Addison couldn't remember being moved from the ICU. All the first days were blurry.
Addison's eyes opened slowly, finding herself in a new room. There was a figure beside her, adjusting something on the monitor.
She looked up, vision adjusting to see a nurse. Routine at first, then a glance Addison's way, followed by recognition and warmth.
"Well hey there. You're a tough little thing, waking up already."
Addison blinked. Her body felt far away. The ventilator hissed gently with each breath. Her eyes followed the nurse's hand as she adjusted the IV line. Addison's brows twitched faintly—curious, questioning.
The nurse smiled, noticing.
"This? Just checking your fluids, sweetheart."
Addison's eyes drifted toward the monitor, the blinking vitals. Her gaze lingered, slow and thoughtful. She tried to move her hand, but it barely shifted. Her eyes flicked to the blood pressure cuff, trying to figure it all out.
"Ah, I see." The nurse was clearly amused. "You're one of the sharp ones, huh? Not gonna miss a thing, even like this."
Addison's gaze met hers again for a brief second—there's no voice yet, no strength—but her look is clear: she's awake inside, and she's listening.
"You're gonna be okay, honey. Just rest. The hard part's already behind you."
The nurse gently stroked Addison's hair. Addison hesitated, unsure what to do. It was a foreign, maternal gesture.
Then, another voice, familiar.
"Thought I'd find you here."
In the corner of her eye, movement.
The Captain arrived at her bedside, but his eyes were on the nurse this time. She was pretty, mid-twenties maybe, fresh-faced in a way that made Addison ache, because she recognised what was happening.
The worst part was over - Addison was safe now, recovering - so was no longer the centre of his attention.
"Taking good care of my girl?"
"Of course, Dr Montgomery." The nurse smiled. "You've certainly got a little trooper over here."
The Captain grinned back.
The nurse's hand left Addison's hair and she felt her heart sink a little. And so begins the all too familiar routine.
The nurse was the same type of woman the Captain always turned his attention to, the kind that could laugh at his jokes and make him feel young and charming again. The kind that wasn't Bizzy.
The Captain said something low. The nurse laughed. Then he turned back to Addison.
"How are you feeling today, Kitten?" The Captain took her chart with a quick, easy smile. The quiet, vulnerable man from the ICU no longer to be seen.
Addison's throat ached beneath the tube, but even if she could speak, she wouldn't have. She just stared back. Not at him, exactly, but through him.
The nurse went through Addison's vitals with the Captain. He passed her the chart over and their hands brushed, lingering. Addison's eyes narrowed.
"I'll be back to check on you." He brushed a hand along Addison's blanket, as if it meant something. "You just rest, okay?"
They walked out together. The Captain's hand touched the small of the nurse's back as they disappeared down the hallway.
Addison watched them go.
She was still his alibi.
And she hated him for it.
Addison watched the door, ventilator hissing quietly. She counted the days, watched the people go by.
She was slowly piecing it all together, listening in every chance she got. She knew was in the Pediatrics ward, being monitored for internal bleeding, staying on the ventilator until her lungs healed. She knew they were watching her for signs of ARDS and brain damage.
The staff kept their voices low, but Addison wished they wouldn't. She quickly learned to pretend to sleep, so they'd speak more candidly around her. She liked feeling clever, pretending she was one of the doctors as she heard them discuss prognosis.
Addison learned that she had came into the ICU coding - Zero pulse on arrival, they'd said, GCS 3. Hypothermic, not breathing, no response. Technically dead for three minutes. Apparently the cold had saved her brain, or so they hope.
It was a lot to take in, but Addison wanted to know the facts. It made her feel like an active participant in her recovery.
Her eyes tracked movement, small things: the stats on her monitor, the contents of the IV line, the shadow falling across her tray table as the Captain walked in with yet another woman.
Addison feigned sleep, refusing to engage with him.
