Daniel lowered himself to the ground with a quiet grunt. He didn’t pat the earth beside him. Didn’t ask me to come closer. He just… made space without demanding I fill it.
So I sat. Not touching him, but near enough that I could feel the heat of him through our jackets, near enough that I could reach if I needed to.
I stared at the wildflowers until the burn behind my eyes got too sharp.
“Tell me about her,” I said, but the words came out rough—too quick, too eager, like if I didn’t ask now I’d lose my nerve.
Daniel didn’t answer immediately. He watched the clearing like he was seeing it through two timelines at once—the past layered over the present, the memory still sitting in the grass.
“She was… steady,” he said finally. Not poetic. Not romantic. Just honest. “Not in the quiet way. In the way that made you feel like the world couldn’t knock you over as long as she had a hand on your shoulder.”
I swallowed hard. That image—simple, grounding—did something ugly to my chest.
“She laughed at me,” Daniel added, and there was the smallest shift in his tone. Not softness. Not weakness. Just… a warmth he didn’t often allow himself. “A lot. I used to take myself too seriously. Still do, probably.”
“You?” I managed, and it came out almost sarcastic. “No.”
He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if he let it become one. “Yeah. Me.”
He glanced at me then, quick, assessing—like he was checking if I was still with him, if he’d pushed too hard.
I was. Barely.
“How did you meet?” I asked, because if I stopped talking, if I let silence settle, I was going to think of Anna’s laugh. Anna’s hands. Anna in our kitchen. Anna beinggone.
“Pack gathering,” Daniel said. “My father was already stepping back, and everyone kept looking at me like I was the next answer to every problem.” His jaw worked once, the muscle jumping. “She walked right up to me like I wasn’t a title. Like I was a person. Told me I looked like I needed someone to tell me a terrible joke.”
I felt my mouth twitch despite myself. “Did she?”
“The worst knock-knock joke you’ve ever heard.” His eyes went distant for a second. “I groaned so hard I almost shifted on the spot.”
“And she laughed.”
Daniel’s gaze lowered to the flowers. “Yeah. She laughed.”
It wasn’t the kind of memory that cracked him open. It was the kind of memory he’d replayed enough times that it had edges. Shape. A place he could visit without bleeding out.
And that… was the difference between him and me, wasn’t it?
Because my grief was still a live wire.
I stared at the flowers again and felt my throat seize.
My throat tightened. My vision blurred.
Daniel noticed immediately.
He didn’t lean into me. Didn’t collapse. Didn’t make the moment about him.
He just shifted a little closer and offered his hand—palm up, steady, like an anchor.
No demand. No pressure.
Justhere if you need it.
I stared at his hand for a second too long.
Then I took it.
