Jackson sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, surrounded by boxes and memories. The old hardwood creaked beneath him as he folded one of his last T-shirts—a faded, oversized Spider-Man tee he hadn't worn in years but somehow couldn't throw away. The summer heat drifted in through the cracked window, carrying the scent of dust and detergent, and the muffled sounds of the Baldwin house in transition. Somewhere downstairs, a drawer slammed and someone called for tape.
Ashley knelt beside him, her cane leaning against the nightstand, one hand resting on a half-packed box. "You know.." she said, lips curling in a soft smile.
"For someone who always says he's not sentimental, you're taking forever to pack a pile of socks."
He smirked, glancing sideways at her. "These socks have been through a lot with me, Ash. Rehab, withdrawal, awkward family dinners..."
"Truly heroic." She reached over, fingers brushing against a pair with tiny cartoon dogs on them. "Especially these. The emotional trauma they've survived."
Jackson laughed. "Hey, those are a classic! Mom got me those for Christmas like, four years ago.."
Ashley smiled but didn't let go of the sock. Instead, her hand lingered on the fabric, then gently slid down until her fingertips grazed his wrist.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
He glanced up, surprised by how closely she was watching him—even behind her sunglasses, he could feel her seeing him.
"Yeah." he said, voice quieter. "Better than I thought I'd be, actually."
"You're almost done packing your side." she noted, brushing her hand along the edge of the taped box beside her. "Does it feel real yet? You're finally getting your own room."
Jackson exhaled and let his gaze wander around the bedroom. Harper's side was mostly cleared out now. Aura's football magazines and books were stacked neatly by the closet. His half was still a warzone, but not for much longer.
"I'm not gonna lie.." he said, grinning, "Sharing a room with two sisters has been an experience. Harper sometimes talks in her sleep. Aura steals the blanket and then swears she didn't."
Ashley chuckled. "Sounds like chaos."
"It was." He paused. "But I'll miss it. A little."
She tilted her head toward him. "And the new house?"
He leaned back on his palms, gazing at the ceiling. "It feels like... a second chance. Harriet's off to college. Harper's getting actual help. I'm... trying. And Mom and Dad are actually smiling again sometimes."
Ashley reached out slowly, her hand finding his. She traced her thumb over the back of his knuckles, grounding him.
"You're doing more than trying, Jacks. You're doing it."
The room went still. Jackson looked at her, really looked—her dark curls tied in a loose ponytail, the delicate gold necklace resting on her collarbone, the way she always smelled faintly like vanilla and rain. He swallowed.
"I don't think I would've made it this far without you though. You have been a backbone to me." he said, voice husky.
Ashley's smile softened, her fingers tightening around his. "You would've. But I'm glad I got to walk part of the road with you."
There was a beat of silence. Then, quietly, she added, "You make me proud. Every day."
Jackson blinked, a lump catching in his throat. "You make me feel like I'm not broken."
"That's because you never were." she said gently. "Just healing."
He leaned forward then, slowly, giving her space to pull away if she needed to—but she didn't. Their foreheads touched, a quiet press of warmth and trust.
They stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in the gentle hush of transition—old posters still curling on the walls, boxes half-packed, their hands tangled between forgotten trinkets and folded memories.
Then Jackson pulled back with a crooked smile. "I still think you're too good for me."
Ashley rolled her eyes. "And I still think you're dramatic!"
He laughed, leaning in to kiss her cheek—soft, lingering. She smiled, brushing her fingers down his jaw.
As the sun dipped low and shadows crept across the room, Jackson reached for the last box, turning it around.
"This is Harriet's. One minute, I'll be back."
Jackson got up and walked slowly down the hallway, the floorboards creaking softly beneath his socked feet. He balanced a half-packed moving box under one arm and held a soft pink hoodie in his other hand. The scent of vanilla perfume still clung to it—Harriet's. Embroidered on the back in gold thread were the words: St. Phillips Cheer – Senior Captain.
He smiled faintly. Typical Harriet, always leaving things behind in closets and drawers, even in the middle of packing her entire life into cardboard boxes.