She watched from under her lashes as the Captain chuckled at something the resident said, low and rich, leaning in far too close for hospital protocol.
The resident flipped through the chart. "She's improving. Oxygen saturation's better. Honestly, she's doing really well." Eyes flick up from the chart, meeting the Captain's.
Addison watched them with disdain. The Captain loved how they leaned in when they thought he was some devoted father. It was just another stage for him to perform on. And Addison was the prop.
Not today.
Addison's fingers, weak but stubborn, crept toward the cup on her tray. She bumped it once. It tilted. The Captain was moving close to the woman when the full cup of water toppled, soaking the edge of the bed and splashing over the Captain's pressed shirt and white coat.
The resident gasped. "Oh—! I'll get towels—"
The Captain stepped back with a forced laugh, flicking droplets off his sleeve as he watched the resident leave.
It became a source of entertainment for Addison. She decided that if she was going to be an unwilling participant in the Captain's games, she may as well play too.
When the on-call room door clicked shut somewhere down the hall—she knew the timing, knew his patterns—Addison pinched the oxygen sensor off her finger. A few seconds passed.
Then, the monitors screamed.
Red lights. Rushing feet. The crash team skidded around the corner, shouting to page Dr Montgomery—
As the Captain reached them, disheveled and clearly interrupted - Addison slipped the sensor back on, playing dead until the moment passed.
Then she'd wait till next time, and did it again.
Outside the door, just beyond the curtain, a nurse huffed in exasperation to someone—Addison couldn't see who.
"She pulled it off again. I swear, that girl's not just conscious—she's calculating."
A man laughed. An attending, maybe.
"She's bored. I mean—she's smart, clearly. And no one's really talking to her. Montgomery's always off chatting up someone."
Another day, another intern.
They came in to check her vitals. The Captain's hand lingered too long, not for Addison's sake—for the intern's. They moved in close, almost touching, and then-
Addison twitched, kicking her bed, the rail knocking against a side table they thought was out of reach.
The flower vase tipped.
It hit the floor with a dramatic clatter and splash.
The intern jumped back, startled, water soaking into her shoes. "Oh! Oh, jeez—"
The Captain stepped back too, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.
Addison's eyes closed, brows furrowed as she winced, but it was almost a laugh. The movement had been painful, but worth it.
The Captain frowned, suspicious, but knowing there was no real way to reprimand his daughter for that. No way of knowing that she had really meant it. So, all he could do was crouch to help with the towels, jaw tight.
Addison opened her eyes again, watching in amusement.
The door pushed open and the chief of staff came in, catching the two mid-wipe-up. Addison quickly closed her eyes again, watching from under her lashes.
"You two are still here?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at the intern's flushed face.
"She knocked her vase," the Captain said, standing, brushing off his hands. He sounded annoyed now. Tired of the game not going smoothly.
The chief glanced at Addison, then back at the Captain. "I've been thinking. That girl might need a friend to visit. Someone her age. She's obviously alert, and it's not good to be so isolated. She's under-stimulated."
"I could make a call?" The intern offered, "Does she have many friends?"
The Captain's face twitched.
Addison knew that look. That calculation. He wasn't thinking about her. He was thinking about appearances.
"We'll figure something out."
The next day came and the door creaked open, followed by a softer kind of silence.
Addison opened her eyes, expecting to see more hospital staff - the Captain - one of the interns -
Then, her expression softened.
Archer.
Addison blinked at her older brother, and the moment their eyes met, something inside of her eased.
Archer froze for a second in the doorway, like he was bracing himself. And then he came in slowly, taking her in.
Addison saw the flicker behind his eyes as he clocked everything—the bruises, the IV, the brace on her ankle, the compression bandage wrapped around her ribs, the breathing tubes.
She watched him approach, and felt all of her defensive edges fade. She found herself hesitant, unsure how he was going to react.
Archer didn't cry. Didn't get dramatic. He blinked quickly, and then said, voice light:
"Wow. You look great." He managed a smile. "Like a glamorous corpse."
