We sit.
Daisy writes furiously, tongue poking out in concentration. Brendon leans back in his chair, watching her with a softness that makes something twist low in my chest.
“You’re good with her,” I say quietly.
He shrugs, but there’s something guarded in the movement. “She’s easy to be good with.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, like he’s weighing how honest to be.
“I like showing up,” he says finally. “I always have.”
The words land heavier than he probably intends.
Daisy suddenly looks up. “Can I ask you a question for my project?”
“Absolutely,” Brendon says.
She squints at her paper. “Where did you learn how to be brave?”
My breath catches.
Brendon doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at his hands, flexing them slowly, like he’s grounding himself.
“I wasn’t always brave,” he says. “I just learned how to keep moving even when I was scared.”
Daisy nods, satisfied. “That still counts.”
Brendon smiles at her, but something in his eyes flicks to me.
After a while, Daisy wanders off with one of the guys to see the engine again, leaving Brendon and me alone at the table, the hum of the station settling around us.
This is it.
I can feel it.
The moment my chest has been bracing for since the café. Since my kitchen. Since the first time our eyes met again after ten years of pretending we didn’t exist to each other.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says.
“I’m thinking,” I reply.
“Dangerous.”
I huff a small laugh despite myself. “You always said that.”
“And you always proved me right.”
Silence stretches, thick but not uncomfortable. Just… loaded.
“Can I ask you something?” I say finally.
He nods. “Anything.”
“Why didn’t you fight?” The question slips out before I can soften it. “Back then. Why didn’t you try harder to understand why I was pulling away?”
His jaw tightens.
