Page 60 of Until Forever Falls

“You’re not alone in this, Dylan. You’ve got me. And Beckett, if you ever want to tell him.”

My throat constricts, my fingers tightening slightly around his without meaning to. There’s no way Beckett could handle this, not without making it his problem to solve. But Brooks? He’s different. He knows how to just be here, and that’s enough.

Instead of saying anything, I shift forward and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him in. It’s not something I think about—it just happens. A silent thank you.

His scent is a solid comfort, like pine and earth after rainfall. It’s primal, something I’ve now come to associate with safety. When I finally let go, he watches me with a tenderness that hurts, then his hand moves like it’s been aching for this moment. He hooks his fingers into my hair, cupping the base of my neck, but it burns like it’s stitching up the broken parts of me.

“You’ve got paint on your face,” he chuckles, ending the silence.

I touch my cheek instinctively, feeling the dry, cracked texture of yesterday’s mess.

“It suits you.”

Sitting up, I brush at the spot halfheartedly. The comfort of staying in bed all day is tempting, but a different idea begins to form–one that feels less confining.

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“I want to go back to the church. I think I’m ready to work on the mural again.”

His eyes don’t leave mine as he stands, holding out a hand. “Then let’s go.”

The morning sun is still climbing, casting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange. Our drive is peaceful, and as we park and step onto the brick path, I’m struck by an unexpected sense of happiness. The church looms ahead, its silhouette a quiet promise. My pulse quickens, not with anxiety, but with something more akin to eager expectation.

I pause at the door, my hand hovering just above the handle. There’s a brief moment where I reconsider, where I wonder if entering will ruin the fantasy that my healing is nothing more than a facade. But then I look back at Brooks. My fear is still there, but it no longer holds me with the same grip. I’ve fought against every fucking thing that has tried to bury me. I’ve survived, even when I thought I wouldn’t.

It only took one person—him—to crack through the walls I’ve stacked so high around myself. To show me that I’m worth more than the scraps I’ve been settling for, that I deserve better than the endless ache I’ve lived with for so long.

He’s my better. The kind of better I never thought I deserved, never thought I’d see. But now, I do. I see it—he’s the answer I never knew I was waiting for.

I take a breath and push the door open with vigor. The familiar scent of aged wood mingles with traces of paint, filling my senses as sunlight filters through the windows.

The moment my eyes land on the mural, a strange sort of calm settles over me. It’s unfinished, imperfect, but it’s mine.

Brooks walks further into the room, stopping near the center. He looks around for a second before lowering himself to the floor, leaning back against the wall. I drop my bag beside me and sit cross-legged near the mural.

“You’re just going to sit there?” I ask, pulling out my paints.

He shrugs. “I’m here for moral support. And documentation.” He raises the camera I hadn’t seen him bring, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I roll my eyes. He’s always got that damn camera on him—capturing me, random trees, or the way the clouds move like they’ve got something to say. It’s one of the things I can’t help but admire about him. He spots what everyone else misses, sees the world in ways that make it feel a little less ordinary.

As I begin painting, the room narrows to the colors on my palette and the strokes of my brush. Blues, purples, greens—they all blend together in a way that feels natural, like they were always meant to exist in this exact combination.

Time slips away. I lose track of how long I’ve been working, only pausing when Brooks’ camera clicks or when he mutters something under his breath about “lighting.” At one point, I look up and notice him lying flat on his back, aiming his camera at the ceiling.

“What are you even doing?”

“Finding the angles,” he explains, as though it’s self-evident.

The butterflies I’ve painted twist and shift in the light like they’re about to break free. They aren’t just paint. They’re pieces of me—the fractured parts I can’t undo. Each one captures something I can’t say, pressed into color, leaving behind something that may never actually fly but still feels like it’s trying.

By the time the sun begins to dip below the horizon, my arms ache, and my palms smeared with paint. I drop my brush and lean back, finally taking a moment to breathe.

Brooks scoots closer, settling beside me on the floor. Without a word, he slips his arm around my waist, and I lean into him.

The church is quiet except for the faint sound of birds outside and I feel…lighter.

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