The guest bed hadn't been used in months.
Daniel tossed a set of clean sheets at Luke, who caught them with the reflexes of someone who'd spent years fielding his sister's impromptu laundry throws. The familiarity of the gesture made Daniel's chest tighten.
"You want a toothbrush or something?" Daniel asked, hovering in the doorway.
Luke shrugged. "I'm good."
A lie. The kid smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat, his hoodie wrinkled from what looked like days of wear. But pushing him would only make him shut down further.
Daniel nodded. "Alright. Well. There's leftovers in the fridge if you—"
"I was there when she died."
The words landed like a hammer.
Luke wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the bed, his fingers gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
Daniel's mouth went dry. "I know."
"No, I mean—" Luke's voice cracked. "I was right there. We were watching some stupid baking show, and she laughed at something, and then she just… stopped."
The air left the room.
Daniel remembered the phone call. The hospital. The way the doctor had said "It would've been instant" like it was supposed to comfort him.
But Luke had seen it.
"She grabbed my arm," Luke whispered. "Like she was scared. And then she was just… gone."
Daniel crossed the room in two strides and pulled the kid into a hug.
Luke stiffened—then collapsed against him, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Daniel held him tighter, his own tears soaking into Luke's hair.
For the first time since Lila's death, they weren't grieving alone.