Ali froze beside him. She didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Her hands clutched the strap of her purse so tight her knuckles went white.
Dylan turned slowly, shielding her with his body.
Daisy stood a few feet back, sunglasses propped on her head. Laila beside her blinked, not yet realizing what she’d walked into.
Ali stepped forward to order, her voice too quiet to carry. Dylan stayed close, paid without letting her reach for her card, and handed her the latte.
Then Daisy spoke again.
“Ali.”
Ali didn’t look up.
“Ali, please. Just for a second—”
Dylan rounded on his sister, his voice low and firm. “No.”
Daisy blinked. “I wasn’t—”
“I said no. Don’t do this. Not now. Not here.”
Ali finally turned, shoulders back, chin trembling. “I have to get to work.”
She said it like she was trying to keep from shaking. Like if she just stayed on script— coffee, commute, meeting— she’d be fine.
Dylan stepped between them. “We’re leaving.”
Daisy looked like she might cry. “You’re not even going to let me say anything?”
“Not to her.” His voice was sharp. “If you want to talk to me, you know how to find me. But you keep her out of it.”
Laila stayed silent, watching all three of them like someone who’d just stepped into the middle of a play without knowing the script.
Dylan took Ali’s elbow gently, leading her out the door. She let him.
They didn’t speak until they reached the Bronco. He opened her door, helped her in, then got behind the wheel and just… sat there. Letting her breathe.
She stared out the window, coffee untouched in her lap. “Well,” she said, voice hoarse, “that was fun.”
He glanced at her. “You okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Want me to drive you to work? I’ve got time.”
She gave him a tiny nod. “Yeah. I just kinda need my car.”
“Can Ash pick you up later?”
“Okay, yeah. Or I'll get Abigail to drop me off at home.”
He reached over and laced their fingers together on the center console. She didn’t let go.
Dylan pulled up to the curb outside the pastel-bricked building where Ali worked, his Bronco idling in the loading zone as early morning traffic streamed by. She’d been quiet the whole ride, fingers absently tracing her cup, her coffee untouched.
He hated seeing her retreat like that. Hated how fast she curled into herself when the past showed up and demanded space she didn’t owe it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, finally breaking the silence.
