Legacy & Cameron – Inherited Noise

Blaine smiled politely, almost convincing himself — until he caught his own reflection grinning back in the patio door glass, looking like a man who’d just won the lottery.

The new butler hovered nearby, eager and nervous. Their old one had retired — a man who’d known Blaine’s parents — and this replacement was still learning the ropes. He rattled off updates about arriving guests and catering mishaps, and it took everything in Blaine not to snap.

“Listen, bro, we pay you good money to handle crap, so… figure it out, okay? I gotta take a dump, so find something productive to do with your time. I don’t need you to wipe.” Crude, yes — but effective. His old defense mechanism: shock people just enough to make them back off. Learned from his namesake father.

He fled into the downstairs bathroom, slammed the door, locked it, and leaned against it.

Phew. Just a few minutes of peace.

The housewarming‑slash‑gender‑reveal had been planned for weeks. Unfortunately, many months before he and Lauren really reconnected — long before he reproposed, long before her pregnancy — Blaine had signed off on a full renovation of the Cameron Mansion. He’d wanted to erase the ghosts, the callbacks to a past that refused to die. Small changes hadn’t helped, so this time he’d gone nuclear: dismantled and rebuilt nearly everything, section by section.

And even more unfortunately, they’d saved the main house and pool area for last, so the final stretch had been unbearably loud — and they were still not fully done, even though everything ran at top speed and on overdrive. Something that would normally take about one year from sign‑off to completion was being forced into a six‑month window. It had been five and change by now. When you had the name, the heritage, and the money, things happened fast. But fast didn’t mean quiet. Throughout her entire pregnancy there had been construction vehicles blocking road access, noise from morning till late, and dirt everywhere.

But still, everything was good. Everything was set.

Currently, Blaine was riding high — one of his songs had just been nominated for an award. He’d never managed to walk away from music, his first love, even if it had been a fickle mistress and he hadn’t built the kind of career his father had. Acting had taken off instead, a career built on other people’s words. He loved performing, but not pretending. He wanted to be on stage saying things he’d written — or co‑written with someone who actually understood him — not reciting lines that belonged to someone else’s mind and heart.

Lauren had celebrated the nomination with him, then promptly dragged him back to earth with Lamaze classes and baby check‑ups. He went to every single one, but something about them made him queasy — another man talking about Lauren’s body as if he had the right to know it better than Blaine, the reality of Lauren now hosting a tiny version of them. Feeling the baby’s first kick had nearly undone him. It was too real.

The doctor appointments pushed him to his outer limits every single time; nothing made him more uncomfortable than sitting in a gyn/ob exam room, the lights, the questions, the clinical focus on very specific parts of Lauren’s body. But she was his wife, and this was their child, so he forced himself through it — played the supportive husband in the most Oscar‑worthy way until the eyes were off him, then doom‑scrolled in the corner, trying to pretend none of this was actually happening.

But today, they’d heard a word he didn’t know: PPROM.

Something that could happen in the second trimester — and it was bad. Lauren was just past twenty weeks, barely into the window where the baby could still develop normally if everything went right. But the doctor explained that Lauren’s case was, unbelievably, the ideal scenario of PPROM: the tear was small, the fluid loss minimal, the baby stable, and Lauren herself showed no signs of infection or labor.

The quick appointment turned into an all‑day ordeal. Lauren was briefly admitted for initial treatment — injections, further testing, monitoring — then, because she was a doctor, lived close to the hospital, and had a compliant personality, she was allowed to go home under strict outpatient management. They came home with notes, meds, and worry, plus instructions for frequent ultrasounds, daily vitals, and immediate return if anything changed.

The OB had been clear: if the situation changed before week 28, Lauren would be hospitalized and the baby might have to be delivered early. If things stayed stable, they would induce around 34 weeks to avoid infection and give the baby the best chance. Lauren would be on meds and have to work from home until after the baby was born. The baby would stay in the NICU for weeks.

