Liberty POV

Tuck is laughing.

Not the careful kind. Not the checking-in-with-himself kind. Just... laughing. Sitting on the edge of the bed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, talking about something dumb that happened in the group chat earlier. His eyes are clearer. His shoulders aren't tight. He looks like himself again.

It makes my chest ache in the best way.

I'm smiling when my phone vibrates.

I almost ignore it.

Then I see the name.

Dad.

Working all night. Don't wait up.

My stomach drops.

I keep my face neutral, but my thumb pauses over the screen longer than it should. Working all night usually means the hard kind of work. Crisis kind. The kind that follows him home even when he swears it won't.

I look up at Tuck, still mid-sentence, still okay.

I don't want to ruin this moment.

"Tuck," I say gently, standing. "I need to go."

He blinks, surprised. "Oh—okay. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I say quickly. "Tomorrow for sure."

He watches me for a second, the way he does now—more aware. "Everything okay?"

I hesitate. Just a beat.

"Yeah," I say, forcing a small smile. "Just something I need to do."

He nods, not pushing. "Okay. Be safe."

I lean down and hug him, careful but warm. When I pull back, he still looks steady.

That helps.

Outside, the evening air feels cooler than it should. I unlock my car and sit there for a second before starting it, phone still in my hand.

I'm not panicking.

But I am worried.

I know that look in my dad's texts. Short. Factual. No softness. That's what happens when the work gets heavy—when people don't make it, or almost don't.

I start the engine.

I'm not going to interrupt him. I'm not going to demand answers.

I just need to make sure he's okay.

Because loving someone in this family means learning when to step in quietly—
and when to just show up, even if they don't ask.

I pull out onto the road, glancing once at the message again.

Working all night.

Yeah.

So am I.

The facility is quieter than usual when I get there.

Not empty—just subdued. The lights are dimmer in the halls, the kind of calm that comes after something intense has already passed through. My footsteps feel too loud against the floor, like I don't quite belong in this space tonight.

Gloria is at the desk when I walk in. She looks up and smiles, the familiar, tired kind she always has on late shifts.

"Hey, Lib," she says softly. "Your dad's in his office."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Thanks." Then I pause. "Is he... is he alone?"

She nods. "Yeah. Right now he is."

"Okay," I say. "Thanks, Gloria."

She gives me a look—not questioning, not warning. Just understanding. "Take your time."

I walk down the hall slowly, past doors I've seen my whole life, past spaces that feel too normal for how much pain they hold. My dad's office light is on, spilling out into the hallway in a narrow line.

I stop just outside the door.

He works all night a lot. I know that. I've grown up with it. But tonight feels different. He didn't add a heart or a love you or even a don't worry to the text. Just the facts.

That's when I worry.

I lift my hand and knock lightly—not like a patient, not like staff. Just... me.

"Dad?" I say through the door.

There's a pause.

Then, "Yeah," he answers. "Come in."

I open the door and step inside, and immediately I can tell.

His jacket is still on. His tie is loosened but not off. There are files spread across his desk, not neatly—reviewed, revisited. His shoulders are tight in that way they get when he's carrying more than he's letting on.

He looks up when he sees me, surprise flickering across his face before it softens.

"Liberty," he says. "You didn't have to come."

"I know," I reply gently. "I wanted to."

He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm okay."

I don't argue. I just step farther into the room and close the door behind me.

"I know," I say again. "I just wanted to check."

He watches me for a moment, and then something in him eases—not much, but enough to notice.

"Long night," he admits.

I nod. "Yeah. I figured."

I sit in the chair across from him, the one I've sat in a hundred times growing up, swinging my feet when I was younger, doing homework while he worked.

We sit in the quiet together.

I don't ask about patients. I don't ask about what happened.

I just stay.

And sometimes, with my dad, that's the most important thing I can do.

"Is there anything I can help with?" I ask quietly.

Dad doesn't answer right away. He leans back in his chair, eyes fixed somewhere past me, like he's lining things up in his head and none of them are fitting.

"I'm not sure," he says finally. "I'm just... trying to understand something."

I wait.

"I have outpatient kids," he continues. "They were doing well. Not magically better—but stable. Engaged. Honest. Progress." He rubs his temple. "And now they're trying to end their lives."

My chest tightens.

"First Tuck," he says. "Then Derrick. Now Violet."

I swallow. "That's... a lot."

