When I was little I used to lay outside and reach my hands up to the sky above, convinced I could touch the great moving clouds if I just extended my arms a little further. I remember the warmth of the grass under my back, the smell of sun-soaked earth, and the way the clouds always seemed just within reach, as if they were waiting for me.

Now, sitting here beside Alec, the memory feels impossibly far away—like something I dreamed instead of lived.

He’s quiet for once, his eyes on the horizon where dusk spills gold into the lake. His knee brushes mine every so often, an unintentional touch that sends a ripple through my chest.

“What happened?” he asks softly, not looking at me.

“To what?”

“To the girl who thought she could touch the clouds.”

I try to laugh, but it comes out small. “She realized the world is much bigger than she thought. And that the clouds don’t wait for anyone.”

His gaze finally shifts to me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Maybe not. But sometimes the right person will put you on their shoulders and help you reach.”

I roll my eyes because it’s easier than letting his words sink too deep, but I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from lifting.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The water laps gently against the shore, the air cool and smelling faintly of pine. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I let myself lean just slightly into his shoulder—not enough to admit anything, but enough to feel his warmth.