Blaine hated that outlook. That was not at all how he had pictured it — the water breaking in the most awkward moment, a dash to the hospital, quick and easy labor, a healthy, pink baby boy who checked every mark, then back home as a little family. And once they had all recovered and found a good routine, around when the baby was one year old or so, they would start trying for the next one.

After this experience though, Blaine wasn’t sure if he didn’t rather adopt and foster. This pregnancy thing didn’t look so great to him anymore.

Lauren was exhausted when they got home from the appointment and slept until an hour before the party.

Now she was excited to see her parents, probably to talk to her dad about keeping the baby safe. Her mother had come too; she and Lauren’s father were long divorced. Brad had a new wife, Molly did, but that hadn’t lasted, she was divorced again with a lot of bitterness for almost everyone — and now she would hate Blaine even more, probably blame him for this complication too, the way she blamed him for everything she couldn’t pin on Brad.

For years Molly had blamed Brad for anything and everything: the weather, tiny mishaps, political drama, economic downturns, and everything in between. Now Blaine had the dubious pleasure of being the one most of Molly’s unreasonable blame went to. He had never known Molly and Brad as anything but exes; their marriage had ended long before he ever met them. Plenty of people said they should’ve never been married in the first place — Blaine couldn’t fully agree, because then there would never have been a Lauren. But all he’d ever seen was Molly’s bitterness toward Brad, so he couldn’t picture them as a couple at all — just a messy, reality‑TV version of a marriage he’d never witnessed and couldn’t imagine.

When the fifth knock on the bathroom door shattered his brief peace, Blaine stormed out to face the music.

The moment he stepped onto the terrace, a staffer shoved two bowls of gag glasses under his nose — one blue, one pink. He grabbed blindly and ended up with pink. He didn’t care about color; he cared about survival.

He played the perfect host — unmoved, unshaken — though inside he feared the worst. So close to finally having the one thing money couldn’t buy: a family that stayed.

When it was time to cut the gender‑reveal cake, his hands shook. Did he want a boy or a girl? He wasn’t even sure. His glasses said girl, Lauren’s were blue, but right now all he wanted was his baby to be born healthy and Lauren to get through it all without further complications.

He placed his hand on Lauren’s and they sliced the cake. Cheers erupted when she pulled a slice out and placed it on a plate, then lifted it for all to see.

Blue.

A boy.

Ashton Jude Cameron.

The name they’d chosen weeks ago. The finalist for the first‑born boy. They had another finalist that worked for a girl or a boy — just the middle name would change — and since they knew they would have more children, that name was tucked away for later use. But both had agreed the first one had to start with the letter A. Like a new beginning.

For a moment, the fear of PPROM and the countdown to the safe zone in week twenty‑eight faded — two more months of worry replaced by the simple joy of blue frosting and the promise of Ashton Jude Cameron joining them before the year was out. But then it came back like a ton of bricks. The unfairness that he finally found the happiness he had been dreaming about, so close to having his own family with the girl who had taken his heart with quiet elegance when all the other girls had been loud and in‑his‑face about it. Instead, PPROM. Why?!

Blaine felt tired, irritated, hollow. When he saw a young woman standing idle near the buffet, trying to be invisible but staring at him like he was the second coming, he assumed she was staff and marched over.

“Hey — you don’t get paid to stand around! Get your ass busy!”

Her eyes widened. Before she could answer, Nathaniel — Lauren’s brother — appeared, snapping at him, shielding her.

“Blaine, don’t yell at her!”

All Blaine’s buttons pressed at once. “Dafuq’s your problem now, Nate? Did mommy not burp you after feeding?”

Both of them stared at him. It dawned on Blaine that the girl wasn’t staff — more than likely she’d come with Nate, hence the sudden protective stance.

Briar Rose noticed and came hurrying over, heels clicking like gunfire, Brad trailing behind.

“Why the hell are you yelling at my son!?” she roared at Blaine.

“Excuse me? This is my house, and I’ll yell at anyone I please!” Blaine shot back.