Addison eyes narrowed, just a little. She wanted to roll them but didn't quite have the energy. He leaned in close.
"You trying to get out of your math test next week?" Archer whispered. "Because if so, you overshot it."
Addison's expression warmed at that. If she could've laughed, she would have.
Archer pulled up a chair and sat beside her, his slouch half-checked by how hard it was to look at her like this. He didn't touch her—not yet—but he let his arm rest on the bed so she could feel the closeness.
"So, I heard you took a swim," Archer's voice was softer now.
Her mouth twitched, barely. She wanted to respond, but the tube in her throat made speech impossible. He saw it—her frustration, her helplessness—and leaned closer, letting the joking fade just a touch.
"Hey," Archer murmured, quieter now. "I've got you, okay? I'm here."
Tears welled up fast. She blinked, once. Then again.
"I brought homework," he added. "Nothing says 'I love you' like forced algebra."
Addison stared back at him. For the first time since waking up, something warm and sincerely hopeful flickered in her chest. For the first time since waking up, it felt like - eventually - she would go home.
There was a pause. His eyes dropped to her hand. After a second's hesitation, Archer reached out and gently, carefully, took it.
"You're okay." He told her, eyes filled with sincerity. "I won't leave. Promise."
The Captain and his flings faded into background noise during the weeks that followed, like rhythmic beeping of the monitors.
Addison sat propped up in bed, a stack of textbooks and worksheets spread over the tray in front of her. The nasal cannula tickled her nose and got in the way of her reading glasses, but it was better than the ventilator.
Her ribs still ached when she shifted. Her ankle itched beneath the cast. Her leg was mottled with fading bruises and rope-burn scars. But she was breathing on her own again, and that was something.
Across from her, Archer sat cross-legged in the visitor's chair, a pencil behind his ear and a red pen poised dramatically in one hand. He was wearing a sweatshirt that said "I am silently correcting your grammar," and Addison couldn't tell if he'd worn it just for her or if it was just one of his many subtle forms of protest against their parents' obsession with perfection.
He glanced up from her homework sheet. "Okay, question three: If the boat is sailing northeast with a tailwind and you're suddenly smacked in the head by your father's ego, which direction is your trauma drifting?"
Addison let out a laugh, short and sharp. "Downward spiral," she muttered, then winced because it hurt to laugh like that.
"Correct," Archer marked a giant red tick on the paper. "Bonus points for self-awareness."
She smiled, but it wavered, one hand coming up to her side.
Archer noticed, of course. He always did.
"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly, the red pen forgotten in his hand now.
She shrugged, which was easier than saying yes. "Not really."
He didn't press, just nodded. "Well, you're still prettier than I am, and I didn't even fall off a boat. So."
Addison perked up at this, distracted again. "You're only saying that because your face looks like the Captain's."
"Ouch," he said, clutching his chest. "Low blow. What happened to sisterly compassion?"
"She drowned," Addison replied dryly.
They sat in silence for a moment, but it was the kind that didn't feel empty.
Archer leaned back in the chair, tipping it just enough to earn a warning creak from the legs. "You know, if Bizzy knew you were here, instead of STEM camp… She'd probably be nagging you to finish up already."
Addison laughed weakly.
"Stop being so dramatic, Addison. It's unseemly." Archer's Bizzy impression was almost too spot on. He laughed, and with it his normal voice returned. "As if you've been slacking off in hospital on purpose."
"Yeah," Addison murmured, eyes on her paper now. "Maybe."
Archer rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. "You literally almost died, Addie. Like, clinically. What would she expect you to do, bring a calculator into the ICU?"
Addison didn't answer. She just picked up her pencil again, trying to focus, but the numbers swam a little. The fatigue settled deep, clinging. She rubbed behind her glasses.
"Hey," Archer said gently, noticing. "You don't have to push today. We can just hang out."
