She smiled faintly—tiny, crooked, careful. “She has good taste.”
Being near her again felt like stepping into a field of static. Everything hummed. Everything waited.
Sienna brushed a loose strand of hair off her cheek and tried to play it cool, but the twitch was still there—a flick of her knee, a tap of her thumb against her palm, a restlessness that had nothing to do with zebras or gear prep.
“You okay?” I asked quietly.
“What? Yes. Totally. Fine.” She waved a hand. “Great. Wonderful. Loving life.”
“Sienna.”
Her eyes darted to mine, then away. “I’m not… I’m not great at big moments or little ones.”
“This wasn’t a big moment.”
“It washuge,” she hissed. “My mom just Easter-invited you! That’s, like, family-level stuff.”
“Isn’t that the point of Easter?” I tried to joke.
She didn’t laugh.
Instead, she swallowed hard. “I don’t want you to feel obligated. Or cornered. Or like we’re dragging you into something.”
I shook my head. “You’re not dragging me. I said yes because I wanted to.”
She tucked her hands into her back pockets. “Why?”
There it was.
The real question.
Because I want to understand her.
Because I want another chance to look at Sienna without her running away.
Because Sienna’s family scared me in a way that felt good.
Because something about her was making me remember things I thought I’d buried.
Because I want more.
Because I’m terrified of how much more.
None of that would come out right.
So I settled for, “Because… being around you feels like something I don’t want to walk away from yet.”
She stilled, and the wind shifted, pushing the scent of pine between us like a held breath.
“I’m not good at this,” she whispered. “At closeness. Or staying.”
“I know.”
“But I’m trying,” she added, voice quiet and sincere. “Even if I’m… twitchy.”
Her attempt at humor was small, but real.
It pulled something loose in my chest.
