever say.
When Conrad is ready, they'll go inside. They'll make coffee and wake Jeremiah and pretend this night was just another night. But for now, in the gentle light of dawn, it's enough to simply be here—breathing together, holding on, and learning that sometimes the best way to honor the dead is to keep living, even when it hurts.