Page 2 of Until Forever Falls

“Yeah.” I reply with a smile, though it feels stiff. “It’s beautiful here—easy to lose track of time.”

Aaron hums in agreement, and my gaze drifts to our joined hands. His thumb glides in slow, soothing circles against my skin, steadying my pulse as I battle the overwhelming urge to turn and face the one man I swore I’d never see again.

“Hey, is everything okay? You seem a little off,” he asks, concern seeping into every syllable.

“I’m fine.” The lie slips out easily as I tighten my smile, trying to shake the tension clinging to my shoulders. My camera rests beside me, and I glance down at it, my gaze drifting over the edges as if it holds the answers I can’t find.

Art has always been my escape, a way to make sense of the world when nothing else could. But after leaving Rockport, picking up a paintbrush felt like looking too closely at the things I wasn’t ready to face—so I turned to photography instead. Through my camera, I could hold on to the good without facing the rest. But with Brooks within reach, even the lens feels as though it’s exposing too much.

Aaron’s fingers skim my cheek, anchoring me for a fleeting moment.

“You sure?”

“Mm-hmm.” I nod, meeting his gaze. “Just a little tired.”

But as soon as he looks away, the undeniable awareness of Brooks’ presence pins me in place. His shadow spills over me as he rises, pressing down from behind like a suffocating blanket. I suck in a breath, praying he’ll walk away before he notices me, but his unmoving silhouette locks the air around us like cement.

I’ve made a habit of running…I know that. I’ve used my camera as both a shield and an excuse over the years. Photography was his passion, and somewhere along the way, I picked it up without even realizing. It was easier than facing who I left behind.

“Dylan?” Aaron prods, his hand squeezing mine.

I exhale sharply, only now realizing I’d been holding it in.

“Are you ready to go?” I ask, springing to my feet and grabbing my camera along with the bag I left on the chair earlier. Brooks’ stare is unshakeable, and when he finally speaks, my pulse nearly stops.

“Dill?”

I halt mid-motion, clutching my things, desperate for them to somehow make me vanish. His voice is deeper now, causing an agonizing throb to pulse in my chest. He repeats my name—no nickname this time, just a hesitant, “Dylan Rivers?”

A slow pivot locks us into a gaze that sends a distinct, sharp twist of loss and betrayal through every one of my nerves, urging me to flee.

“Wow, it’s really you,” he murmurs, awe softening his voice. Fingers sift through his now short hair, a subtle reminder that time hasn’t stood still, and a flicker of disappointment tugs at me.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, green eyes shining, unaltered, just as I knew they wouldn’t be. I’ve lived this scene a thousand times in my mind, each time hoping I’d find the words to make him feel even a fraction of what he left me with. But now, with him standing here, close enough to touch, every planned thought dissolves into nothing.

“You too,” I say, praying my knees don’t buckle from the way he’s looking at me.

Aaron stands, his attention shifting between the two of us in obvious confusion. “You two know each other?” Uncertainty tinges his voice, but his curiosity is evident.

“We went to high school together.” It’s a massive generalization, almost as if I’m denying the connection we once had, but now isn’t the time or place to get into specifics.

“Oh,” Aaron murmurs, his expression softening as he looks at me. He’s never pressed for details about my past—it’s something I love about him. But masking my emotions has never been my strong suit, and there’s no doubt he notices something’s off right now.

The silence stretches between the three of us, suspense building until Brooks ultimately clears his throat. Just as he’s about to speak, I make a sharp turn, bolting in the opposite direction.

“Dylan, wait!” Brooks calls after me, but I pick up the pace, the need to distance myself pushing me forward. His voice is a tether Irefuseto grab. Instead, I run, my pulse pounding in rhythm with the memories I refuse to face.

2

Dylan

Then

“Dill, I get it. You’d rather be anywhere else,” my twin brother, Beckett, groans from the other side of the truck. “But could you, for once, just help with the boxes?”

Leaning against the tailgate, I steal a quick glance his way, meeting his eyes for a second before returning to my phone. It’s not him that’s the problem. But I’ve learned the hard way—if Mom thinks I’m adjusting, she’ll start pretending this move is permanent.

“Dylan!” his voice rises, exasperated. “I just busted my ass at football tryouts. If you don’t stop standing there like a useless sack of shit, every box with your name on it is going straight in the trash.”

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