"No," she said, firm. "I want to do this. I need to."
He looked at her for a long moment. "Okay," he said softly. "Then let's do it together."
And so he did.
He explained math problems using terrible metaphors, turning angles into pizza slices and equations into soap opera characters. He drew doodles in the margins and passed her Starbursts from his hoodie pocket. And when she started to drift, her eyelids heavy, he just read aloud to her instead—his voice familiar, steady, safe.
Archer didn't treat her like she was broken. He didn't act like she was fragile. But he never once forgot that she'd been through something huge, something terrifying. That she was still healing—not just bones, but something deeper. Something older.
They didn't talk about the boat. Not that day.
They didn't have to.
Addison was sitting upright in bed when the team of doctors entered, a pen tucked behind her ear and a clipboard in her lap that definitely hadn't come from the hospital.
"You're late," she said with mock sternness, tapping her watchless wrist. "I was just about to page myself."
Dr. Khalid, the attending for the day, grinned. "We're no match for you, Addison. You want to walk us through your overnight numbers?"
"Gladly." She flicked on her reading glasses, sliding them down her nose. "Temperature 37.1, BP 112 over 72, heart rate holding steady at 76, O2 saturation at 98%. Breathing easier today, and I'm proud to report zero sneaky attempts to remove my IV."
There was a chuckle from the group, and one of the younger residents murmured, "It's a miracle."
Dr. Khalid smiled. "We're still recovering from your IV escapades. I think half the nursing staff has PTSD."
Addison gave an unapologetic shrug. "Idle hands."
They liked her. She knew they did. Most of them had started out calling her "kiddo" or "sweetheart," the way adults talked to patients her age—but now they treated her more like a little colleague. Because she was smart, and sharp, and funny. Because it was better to be brilliant than to be broken.
Better to distract herself with charts and numbers and witty one-liners than think too hard about the moments in the water. Or why her lungs had taken so long to heal. Or whether her brain had been without oxygen long enough to matter.
Because if something had happened in that gap—if she'd lost something, slipped even a little from the girl who always came first, always had the answers—what would she be then?
Not good enough. Not sharp enough. Not anything worth keeping.
"Homework done?" One of the interns asked, nodding toward the open notebook beside her.
"Yeah," she said breezily. "Though if someone could smuggle me in a chemistry textbook and maybe a brain I haven't half-fried, that'd be great."
Dr. Khalid gave her a look—part amused, part appraising. "You're doing well. Sharper than most of my med students - Very promising."
Addison's smile flickered but held.
They ran through the rest of her exam—breath sounds clearer, ribs healing well, ankle mending nicely. Dr. Khalid made a note to page neuro for a follow-up and asked ortho to circle back later for final clearance.
Addison stayed chipper the whole time. But after they left, she picked up her chart again, fingers tightening slightly around the pen.
Just in case.
The knock at the door came just after Addison had finished re-wrapping the bandage around her ankle—one of the only things they'd finally let her do herself.
"Ortho team," called a voice, cheerful and professional.
"Come in," Addison replied, adjusting the blanket so it looked like she hadn't just been poking at her injuries.
The door swung open to reveal Dr. Levesque, tall and kind-eyed, flanked by a couple of younger residents. Addison had seen them before, usually trailing after like ducklings, but now they smiled at her like old friends.
"Good morning, Addison," Dr. Levesque said, flipping through her chart as he entered. "How's the ankle today?"
"Still attached."
Dr. Levesque crouched down to inspect her leg. "Any pain when I do this?"
She flinched slightly as he rotated her foot. "A little. Less than yesterday."
"Good. That's expected. It's healing nicely." He nodded at one of the residents, who made a note. "You've got solid dorsiflexion, and we're seeing good range of motion. Think you're ready to try a little walking?"
Addison nodded, determined. "I've been ready."