“I KNOW you didn’t just say that to me!” Bri looked ready to launch herself at him, but Brad caught her arm. “Bri, darling, stay calm. Blaine, what’s going on?”

Lauren arrived, unimpressed. “Nothing. And who the hell is that chick?”

“Her name’s Elodie — she’s my girlfriend!” Nate snapped, sounding every bit the teenager he was. Yes, officially an adult at eighteen, heading for nineteen, mature for his age usually, but too naïve and sheltered for his own good — and now he sounded, acted, and felt every bit like the sixteen‑year‑old he still looked like.

“Oh. Well. Why didn’t you introduce her? Rude,” Blaine muttered.

“I tried, but you kept walking off!” Nate pouted.

Oops.

Lauren forced a smile. “Blaine’s super‑excited to meet you, Elodie. He loved hearing all those funny stories I told him about how you and Nate met, didn’t you, Blaine?”

Her glare said: say the wrong thing and I’ll drown you in the new pool.

Blaine wasn’t dumb enough to miss the hint. Most likely Lauren had told him about her brother’s new girlfriend, and he’d tuned her out.

Oops again.

“Oh, yeah, totally. Sorry — I remembered your name as Eloise, not Elodie. My bad. Been a stressful few weeks.”

“All good,” Nate said quickly, wrapping an arm around Elodie, who still looked like she wished the ground would swallow her. “We get stress. We’ve got long‑distance stuff too — Elodie’s from Bellacorde — but we make do, don’t we, babe?”

“We do. I am Bellacordian, but I live in Verdemar now, right at ze border because is cheaper. But you need to take a boat if you want to be quick, or go ze long way around on land, takes almost an hour more,” she added, her French accent so thick Blaine almost laughed.

Was this guy screwing with him right now, or could he really not see the neon signs flashing off this girl? She checked every box of a textbook opportunist — aka golddigger — with the wide‑eyed “I’m so shy” routine that wasn’t shy at all, the polished sweetness, the perfectly timed giggles, the whole curated ingénue act. And the accent. God, the French accent. Blaine wasn’t sure if it was real or rehearsed, but either way it was classic: the kind of thing that made teenage boys feel like they were starring in their own movie while everyone else saw the red flags waving like parade banners.

“You met on vacation, right?” Blaine shot in the dark, because… well, duh. It was so obvious. And Nathaniel didn’t disappoint; he instantly went into total delusional swooning.

“Yeah, we did, because fate was on our side. It’s probably more serendipity. Total chance encounter and we clicked the moment we laid eyes on each other. She even forgave me for hiding who I really was for months — she was very mad when she found out how wealthy we are and that we are related to the Bellacorde crown. But she did forgive me and we are so perfect together, so we text every day, I call every day because it is international and kinda expensive, I visit her as often as campus life allows, Dad’s jet is getting a real workout now. Can you believe coming here with us was Elodie’s first flight? We went to pick her up and came straight here. Oh, you have something in common, she lost both her parents too, and grandparents and aunts, uncles, siblings, she has been raising two younger siblings since. We should swap notes sometime — you and Lauren did long‑distance too, right? Tips for keeping the love alive?”

Blaine’s face froze. Swap notes? Not likely. He was proud of himself for keeping all the things he was thinking to himself, which wasn’t always guaranteed with him. But here’s a note for you, brother‑in‑law: learn to take cues. If a girl pretends she doesn’t notice that every piece of clothing you wear — down to your socks and underwear — is upscale designer, and then fakes surprise that you’re not some broke fool, run. Either she is dumb as hell or — more likely — she’s after your daddy’s bank account, plain and simple. That chick had the read on you from the first minute. And since you already said she’s dirtpoor and no family safety net …. yeah. She is playing you like a cheap violin.

Brad’s eyebrows knitted. “I don’t think any deep dives into passion and love with Blaine are necessary. What you need to know, Nate, is common sense — protection matters. You’re both too young for kids. Clear, Casanova?”