Her door was open just a crack, letting in slanted sunlight that poured across the wooden floor in golden streaks. Dust floated in the air like falling ash. He could hear the muffled rustle of movement—clothes, maybe a zipper or packing tape—and the quiet hum of a playlist looping in the background.
He knocked gently with the edge of his knuckle on the doorframe. "Harriet?"
She looked up from where she sat cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by piles of laundry, tangled cords, old notebooks, and half-taped boxes. Her face was flushed, her hair tied in a loose bun with strands falling down, mascara slightly smudged like she'd rubbed her eyes earlier.
"Hey, Jacks." she said, brushing her hands off on her leggings. "What's up?"
Jackson stepped in and held out the hoodie. "Found this. Figured you'd want it."
Her eyes lit up for a moment with soft recognition. "Oh my god, I've been looking for this. Thank you!"
As she reached for it, his gaze wandered around the room. He was about to leave when something caught the light near her desk—glass.
His stomach sank. His eyes darted to the corner by her bookshelf where a basket of laundry sat askew. Just behind it were three empty wine bottles, one half-finished vodka bottle, and a couple of cans shoved lazily behind a stack of books. A half-drained bottle of rosé leaned against a makeup bag.
His throat tightened. He stood there frozen for a beat too long.
Harriet followed his line of sight and visibly stiffened.
"Before you say anything—" she started.
"I wasn't gonna.." he said softly, stepping further in and nudging the door mostly shut behind him. His voice lowered, gentler. "Just... didn't expect to see all that."
She crossed her arms over her chest, defensive. "It's not what it looks like."
"You sure?"
"I'm not drinking every day or anything." she muttered. "It's just... some nights. When it's too loud in my head. I'm fine."
He lowered himself onto the floor beside her, resting his back against the bed. He didn't speak for a while. He just looked at her—not with judgment, not even pity—just quiet understanding.
"You know, Hat.." he finally said, "that's what I told myself too. Every time. 'Just tonight. Just this once. Just a bad day.' And before I knew it, I couldn't sleep without a bottle near my bed."
Harriet didn't look at him. She was staring at her hands.
Jackson shifted slightly, adjusting his back against the edge of the bedframe. Harriet sat beside him, hugging her knees now, her head resting lightly on top of them. The boxes, half-packed and chaotic, seemed to fade into the background as the air between them thickened with everything unsaid.
After a long pause, Harriet spoke again—quietly, like the words might crumble if she said them too loud.
"You know what keeps me up at night?"
Jackson turned to her, nodding gently for her to go on.
"Harper." she said. "I keep seeing her face when she told me she was going to the police. She looked so calm. Like she'd already made peace with it. And I just... I let her."
Jackson was still, listening.
"She protected Camille. She took all of it on herself. And I just stood there and let her do it."
Her voice cracked. "I should've gone with her. I should've said something too. But I was so scared. 'I'm still so fucking scared."
Harriet shook her head, eyes filling. "And now she's in juvie, and next week she's getting transferred to some treatment centre where she doesn't know anyone. And I'm going to college and pretending like I'm not the reason she had to do this alone."
"You're not the reason." Jackson said firmly. "Harper made that choice because she wanted to. Because she loves you. Because she loves Camille. She loves all of us."
"But she shouldn't have had to," Harriet whispered, her voice raw. "If I had just—God, if I had just spoken up, maybe they would've listened. Maybe they wouldn't have charged her so harshly. Maybe she wouldn't be there."
Jackson exhaled slowly. "Maybe. But you know Harper. She would've done it anyway. Even if you were beside her, she would've stepped forward first. That's who she is."
Harriet wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of her hoodie. "I know. And that's what makes it worse. She's braver than me."
Jackson said gently. "Just on a different path, sis."
She leaned her head on his shoulder, her voice small. "Do you think she'll forgive me? For everything?"
"She already has." Jackson said without hesitation. "But the real question is—can you forgive yourself?"
Harriet didn't answer right away. Instead, she stared out the window, watching the wind stir the trees outside.
"I'm trying." she said. "I really am."
They sat in silence again, not needing to fill the air with anything else. Just two siblings in the middle of packing their childhood away—carrying guilt, grief, and quiet hope side by side.