Skye POV

Morning comes in soft.

Not loud-soft, not camp counselor yelling that the sun is up soft—just light slipping through trees, smoke still clinging to clothes, the kind of quiet that means nothing bad happened overnight.

Which honestly feels like a win.

Everyone's up in pieces. Zuma's crouched by the cooler like it personally offended him. Rocky is holding two pans and arguing with Roxy about which one is "the egg pan." Marshall looks half-awake, Everest wrapped around him like she's anchoring him to the ground. Chase is poking at the fire, trying to revive it with the focus of someone defusing a bomb.

I'm standing there with a mug of something that might be coffee, might be dirt—unclear—when I spot Tuck.

He's sitting on a log, hoodie on, Liberty beside him, Ella nearby pretending not to hover. He's not tense. Not folded in. Just... here. Watching, breathing, existing.

It hits me all at once.

I walk over before I overthink it. That's usually how my best moments happen anyway.

"Hey," I say, nudging him lightly with my foot.

He looks up, a little surprised. "Hey."

I smile, real and easy. "I just wanted to say—we're really glad you're here."

He blinks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I say firmly. "Like... here here. Not still in there."

For half a second I worry I crossed a line. But then his shoulders ease instead of tightening.

"I am too," he admits quietly.

Liberty squeezes his hand. Ella nods like this is obvious.

"Also," I add, glancing toward the chaos that is breakfast prep, "you are officially required to stay because we need more people to witness how bad Chase is at campfire eggs."

Chase looks up. "Hey!"

Tuck lets out a small laugh. Then another. And just like that, it doesn't feel fragile anymore.

"Glad you're out," I repeat, softer this time. "And glad you're with us."

He nods once. "Me too."

I head back toward the fire, feeling lighter than I did yesterday.

Because yeah—things can still go wrong. I know that.

But right now, in the middle of burnt toast, bad coffee, and friends who stayed—

this morning feels like proof that sometimes, getting out really does mean getting back.

"I just wish Sparky could have this," Tuck says. "Friends like this. One day."

It doesn't land softly.

It lands like a dropped plate.

Everything stops.

The pan Rocky's holding tilts too far, eggs sliding dangerously close to the edge. Chase freezes mid-motion. Zuma straightens, alert. Ella's head snaps up. Even the fire seems to crackle louder in the sudden silence.

My stomach tightens.

Because I get what Tuck means—he does—but the rest of us don't live inside his forgiveness. We don't have his context. We don't have his conversations, his quiet moments, his reasons.

What we have are memories. Headlines. Fear. Anger we never had the chance to process the way he did.

Liberty doesn't pull away from Tuck, but I see the tension ripple through her. Ella's jaw tightens. Marshall looks down, unsettled. Everest's brows knit together, like she doesn't know what to do with that statement yet.

No one says anything.

Not because we don't care.

Because we don't know how to care about that.

I feel it in my chest—that clash between empathy and instinct. Between wanting to honor Tuck's healing and not being ready to extend that same grace to someone we only know as harm.

Tuck notices. Of course he does.

He looks up, and for a second I worry he's going to apologize.

He doesn't.

"I know," he says quietly, before anyone can speak. "You don't have to feel the same way. I just... I couldn't not say it."

That almost makes it worse.

Because he's not asking us to forgive Sparky.

He's just naming a hope.

And we don't know what to do with it.

Chase finally clears his throat. "I—" He stops, shakes his head. "I don't know him like you do."

"Yeah," Zuma adds. "And what I know... it's complicated."

"That doesn't make you wrong," Tuck says gently. "It just makes us different."

I let out a slow breath, realizing my hands are clenched into fists.

"Okay," I say finally, carefully. "I'm not there. I might never be there. And that doesn't mean I don't respect where you are."

Tuck nods. "That's enough."

It's not closure.

It's not forgiveness.

It's an uneasy truce between someone who's healed enough to wish more for the person who hurt him—and a group of friends who aren't ready to follow him there.

Breakfast resumes, slowly. Awkwardly. Conversations restart in fragments.

But something has shifted.

Not broken.

Just... exposed.

And as I flip a pancake and watch the steam rise, I realize something important:

Healing doesn't move at the same speed for everyone.

Tuck is ahead of us on that road.

And loving him doesn't mean pretending we're already where he is.

It just means we don't make him walk it alone.

Zuma's the one who breaks it.

He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't posture. That's what makes it worse—because he's being honest.

"I get that he's different," Zuma says slowly. "Not the same person he was. And... he did save Rita. I won't forget that." He exhales. "I owe him for that. But it's hard to forget everything else."

No one jumps in. No one argues.

Because that's the truth sitting in the middle of us.

Tuck looks at him then. Really looks at him. Not angry. Not defensive.

Just tired.

"I know," Tuck says quietly. "And I'm not asking you to forget."

He swallows, fingers curling slightly in his lap.

"I just... none of you know what it feels like," he continues. "To have the world crashing in on you from the inside. To hear thoughts that aren't yours. To not trust your own brain."

My chest tightens.