"It's too much to be coincidence," he says, frustration bleeding through the calm. "I keep asking myself what I'm missing. These weren't kids hiding everything. They were talking. Showing up. Using skills."

"So what changed?" I ask.

"That's the problem," he replies. "Nothing obvious."

He looks at me then, really looks at me—not as a doctor, but as my dad.

"They weren't spiraling in sessions," he says. "They weren't escalating outward. They didn't stop engaging."

"So... where did it go?" I ask softly.

"Inside," he says immediately. "They carried it alone."

The room feels heavier.

"They all hit a point where coping stopped working," he continues. "And instead of asking for more help, something inside them said, this is the end of the road."

I think of Tuck sitting on his bed, saying he didn't want to drown the noise anymore. Of Ella saying home wasn't the same without him. 

"Do you think," I say carefully, "that they were all trying to escape more than... die?"

Dad goes very still.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," he says quietly. "That they didn't want to stop existing. They wanted the pain to stop—and couldn't see another way."

"And they didn't tell you," I say.

"No," he admits. "Because they thought they were supposed to be past that point."

That lands hard.

"Like asking for help again would mean failing," I say.

He nods slowly. "Yes."

I lean forward in the chair. "Dad... you didn't miss something because you weren't paying attention. You missed it because they were trying to protect you. And themselves. And the idea that they were 'getting better.'"

He exhales, long and tired. "That's what scares me."

"What?" I ask.

"That the most dangerous moment isn't when someone is visibly falling apart," he says. "It's when they think they're not allowed to anymore."

Silence settles between us.

"Is there a connection?" I ask.

He thinks. "Not a shared event. Not a person. But a shared belief."

"Which is?"

"That if the pain comes back," he says, voice low, "it means they failed."

I feel my throat tighten. "They didn't."

"I know," he says. "But knowing something clinically and believing it emotionally are very different things."

I reach across the desk and rest my hand over his for just a second. He doesn't pull away.

"You're not the problem," I say gently. "And neither are they."

He looks down at our hands, then back up at me. "I needed to hear that."

I give a small smile. "That's why I came."

He nods, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

"We'll figure this out," he says. "I won't let them keep carrying this alone."

I believe him.

And as I sit there with my dad—doctor, human, exhausted but still fighting—I realize something important.

Sometimes the connection isn't why people fall apart.

It's when they finally stop pretending they shouldn't.

"Oh—Dad," I say, almost like I'm changing the subject but not really. "I meant to ask you something."

He looks up from the files, attention shifting back to me. "What is it?"

"We were thinking about going camping for spring break," I say. "Getting out of Adventure Bay for a bit. Just us. Quiet. Nature. Nothing wild."

He studies my face, already reading between the lines.

"And Tuck," I add carefully. "We want him to come. But I don't know if that would be... too much for him."

Dad leans back in his chair, hands folding together. He doesn't answer right away, which tells me he's taking it seriously—not defaulting to caution, not dismissing it either.

"That depends," he says finally. "Not on camping—but on how."

I tilt my head. "How?"

"Structure and choice," he explains. "If it's framed as an expectation—something he has to be 'well enough' to handle—then yes, it could be too much. If it's framed as an option he can opt into or out of without consequences, that's different."

I nod slowly.

"Nature can actually be very regulating," he continues. "Lower stimulation. Predictable routines. Physical movement. Those are protective factors, not risks."

"So... it's not automatically a bad idea?"

"No," he says. "It's not automatically anything."

He pauses, then adds, "What matters most is that Tuck doesn't feel like this trip is a test."

That hits exactly where it needs to.

"He wouldn't," I say quickly. "We wouldn't let it be."

Dad nods. "Then I'd want a few things in place. A clear plan for medication. An exit option if he needs space. And honest check-ins—not surveillance."

I smile a little. "That sounds... reasonable."

He gives a faint smile back. "That's the goal."

"So you think he could go?" I ask.

"I think," he says carefully, "that if Tuck wants to go, and he feels supported rather than pushed, it could actually be good for him."

Relief washes through me.

"Thank you," I say.

He looks at me for a long moment, then says, "I'm glad you asked before deciding for him."

"Me too," I reply.

As I stand to leave, he adds quietly, "You're taking care of a lot of people, Liberty."

I pause. "I learned from you."

He smiles at that—tired, proud, real.

And as I step back into the hallway, I feel lighter.

Not because everything is solved.

But because sometimes, asking the right question at the right time is its own kind of care.