“Dad! Why do you have to make this weird? And in front of my girlfriend?”

“Because it can’t be said often enough! Babies are not an accessory. They require two parents who are grounded and settled to thrive.”

“Dad, we get it! Elodie and I do not want children right now! We enjoy being a couple and just each other. We will do this the right way. Later on.”

Blaine rolled his eyes. Good grief, Nate, we get it — you have a girlfriend. And just because you have your head on straight about kids doesn’t mean she isn’t thinking of an anchor baby to permanently link herself to the big Cunningham pot of gold. To be so damn naïve should be illegal. There should be classes about this for affluent kids.

He pivoted toward a passing tray, grabbed two drinks, downed both — and realized everyone was staring. Including Lauren’s mother, who joined them.

“Nice,” she said coldly. “My poor daughter has to go through a rough pregnancy with a husband who prefers to lash out at people and then drown his shame in high‑percentage liquid courage. Maybe if you drank less before you decided over everyone’s head that you wanted a child now, Lauren’s pregnancy wouldn’t be so high risk!”

“Molly…” Brad sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There’s no study that supports that. PPROM sometimes just happens. Same as miscarriages and such, no matter how aware or healthy the mother is. Blaine had a rough day too — he’s forgiven for the big sips, I have not experienced him as a drinker and Lauren never mentioned such a thing. PPROM can be very scary; it is understandable that he is trying to process it. Lauren is a healthy young woman; complications just happen sometimes. Briony had it too, and all turned out well. I am confident it will for Lauren and Blaine and baby Ashton.”

“Maybe something’s wrong with your DNA then, Brad. Our oldest dead, Briony with pregnancy problems, and now our daughter…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Molly, take a breath!” Bri snapped. “What would Brad’s DNA have to do with your son dying in an accident as a grown man? And Briony isn’t even his DNA. You heard him — PPROM happens. Luckily, Lauren has the best doctors, so chill, woman!”

She grabbed a drink off another tray and downed it, glaring at Molly — who’d long given up correcting everyone to call her Margaret.

“This family and that mouth on all of you! You should be ashamed!” Molly turned and stomped off.

“Well, at least I still have my husband,” Bri called after her, earning a sigh from Brad and a glare from Lauren.

“Was that really necessary?” Lauren hissed, then hurried after her mother. “Mom! Wait!”

Blaine exhaled. “Anyone wanna ask how my day’s been? In case you’re wondering — pretty much like all this, but stretched over twenty‑four hours.”

“Well, at least you already are done with college, you have a nice house, you both have careers, you’re married to your person… some of us have to wait some more years till we can get there. It’s hard. We don’t like being apart. But it is always heaven when we are together again,” Nate swooned, eyes glazed over, shooting hearts at Elodie, who blushed and smiled.

“Oh, give me a million breaks now, dude! Everyone here at this party has had a vacation fling — fun for a while — but we all realize it was part of the vacation. And then this bullshit of her not knowing exactly who you are. Dude, you have affluent and delusional heir to some empire written all over you like a full‑body tattoo. She knew and she wants in on it, just like your daddy’s first wife, who is still bitter that the fortune went out the door for her the minute Bri walked back into Brad’s life and he dropped everything and everyone like a hot potato, like he always has. You were born and bred to follow in his footsteps just like all your siblings and you will, just like all of them. Every one of your futures is laid out like your clothing. You idiot even sat through med school till they literally kicked you out, even though you were fainting and puking left and right. Quit being so delusional, quit living in la‑la‑land, and join us in reality!” Blaine barked at Nate.

Elodie slapped her hands over her face and ran off, sobbing. Nathaniel looked horrified, then furious, pointing at Blaine.