"To wake up every day already exhausted because you're fighting something no one else can see," Tuck says. "And then to be told that because you broke once, that's all you'll ever be."

The fire pops. Loud. Too loud.

"I didn't forgive him because it was easy," Tuck goes on. His voice shakes now, just a little. "I forgave him because I recognized that place. That loss of control. And because if people had decided that was all I was... I wouldn't be here."

Silence stretches again—but it's different now.

He's not defending Sparky.

He's defending himself.

"I'm not saying he deserves what we have," Tuck adds quickly, like he's afraid of being misunderstood. "I'm saying... I hope one day he has something. Anything. Because I know what it's like to have nothing."

Zuma nods slowly, jaw tight. "I hear you."

Not I agree.

But I hear you.

That matters.

No one rushes Tuck. No one tells him to stop. Liberty's hand is steady on his arm, grounding without pulling him back.

I feel my throat burn.

"Okay," I say finally, soft but clear. "I don't forgive him. Not right now. Maybe not ever." I glance around. "And I think that's where most of us are."

No one argues.

"But," I add, looking at Tuck, "I believe you. About what it feels like. And I respect that you survived it."

Tuck's shoulders ease a fraction.

"That's... enough," he says.

Breakfast slowly comes back online after that. Not jokes yet. Not normal.

But quieter. More careful.

Because something important just happened.

We didn't all land in the same place.

But we stopped pretending we had to.

And somehow, sitting there in the morning light, that feels like the most honest thing we've done all trip.

The words slip out before I can stop them.

"So... where is he in his treatment?" I ask, mostly to Liberty. "Like— is he going to be out soon?"

The fire pops again, softer now. Breakfast smells half-burnt, half-forgotten.

Liberty doesn't answer right away.

She looks down at her hands, then at Tuck, like she's measuring how much truth fits in this moment. When she finally speaks, her voice is careful. Not secretive—just respectful.

"He's still inpatient," she says. "Not because he's dangerous right now, but because they're being... cautious."

"That's a word," Skye mutters.

Liberty gives me a look. "It's not a timeline thing. It's stability. They don't release him just because things are quieter."

"So he's not—" I hesitate. "He's not coming back to school or anything soon?"

Liberty shakes her head. "No. Not yet."

That settles heavy in my chest.

Tuck stays quiet. He's not flinching, but I can tell this conversation isn't easy for him either. Talking about someone like that, like they're a schedule instead of a person.

"They're adjusting meds," Liberty continues. "A lot of monitoring. Therapy. Group stuff. He's... trying. That's about as much as I know."

Zuma nods slowly. "So it's not a countdown."

"No," Liberty says. "It's more like... they don't want to send him back out until the ground under him is solid. Not just calmer."

I let out a breath.

"Okay," I say. "That actually makes sense."

It does. Even if it doesn't make it easier.

I glance at Tuck. "That can't be easy. Knowing you're out and he's still there."

He shrugs, small. "It's weird. I'm relieved I'm not in there anymore. And I hate that he still is." He pauses. "Both things can be true."

No one argues with that.

Liberty adds quietly, "And just so you know—if and when he does get out, it won't be like he just shows back up. There'll be plans. Boundaries. Support."

"That helps," I say honestly. "Knowing it's not just... dropped on us."

She nods. "My dad's very clear about that."

We sit with it for a moment, the fire crackling, the morning stretching on.

I'm still not ready to forgive someone I don't know.

But at least now I understand this much:

Whatever happens with Sparky won't be rushed.

And no one's pretending it's simple.

Before I can spiral any further, Chase just... pulls me in.

No warning. No speech. Just an arm around my shoulders and a quick, firm hug like he's physically interrupting my thoughts.

"Okay," he says into my hair, voice low but amused, "that's enough heavy stuff for one morning."

I huff out a laugh despite myself. "Was I spiraling?"

"Yes," he says immediately. "Respectfully."

He pulls back just enough to look at me. "We're camping. It's Spring Break. We survived Jet, emotional revelations, and whatever Rocky did to those eggs."

Rocky bristles. "They were fine."

"They were charcoal," Roxy corrects.

Chase grins and squeezes my shoulder again. "Point is—we're allowed to have fun."

Something in my chest loosens at that. I glance around the circle. Tuck is still quiet, but he's not withdrawn. Liberty's leaning into him. Zuma's flipping pancakes like he's reclaiming control of the universe. Marshall and Everest are already arguing about who's in charge of activities. Sweetie is stealing food off Rubble's plate. Coral is laughing—actually laughing—at something Ella just said.

Yeah.

We earned this.

"Alright," I say, straightening and clapping my hands once. "New rule. No trauma talk until at least noon."

Tracker raises an eyebrow. "And after noon?"

"We'll see how brave we're feeling," I reply.

Chase laughs. "That's my girl."

I lean into his side, warmth grounding me, and for the first time since yesterday I let myself just be here. Not managing anyone. Not anticipating disaster.

Just friends. Woods. Fire. Bad food and worse jokes.

Whatever comes later can wait.

Right now, we're together.

And that's enough.