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and let them dangle for a moment. It still hurt—her ankle throbbed and her ribs protested as she twisted slightly—but she didn't let it show. Not much.
One of the interns handed over a pair of forearm crutches. "Let's try it slow. Don't overdo it, alright?"
Addison gripped the handles, her knuckles pale. The first push up to standing made her dizzy. Her ankle wobbled. Her ribs screamed.
But she stood.
Dr. Levesque watched closely, arms folded. "How's that feel?"
"Like I fell off a boat and drowned," Addison muttered, earning a chuckle from the ducklings.
She took one step. Then another. She was stiff, slow—but she moved.
By the time she'd made it to the bathroom door and back, she was panting slightly, but upright.
"Impressive," Dr. Levesque said, softer now. "A few more days on crutches, and we'll switch you to a walking boot for shorter distances."
She nodded, flushed but proud.
"I'll go ahead and update your discharge note," he added, glancing at the chart. "We'll need to follow up outpatient for the ribs, but you've earned your freedom."
Addison's chest ached —this time from joy. Going home.
"Montgomery, it's been a pleasure."
She waited until they'd gone to sit back down, slowly, carefully. Her legs trembled. Her side ached. But still—she was going home.
She looked out the window. The sunlight was brighter than it had been in weeks.
The leather car seats were hot against the backs of Addison's legs, and the seatbelt strap cut a little into her body, aggrivating her ribs no matter how she adjusted it. But she didn't complain. Not out loud.
The Captain adjusted the rearview mirror, even though he hadn't moved it since they pulled out of the hospital's roundabout driveway.
"You sure you've got the story straight?" he asked, eyes on the road but voice light. Controlled.
Addison sighed through her nose. "Tripped at the park. Stepped wrong. Ankle snapped like a twig."
"And the ribs?"
"Hit a bench."
He gave a small nod. "Nothing happened at camp. Nothing happened at sea."
"Neutral territory only," Addison murmured, repeating the phrase he'd used the night before.
"If it had happened at camp, your mother would have called the headmaster's office before you hit the ground."
"She'd sue the whole Eastern Seaboard," Addison added, dry.
The Captain huffed a laugh. A real one, brief and surprised. "You're not wrong."
They drove in silence for a stretch. Addison watched the trees blur past the window, her body tired but buzzing. She didn't know if it was excitement, or dread.
"Did you catch up on your coursework?" he asked casually.
"I did."
"Good girl." A beat. "They said your neuro scans came back clear."
Addison nodded, swallowing. "Yeah."
"They didn't expect that."
"I know."
He didn't say you scared the hell out of me, but it was there, between the lines. In the way he cleared his throat, in the way his hands tightened just slightly on the wheel.
He reached into the side compartment and handed her a small brown bag.
"Figured you'd be sick of hospital food."
She opened it to find two croissants—real ones, flakey and still warm—and a bottle of her favorite juice, the one from the French place by the hospital.
Addison blinked down at the bag. "Thanks."
"Don't read into it," the Captain said quickly, eyes still forward. "You've been a menace. Thought this might sedate Hurricane Addison, before she wrecks havic on my estate staff, too."
Addison shrugged. "Let's see."
But she held the bag gently, like it meant something.
Because it did.
The car rolled up the circular driveway, tires whispering over the cobblestone. The front door was already open. Bizzy stood on the white stone steps, immaculate in linen, holding a long island iced tea. Archer stood beside her, beaming as he watched them approach.
Bizzy's eyes widened at the sight of Addison stepping slowly out of the car, crutches under her arms.
"Oh for heaven's sake," Bizzy said, before Addison had fully straightened. "Do you have to look so dramatic? Honestly."
Her reaction was almost identical to the impression Archer had made of her in the hospital. Addison was careful not to look at her brother, because she knew he must be laughing, and if she saw it she wouldnt be able to stop herself from doing the same.
"Hello, Mother."
Bizzy sighed, looking her over. "You look dreadful."
