bChapter /bb24 /b

Aurora’s P.O.V

I walked back into the kitchen, my heart still pounding from the confrontation outside. My palm still tingled from the p, and even though I knew I’d crossed a line, I wasn’t sorry. Not even a little. Jeremy was going to be furious–1 could already hear his disappointed sigh, the way he’d rub the back of his neck like he was trying to physically push the frustration away. I braced myself for it, stealing my spine as I stepped

inside.

But instead of anger, I was met with something I hadn’t expected. Jeremy stood there, his weathered face calm, his eyes filled with something that made my throat tighten. And then, before I could say anything, before I couldunch into my half–hearted attempt at an exnation, he

closed the distance between us and pulled me into a firm, fatherly hug.

I sucked in a sharp breath, the warmth of the embrace hitting me harder than I expected. The kitchen smelled of grease and flourb, /bof freshly, baked bread and the faintest hint of burned sugar. It was familiar,forting. My arms hung at my sides for a moment before I let go of the tension in my shoulders and leaned into it.

“You did what you thought was right,” Jeremy murmured, his voice gruff but steady.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat, my fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his apron. “I-” My voice wavered. I blinked rapidly, trying to push back the sting of tears. “Thank you,” I whispered instead.

He stepped back, hisrge hands resting on my shoulders, giving them a small squeeze. “This is all I can offer you, kid,” he said, his tone tinged with something that sounded a lot like regret. “But if that rich bratins to the authorities, I won’t be able to protect you.”

I exhaled slowly, nodding. “I’ll deal with it when the timees,” I said, and I meant it. There was no taking back what I’d done. No undoing the way I had stood my ground. If there were consequences, I’d face them head–on.

Jeremy studied me for a long moment before nodding. “Alright,” he said, his voice lighter now. “You can go home early. Just take out the trash before you leave.”

Relief flooded through me, but it wasced with exhaustion. “Got it,” I muttered, forcing a small smile before turning away.

As I grabbed the trash bags, I realized something–I had expected punishment, but instead, I’d found understanding. And somehow, that felt heavier than anything else.

Standing by the back door of the diner, I let out a slow breath before stepping outside, the cool night air wrapping around me like a silentfort. The trash bag in my hands feels heavier than it should, but maybe that’s just me–just the weight of the day pressing down on my shoulders. I walk the few steps to the dumpster, my movements slow, deliberate, as if stalling would somehow make everything feel a little less unbearable. With a tired sigh, I toss the bag inside, the sound of it hitting the metal echoing in the quiet alley.

As I turn to go back inside, my fingers brush against the fabric of my shirt, and I remember. The bill. My stomach knots as I reach inside and pull it out, my breath catching when I unfold it and see the number staring back at me. Fifty. Fifty dors. My throat tightens, and before I can stop myself, tears well up in my eyes again.

It’s enough–more than enough. Enough to buy groceries for the rest of this week, maybe even stretch into the next. Enough to make sure me and Riley don’t have to go to bed hungry, at least for a little while. But the memory of how I got it–the humiliation, the biting words, the way I had to swallow my pride–makes my chest ache, and suddenly, I can’t hold back anymore.

The tears spill over, silent and bitter, my shoulders trembling as I press the bill to my chest. This shouldn’t be something to cry over. It’s money. It’s survival. But damn it, why does it/have to feel like this?

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, wiping at my bface /bwith the sleeve of my shirt. I need to pull it together. Standing out here crying won’t change anything. Just as I force myself to move, a sound drifts through the air–soft, rhythmic, familiar. I pause, my eyes flicking toward the park across the street. The swings creak lightly, the sound carried by the wind, and for some reason, I find myself turning to look.

And there they are. Caleb and Caroline. Sitting on the swings, talking,ughing, their silhouettes outlined by the dim glow of the streemp. My breath catches in my throat when I see the way he’s leaning toward her, the way she tilts her head up slightly, lips parted just enough. My

heart clenches, a dull, aching pain spreading through my chest.

I don’t need to stay to see what happens next. I already know. Everyone’s been saying it for weeks, whispering in hushed voicesb, /bthrowing knowing nces in their direction. The rumors were never just rumors, were they? They were the truth, and here it is, right in front of me.

I tear my gaze away, my hands curling into fists at my sides. It shouldn’t hurt. It really, really shouldn’t. Caleb was never mine. Not even for a second. Not even in my wildest, most foolish dreams. But damn it, why does it feel like he was? Why does it feel like I just lost something I never even had?

1–swallow hard and force my feet to move, turning away from the park, from them, from everything. The night air feels colder now, or maybe it’s just me. I keep my head down as I make my way back inside, the fifty–dor bill clenched tightly in my hand.

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