“Just because you are rich and married my rich sister does not mean it can’t be real if the girl isn’t rich. She loves me and I love her, and if you don’t like delusion and living in la‑la‑land and not following one’s dreams, then why do we all constantly have to listen to how you DON’T love your acting career but how you really wanted to be a musician, how it was too hard to get a breakthrough so you went the easy route? HUH? How about YOU pull your head from your ass and join US in reality, Blaine. At least make sure you are perfect before pointing out everyone else’s shortcomings, claiming you know better when you can’t get your own life right! If anyone could afford to stick it out till the dream becomes reality, it would be you. So, get your own life right before you act high and might about mine!”

With that he ran off after Elodie.

Ouch.
Groomed back into shape by a dude a decade younger than him. Blaine felt worse than awkward.

Brad and Bri just stood there with huge eyes, clearly speechless.

“Fuck this shit!” Blaine turned and walked off, heading for the stairs — but the door to his music studio burst open. Katia rushed out, eyes red, bolting for the front door.

“Hi and bye,” Blaine muttered, thinking women, until Channing emerged, looking wrecked.

“Hey, dude. Everything good?”

Channing looked at him — through him — then shook his head.

Blaine hesitated, then stepped closer. “What’s going on?”

“Can I crash here again?” Channing’s voice cracked. “She just told me to pack my shit and get out. I am kinda homeless right now, Blaine. I could get a hotel room but that’ll get a headstart on the nasty headlines we both know will be coming. I need a break before I can deal with reporters and social media tearing my relationship apart – or what’s left of it. Which is … nothing.”

Blaine could hardly believe what he was hearing.

“Yeah, man,” Blaine said finally, voice low. “You can crash here. Guest wing’s occupied with Lauren’s family, but the guest houses are vacant ’cos they’re not fully done yet. Sorry for the paint smell and lack of decor. Take the one near the pool. Most privacy over there. Stay as long as you like.”

Channing nodded, eyes hollow.

“Thanks. I’ll get my stuff and be back in a few hours once everyone has turned in. I can’t people right now. Oh, and thanks for not asking. I’ll tell you everything, promise, just not now.”

Blaine watched him disappear down the hall, past the new art installation Lauren had insisted on — a suspended sculpture of mirrored shards that caught every flicker of light and threw it back like paparazzi flashes.

He exhaled, rubbing his temples, then stalked into his recording studio, slamming and locking the door behind him. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old vinyl. He looked around — at the guitars, the framed records, the vintage mic — and shook his head. Even after the renovation, he’d kept so many of his father’s things. His father’s ghosts. His father’s legacy.

“Shit,” he muttered. “That damn kid was right. I am such a judgmental dumbass. And what the fuck and I doing acting, when I know music is in my blood.”

He paced, fingers dragging through his hair.

“Why the fuck did I give up on music like a wet rag? Grandpa Everett and Grandma Maeve fought hard and long for their breakthrough — and without them, none of this would exist. Rett’s grandpa, another namesake, tried and gave up and never made it. And the next generation didn’t even try. And here I am, the promising heir, choking again. Nate was right, if they could live in some cheap shitty rental and make it, how can I not get anything accomplished living like this? Wow – me!”

He stopped, staring at the wall of instruments.

“Is that what I want? To be the next gen of weak Camerons? Or do I want to make the ancestors proud? And my decendants. I am about to be a father, is that what I am teaching my kid? If it’s hard, just give up and settle?”

He laughed — bitter, sharp.

“Yeah, sure, acting is cool. But even I can see I’m already typecast in that same role over and over, just in different contexts. And even I’m tired of playing the same guy. It’s only a matter of time before the audience agrees and drops me like a hot potato. And then I am that has been actor looking for a new career in music like it’s some cheap street whore? Goddamn Nate, what did you do, bro?!”

He pressed both hands to the mixing console, leaning over it like it might steady him.

“What has been my plan? Retire in my thirties? Is that my legacy for my son? ‘Yeah, boy, be a rich loser like me. I tried, but it wasn’t easy and instant, so I gave up. Be like me, Ash.’ Or do I want to just push my kids into the Cunningham lane, bunch of doctors? Nothing wrong with that, but man, my grandparents didn’t bleed themselves dry trying to create a music legend legacy for me to be the last limp biscuit that kills it all. Urgh. If I had my parents present, this would have never happened. I blame you guys too, Mom and Dad. And Cesare and all his vampire bullshit! Fuck. FUUUUUCK!”