Addison didn't answer. She was used to this—Bizzy's brand of care came dressed as critique. It always had.
"Did you even try to be careful?" Bizzy added, arms folding.
Addison paused, crutches still steadying her. "I was trying to walk."
"Clearly not very well."
The Captain came around the car, helping steady Addison as she climbed the steps.
Bizzy's eyes flicked to him, sharp. "And what exactly were you doing while she shattered herself? You were meant to be supervising."
There was a silence that settled hard.
It was a joke—barely. Said offhand, tossed out like everything else she said. But it landed like a stone.
Addison blinked. No one had said it. Not the doctors, not Archer, not even herself. That he should've been watching. That it hadn't just happened.
The Captain's jaw shifted. He looked at Bizzy, then away. "It happened fast," he said simply.
Bizzy sighed. "Well. She's home now."
She turned and walked back inside, already done with the conversation.
Addison let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
The Captain looked at her—just a glance—and then followed his wife.
Addison stayed a moment longer on the steps, alone, letting the cool air settle her.
Archer skipped down the steps, landing at his sister's side with a smile, arm at the ready.
Addison shook her head, determined.
"Let me do it."
Then she moved her crutches forward, slow and steady. Step. Pause. Step.
The room smelled like lemon polish and fresh linens. The windows were open to let the breeze in, the gauzy curtains shifting like breath.
Addison sat on her bed, legs stretched carefully over the coverlet, pillows stacked behind her to keep the weight off her ribs. Her crutches leaned against the nightstand.
There was a knock on the door—two short raps.
"Yeah?" she called.
Archer poked his head in. "You decent?"
Addison rolled her eyes. "Please. I'm in flannel. Mother's dream."
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a quiet click. In his arms, he carried a stack of her textbooks, her portable cassette player, and a stolen slice of cake from the kitchen.
"Figured you'd want your things," he said. "And contraband."
He passed her the cake first.
"I could kiss you," She said, already digging into it with the fork he brought.
"I'll pass."
She laughed through the first bite. "Taste of freedom."
Archer sat down on the end of the bed, cross-legged. His eyes flicked over her, quietly checking—her color, the way she held herself, how easily she was breathing.
"It's good to see you here," he said, voice low. "Actually here. In your bed. Not wired up to twenty machines and pretending you're not in pain."
"I still am in pain," Addison reminded him, stabbing her fork at the air. "It just hurts less when you bring me cake."
"You always were a brat for sugar."
"You're one to talk."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment. The sounds of the estate hummed faintly beyond the window—crickets, wind, distant gravel crunching under tires.
"I didn't think she'd say anything," Addison murmured suddenly, her voice softer.
Archer looked up. "Who?"
"Bizzy. To him. About watching me."
A beat. He nodded, slowly. "Yeah."
"She didn't mean it. She was just being—her. But it's the first time someone even…" Addison shook her head. "I didn't know I wanted someone to say it. That it wasn't just me."
Archer shifted closer, lowering his voice. "Addie. It wasn't you. It was never just you."
Addison nodded, but her throat was tight.
He reached for the bedside lamp and turned the dial low, softening the light to a golden blur.
"Anyway," he said gently, nudging her, "If you were going to die in a dramatic fashion, I think drowning while steering a boat is very on brand."
She smiled, eyes glassy. "You're an ass."
"Takes one to know one."
They leaned back together in the hush, the kind of quiet that only comes when someone truly sees you. For a moment, it didn't matter that Bizzy didn't. That the Captain couldn't. That she'd almost died.
She was home.
And she wasn't alone.
The world returned to its usual rhythm.
Addison walked slowly across the trimmed lawn, boot finally gone, steps still careful but her body upright. The sun was low, casting long golden beams through the trees that bordered the estate. She was better. Healed, they said.
She didn't limp anymore. She slept through most nights. She could laugh again, do her homework, argue with Archer about whether or not Hamlet was overhyped. Everything was supposed to be normal.
