We were lovers, sure, but that's not what I came here for. I came because I miss the greatest friend I ever had – "Daylight" by Zander Hawley and Phoebe Bridgers

Quil

The cabin glows as we pull up, some of the last to arrive. Everyone will be able to tell Claire's been crying. No one will say anything about it.

We weren't fighting or anything—that I could have handled. This was worse.

"I don't feel like going," she'd said an hour ago when I asked if she was ready.

"It will be your first chance to see everyone since you've been home," I tried. She's been home for about a month now, and we've seen people here and there, but not all at once. When I asked if Claire should risk Thanksgiving, Paula had suggested cautious optimism: go, but have a backup plan in case things go south.

We were nearing Antarctica before we even left the house.

"I don't care," she'd said, shrugged, and kept staring at the television.

I turned it off. "I do."

She scoffed at me. Rolled her eyes. "Of course you do. You're Quil. You care about everything to a fault."

I had to physically bite my tongue to stop myself from getting an attitude. It was her medicine talking, not her. It was her chemical imbalance that made every interaction this week feel like pulling teeth.

Whatever it was, it wasn't Claire.

"Just ride over," I'd said. "Get some fresh air. You can sit in the car the whole time." We both knew I was lying—she was still hardly allowed to be alone in the bathroom, and Jon still had their knives locked in his closet. But she could think it for as long as it took her to get a shower, get changed, get out of the house.

And now we're here, and I need to tread carefully.

"Are you hungry?" I say, even though I know the answer. Her meds aren't meant to suppress her appetite, but they have been. Or something has been, at least.

She shrugs, chews her lip. Paula's been telling her not to answer immediately. To take stock of her emotions, her body, and answer honestly. Speak up about what she needs when she needs it.

"I guess maybe a little," she says after a minute.

Hope threatens to break through my ribcage, and I grip the key in the ignition, preparing to shut off the truck. "You want to go in, or do you want me to bring a plate out to you?"

"I'll stay here, I think," she says. After a beat she looks up, the unspoken apology shining in her eyes. "Thank you, Quil."

I nod, hoping my disappointment leaves a little room for turkey and mashed potatoes. "Well, I'll be back in a few. Come in if you change your mind, okay?"

I leave the truck running, weaving through the other vehicles in the driveway. As I approach the front door, the laughter inside gets louder. When I push it open, the sound explodes out to greet me. A chorus of hellos filter through raucous kid laughter and shouts about what channel the game is on.

"Hey," Jake says, coming over to clap me on the shoulder. When I shut the door behind me, his face threatens to fall. "No Claire?"

I throw a gesture over my shoulder. "She's in the truck. I'm gonna make her a plate."

I think the hardest thing about depression is that you can want with all your heart to get better, and sometimes that still isn't enough.

I can't take this journey for Claire; I can only walk beside her.

Nessie comes over and gives me a hug. "Paul's already eaten three plates, so one more won't hurt."

"Hey," Paul shouts from the living room.

Jacob and Nessie added on to the cabin last summer to accommodate their growing family. There are a few more bedrooms and bathrooms, and the family room now extends further off the back of the house. As my eyes scan all its occupants, I'm thankful for the extra breathing room. There are so many warm bodies in here. Toys are already everywhere, as are the kids that go with them.

I reach for the stack of Styrofoam plates. "Do we have a betting pool for where the final number of kids is going to land?" I reach for the mac and cheese, something Claire will eat even if she's comatose.

"What are we up to now, anyway?" Seth Clearwater says from the table over my shoulder, counting heads. "Thirteen?"

"Fourteen," Kim Cameron says, gesturing to her basketball of a belly.

There's a beat of silence as we all scan the room, making silent bets in our heads.

"Fifteen," Embry says, and when my head snaps up to meet his gaze across the room, he's grinning ear to ear, his cheeks pink.

"It's still really early," Bethany says next to him, also grinning. "But when I puke all this food up in an hour, I don't want any speculation as to why."

Something bittersweet settles into my lungs, makes it a little hard to breathe. Since Bethany and Embry are already swarmed with well-wishers, I hang back, finishing Claire's plate. It may as well be for Parker. Macaroni, green beans, a yeast roll, and a single thin slice of turkey.

I'm pulling a plastic fork out of the box when Embry approaches.

"You alright?" he says, low enough to be drowned out by the conversations of others.

I want to say yes on instinct, but maybe I've picked up a thing or two from Claire's therapy. "I think I'm jealous," I say. "That everyone else's families are doing so well, and I can hardly keep mine from drowning."

He pulls the plate from my hand, finding a sliver of open counter space for it, and pulls me into an embrace. Embry doesn't tell me it will get better or to look on the bright side or that the grass isn't always greener. He just says, "I've got you, brother." Which is so much different than at least you've got me, brother. Different, and so much better.

Embry pulls back, a grin on his face. "Looks like you're better at swimming than you realize."

The front door opens, and I smell her before I see her. Wet smoke and licorice. Raindrops cling to her lashes, slide over her rosy cheeks.