He groaned, dragging his palms down his face.

“Goddamn. Can I sound any more entitled and first‑world‑problem?”

The studio stayed quiet — no music, no hum of equipment, just Blaine’s breathing and the weight of everything he’d been avoiding.

When he finally left the studio again it was hours later.

His shirt felt like a straitjacket, so he unbuttoned the top three buttons, kicked off his shoes, and peeled out of his socks — leaving everything in the foyer for staff to deal with in the morning. He didn’t care. He didn’t have the energy to care.

The marble floor was cold under Blaine’s bare feet as he stood in the foyer, the echo of Channing’s words still hanging in the air. Outside, the party had thinned; the last of the guests drifted toward their cars, laughter dissolving into the hum of engines and the faint shimmer of cicadas in the hedges. The mansion smelled of champagne and gardenias — Lauren’s choice — but underneath it lingered the metallic tang of stress, the kind that clings to glass and skin.

The house was quiet now.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made his own thoughts sound like static.

From the patio, faint music drifted in — the playlist Lauren had made for the party still looping, soft synths and acoustic guitar. Through the glass, the infinity pool shimmered like liquid silver under the moonlight, the Hollywood Hills rising behind it, dotted with lights like scattered diamonds. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, then faded.

He walked toward the kitchen, the soles of his feet whispering against the polished floor. The catering staff had cleared out hours ago, leaving behind half‑empty bottles and a tray of untouched macarons. He poured himself a glass of water, stared at it, then reached for the whiskey instead.

The first sip burned. The second felt like silence.

Lauren’s laughter echoed faintly from upstairs — a phone call, maybe. He could picture her sitting on the edge of their bed, one hand on her belly, the other twirling the cord of her robe. The thought softened him, then twisted. He wanted to go up there, to tell her he was sorry for everything tonight, for the way he’d snapped, for the way he’d looked at her mother like she was a ticking bomb. But he stayed where he was, staring at the reflection of the chandelier in his glass.

The mansion was beautiful now — modern, sleek, everything he’d wanted. But it felt like a museum of moments he couldn’t fix. Every surface gleamed, every corner whispered money, yet none of it could buy peace.

Outside, the wind picked up, rustling the palms. The fire bowls flickered, throwing gold light across the driveway. Blaine stepped out onto the patio, the night air cool against his skin. He could still hear faint voices from the guest wing — Channing unpacking, maybe calling Katia, maybe not. The sound of the city below was distant, like a heartbeat under glass.

He leaned against the railing, staring at the skyline. “Great job, Blaine. Way to start off fatherhood by ruining the first party in your son’s life before he’s even been born,” he muttered, half a laugh, half a sigh.

He started crying — didn’t want to, couldn’t stop.

“Man… Mom, Dad… if only you guys were here. I need advice so bad. I’m screwing everything up.”

He jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder — then swallowed hard when he saw Brad.

“Relax, kid. Not here for a lecture. And I know I’ll never live up to your expectations as far as a father goes, but since you can’t have yours here… maybe I might suffice?”

“I’m sorry, Brad. I know I messed up. Is Nate okay?”

“Nate will be. He’s snuggling it out with Elodie now. And honestly? You didn’t say anything the rest of us haven’t been thinking. I still can’t tell how real it is with them. I know it’s real for Nate. Elodie seems like a nice young lady, but as my mother always says: you can look at someone’s head, but never inside it. You weren’t wrong thinking it — you just need a filter. Then again, not sure how much your dad could’ve helped with that. Blaine Senior never had a filter.”

He inhaled deeply, then continued, softer.