But the sky was greying.
She stopped near the old stone bench, one hand absently gripping the sleeve of her sweater as she noticed- The wind changed. The air felt electric—thicker somehow. She tilted her face to the breeze and felt it: damp and cool.
Rain.
Her body locked up before the first drop even fell. It didn't make sense—there were no waves, no ropes, no freezing saltwater. Just garden and grass and the distant smell of lavender from the bushes.
But the moment the rain touched her cheek, she flinched.
A second drop. Then another.
It wasn't even heavy, just a light sprinkle. Barely enough to wet the earth. But Addison's breath caught anyway.
Her hand came up, covering the spot on her cheek where the raindrop had landed. It had felt cold. Too cold. Like then.
The world was green and safe and dry just seconds ago—and now all she could hear was water. Her heartbeat picked up. Her chest tightened. There was nothing rational about it, and yet her feet wouldn't move.
Her ribs still ached on rainy days.
She swallowed. Closed her eyes.
She told herself to breathe. Just breathe. This is not the ocean. You are not drowning.
But her hands were trembling.
Another drop followed, then another, until the sky cracked open and rain poured down in heavy sheets.
It's just water.
But in a blink, she was back in the sea.
The boom crashing. The rope around her ankle. The snap of bone. The dark, the cold, the screaming in her lungs when no one came.
She stumbled, her feet catching on the pavers of the path, and then she was down—hands bracing hard on the grass, wet soaking into her clothes, her pulse thudding in her ears.
"Addie!"
Archer's voice broke through the static, distant and muffled. She heard his footsteps—fast, close—and then his arms were around her, lifting her upright. She was shaking. Not from the cold.
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't pull enough air into her lungs.
"Hey, hey—Addie, it's okay. It's okay." His voice was low, steady, but she could hear the worry laced into it. "You're not in the water. You're here. You're safe."
She wanted to believe him. But her brain was a storm.
"I hate the rain," she choked, voice barely audible over her breathlessness. "I hate it. I hate the cold. I hate the water—"
Archer pulled her in closer, holding her against his chest even as rain soaked them both. "So you've given up showers then? Gross, Addie."
It was just enough of a jab—just familiar enough—to snag her back to earth. She let out a weak, spluttering laugh and shoved at his chest. "Hot water is different. Plumbing is different. I'm in control of that."
He nodded solemnly. "Right. No unexpected rogue waves in the bathroom. Unless you're showering at a really bad hostel."
Addison pressed her forehead into his shoulder, her breath slowly evening out. His shirt was soaked, clinging to his frame, but Archer didn't care. He was focused only on her.
"You okay?"
Addison nodded automatically, then shook her head.
"It's stupid," she murmured. "It's just rain."
"It's not stupid," he said. "It's memory."
Addison slid arms around her brother, head against his chest.
"I thought I was going to drown," she whispered. "I really thought no one would come."
Archer didn't respond right away. His arms tightened around her just a little.
"You're not alone," He said finally. "You're never gonna be alone. Not while I'm here."
She nodded into his shoulder, her throat thick. They stayed like that for a while—two kids under a stormy sky, finding warmth in each other, even when the world felt cold and sharp and merciless.
Because in the mess of their childhood, in the absence of gentleness and unconditional love, they had made their own safe place.
The rain kept falling, but it didn't touch what they had built between them.
Not brilliance. Not perfection. Just this quiet, stubborn love that had grown in the cracks.
Their parents hadn't taught them how to be loved.
So they had taught each other.
Later, when she was warm and dry, Addison sat curled on the window seat in her bedroom, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Archer had insisted on making them both "Archer's Famous Hot Chocolate"— which mostly meant he added an absurd amount of marshmallows, cinnamon, and exactly one questionable dash of secret ingredient "for flair."
It wasn't good. But it was warm. And it was theirs.