"You were taking forever," she says when she sees me. Nobody notices her; they're all still crowding around Bethany. "Why's everybody screaming?"

I grab her plate, set it at an empty spot at the table. "Bethany's pregnant." Her eyes flash with something akin to delighted shock. "So we were just about to take bets on how many kids there will be in the next generation. You want in?"

Her eyebrows scrunch as she takes a seat behind her food, and I keep AN eye on her as I make my own plate. "Twenty total," she finally says.

"Oh, yeah? Where are you getting your extra five?"

Something about what I say makes the room quiet, enough to hear her answer. I say a silent prayer to the Ancestors it doesn't scare her back into her shell.

"Katie and Seth will have one more, probably," she says softly. I flick my eyes to Katie in time to see her duck her head, cheeks flaming. "Because they always talk about how much they love their sisters." Leah snorts from the sectional.

Claire stirs her mac and cheese. "Same with Ness and Jake, otherwise there's no need for that extra bedroom they built."

"It could be a guest room," Jake rebuts, even though he's grinning.

"And at this rate, it will take Jared three more tries to give Kim a girl," Claire finishes, a daring smile threatening to break through her bored façade.

And as Kim bursts out in laughter, I catch a glimpse of the first spark of fire I've seen from Claire since she's been home.

Claire and I only stay for a few hours. She eats most everything on her plate, even goes back for a second and third roll, plus a sliver of pie.

Nobody asks her about her time gone, but she surprises me when she offers some details voluntarily. Sadie's explaining about a type of fish she's studying in school, and Claire tells her about all the exotic reef life she encountered in Australia. When some of the guys get in a fight about a bad call on the game, she explains how they solved disagreements in Samoa, seeing who could find the biggest seashell on the beach. And she eventually makes her way to Bethany to congratulate her.

Overall, Claire does amazing, and when she says she's ready to go, I don't dally. She's learning her limits, and it's my responsibility to honor them. My privilege.

She surprises me again once we're out on the road. "Can we go to your house for a bit? I need a change of pace."

I've hardly been home this last month, spending all my free time at her house and taking care of things there. It's quite possible the towels in my dryer have mutinied and formed one giant mildewed ball of lint.

But I can understand not wanting to go home.

She's quiet as we make our way there, slip off our coats and boots and settle on the couch. She doesn't give any feedback on what to watch, so I settle on The Office and place myself on the opposite end of the couch from her. She still doesn't talk much, but she laughs in all the right places, even if it's subdued.

It's in the middle of the opening credits for our third episode when she says, "Are you mad at me?"

"What?" I fumble for the remote, freezing the frame on an unflattering shot of Michael. "Of course not. Why would I be?"

"I don't know," she says too quickly.

"Claire."

"Because of the kid thing from earlier. I didn't—I didn't count us in that."

Her statement is loaded for a few reasons: I don't know if it was intentional or not, and despite my instinct to believe she has faith we'll make it there, make it through this mess, I can't say for sure how she meant it.

"Did…" I run my tongue across my teeth, choosing my words carefully. "Was that on purpose?"

She plays with a loose thread on the couch cushion. "Not at first, but…" She looks up at me, and even though there's only a single cushion separating, we could be worlds apart for how distant her eyes are. She may as well be back in Thailand.

"I'm just..." Claire inhales, and it's shaky. "I don't think I'd be good at it. Not the way she was. I wouldn't want to—dishonor her memory."

"You could never," I say, even though Claire doesn't hear it over the sound of her sobs breaking.

I pull her into my arms. She fits just as perfectly as she always has, here with me. I shush her, run my hand over her back and stroke her hair. The way I would have eighteen months ago if she had stayed long enough to let me.

"If you don't want kids, then we won't have kids," I whisper. I will tell her again some time when she isn't crying, so she knows my words weren't influenced by her tears. "Something tells me we'll have enough nieces and nephews to go around."

She nods, just a little, and burrows deeper into my chest. I inhale her scent, relearn the feel of her under my palms. I can count the knots of her spine; she's lost enough weight.

"You wanted to break the imprint," she whispers into my chest after her tears have slowed.

I swallow the rock in my throat. "I didn't want to keep living with half of my heart on the other side of the world."

If it's too harsh, she doesn't say. I can't see her face, but she chuckles softly. "I know the feeling."

I pull back, take her face in my hands. Gentle my thumbs along her cheekbones—those are also more pronounced than they used to be. The night we made love for the first time she looked so young. Young as in innocent, as in life hadn't tested her yet. This woman in my arms is a woman, one who's gone through fire and come out refined.

And I can't wait for her to realize that for herself.

"You did so good today," I whisper. "And I am so fucking proud of you, sweetheart. Everything you're doing, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

She wants to break again at those words. Her fingers clutch my forearms, making sure I don't pull away, and she catches her lip between her teeth to stop it from trembling.

"We'll get through this, okay?" I say.

"And—" She sniffles. "And you'll wait?"

I lean forward, kiss her forehead. Not because I don't desire her lips. Because the next time I kiss Claire Young, I am taking her to bed. And now just isn't the time.

"For as long as it takes."