“As for Lauren, she’s fine. She knows her mom is miserable and blames everyone for it except herself — but she’s her mom. And while I’m sure your OB told you, PPROM happens and is nobody’s fault. Not mine, not yours, not Lauren’s. And your baby will be fine. You’re both young, strong, healthy. The tear is small, the fluid is holding, and she’s being monitored closely. If anything changes before twenty‑eight weeks, she’ll be admitted and they’ll deliver early. If things stay stable, they’ll induce around thirty-four weeks, which is when the lungs will be fully developed, making your son just a preemie. That’s the plan. He’s my grandson too, and I’m not as worried as I normally would be in such cases. Now, one of the first things you learn as a doctor is that any situation can turn at any time — but I’m very optimistic.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

Suddenly Blaine felt water hitting his shoulders. He looked up for rainclouds — or a bird — until Brad chuckled and pointed toward the balcony overlooking the pool. Lauren stood there with a bottle of water, eyebrows raised.

“You’re being summoned,” Brad said. “As the closest thing to a father you currently have, this means: go now. Hey — give me that.” He plucked the whiskey glass from Blaine’s hand, chuckling as Blaine ran off, wishing him a good night from halfway inside the house.

The sun wasn’t fully up yet, just a pale wash of gold brushing the tops of the palms. The mansion was quiet — the kind of quiet that only followed a night where everyone had cried or yelled or both. Blaine woke before his alarm, head pounding, mouth dry, chest tight. Lauren was still asleep, curled on her side, one hand resting protectively over her belly. He kissed her shoulder, slipped out of bed, and padded downstairs.

He needed the pool. He needed the shock of cold water. He needed to feel like he could still control something.

He stepped outside, the morning air crisp, the tiles cool under his feet. The pool was still, a sheet of glass reflecting the soft sky. He dropped his towel on a lounger, rolled his shoulders, and headed toward the steps—

—and froze.

Voices. Soft. Breaking. Crying.

He turned the corner and saw them.

Nate and Elodie sat on the far edge of the pool deck, knees touching, faces blotchy, eyes red. Elodie’s hands shook around a tissue that had long given up. Nate’s arm was around her, but he looked like he was barely holding himself together.

Blaine didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just listened.

Elodie’s voice was thin, trembling.

“I love you, but I don’t fit in your world. I don’t want to be ze reason you fight wiz your family. I zink you deserve someone who belongs ’ere. I’m sorry.”

She broke on the last word, shoulders shaking. Nate’s face crumpled.

“Don’t,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please don’t say that. Elodie, I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care what Blaine said. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’d live in a hut with you. Someone’s garden shed. I’d catch fish for a living. I love you. I love you. I’m not losing you.”

She sobbed harder, covering her face. He pulled her closer, desperate, terrified.

“I’ll fix it,” Nate said. “I’ll talk to Blaine. I’ll talk to Lauren. I’ll talk to my parents. I’ll do anything. Just… don’t leave me.”

They were both crying now — messy, young, overwhelmed.

Blaine cleared his throat softly.

Both heads snapped toward him, startled, embarrassed, wiping their faces like they could erase the last ten minutes.

He lifted his hands in surrender.

“Don’t mind me,” he said quietly. “I’m just here for a swim.”

He stepped closer, voice gentler than either expected.

“But listen… uh — Elodie.”

She blinked at him, wary, still trembling.

“I’ve had a week,” Blaine said. “A bad one. And truthfully? This guy loves you. That’s clear as day. If you love him even half as much, don’t walk away from it because some dumbass rich boy with his head in the clouds had too much stress and too much to drink.”

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry for what I said. I was out of line. You didn’t deserve that. And just so you hear it from me: you are welcome here at my home. Please try to forget what I said and enjoy yourself.”

Elodie stared at him, stunned. Nate looked like he might cry again — but from relief this time.

Blaine nodded once, then stepped into the pool, the cold water swallowing him with a hiss of breath. He pushed off the wall, gliding under the surface, letting the world go quiet.

Behind him, Nate and Elodie clung to each other — just two overwhelmed kids trying to hold onto something real.