Rain tapped softly against the windows, slower now, the worst of the storm behind them. But her heart still beat too fast when she thought about it.
Archer flopped down beside her with his own mug, his socked feet knocking gently against hers.
She didn't look at him right away. Just stared out the window, watching water race down the glass like it was trying to outrun something. In her head, the events of that day replayed. The waves, the screaming, the laughs-
"There was a woman on the boat," Addison said quietly. "Before it happened. Before I went over."
Archer looked at her in surprise, eyebrows tugging together. "What - Like… one of the Captain's women?"
They both knew what that meant.
"Yeah. The Captain brings them sailing." She said, picking her words carefully. "It's kind of this thing we do together."
It took a second to land. Archer blinked, then sat up straighter. "Wait, he takes you out sailing—with a mistress?"
She shrugged. "I mix their martinis."
Addison waited for the joke, for the witty comment, but Archer stayed quiet. She swallowed, eyes dropping to the mug in her hands.
"Anyway. She asked if I was even his kid, said I didn't look like anyone. Red hair, lanky, awkward. Joked that I must've come from someone else."
Archer was silent. Processing.
"That's why I was distracted," she said. "That's the last thing I heard before the boom hit."
Archer didn't say anything at first. Just held her gaze for a long moment.
A beat passed. Then another.
Finally, Archer let out a breath. "Jesus, Addie."
"I know."
"I mean—I knew he was a bastard, but I didn't think he was dumb." He paused. "Who brings his kid along on a date?"
She almost smiled at that. "I think I was part of the show."
"Ah yes. You always were a great party trick." He muttered in disdain, remembering other times his little sister had been used as entertainment.
"I know the woman was just joking." Addison shrugged. "I mean… mostly. But I keep thinking about what she said.. How I don't belong."
Archer leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You don't have to look like them to belong, Addie. You're one of us. And not just because of blood."
She gave a soft sound. Almost a laugh. "What else, then?"
He smirked. "Because no one else could roll their eyes at Bizzy and still survive."
That coaxed a smile from her, fleeting but real. Then it faded again.
"Why does he do it?" she asked, quieter now. "The Captain. Why does he cheat on her?"
Archer was silent for a moment, then shrugged. "Because it's easier to be adored by strangers than honest with someone who knows you too well."
She turned to look at him. "Is that what you'll be like, too?"
He hesitated, then said, "I hope not." A beat. "But probably."
And somehow, that didn't scare her. Maybe because he said it without pride. Without pretending.
Archer had always told her the truth, even when it hurt. And he always stayed.
She stared at her reflection in the window, soft and ghostly against the rain. She shuddered.
"I dont ever want to sail again, Archie."
Archer's expression softened.
"You dont have to."
For a while, neither of them spoke. The storm outside had quieted to a steady patter, the kind that sounded almost like breathing.
Addison traced a finger down the side of her mug, watching the steam curl up and vanish.
"I used to love the rain." She admitted. "I'd sit out in it and get soaked and pretend I was some wild thing."
"You still are," Archer said. "Just a wild thing with trauma now."
That made her huff a tiny laugh. Her hands were no longer shaking, and it didn't feel quite so unbearable anymore.
"Do you think it'll ever go away?" she asked.
"No," he said honestly. "But I think you'll learn to live with it. And I think one day, you'll stand out there without an umbrella."
She looked at him. "You'll still be there?"
"Obviously. Someone has to hold the dry towel and say 'I told you so' when you get soaked."
She bumped her foot gently against his. He bumped her back, then, scooped her in close.
Addison settled into his embrace, closing her eyes as he held her. The rain kept falling, but inside, the quiet between them felt steady and safe.
They had never been anyone's soft priority. Never the kind of children people cherished just for existing.
They'd grown up in a house full of everything they could've ever wanted, and still gone hungry for something real.
But here, with rain on the windows and warmth in their hands, they weren't performing.
They weren't earning love.
They were just being.
And somehow, that was enough.