“Sorry.” I hate how fast the apology comes, automatic as breathing. I hate that I can’t seem to stop offering myself up for blame.
He opens his own drink. I expect him to start the car and drive away, to put as much distance between us and the scene I just made. Instead, he takes a long swig of his Coke. “Was it too loud?” he asks.
I fiddle with the cap of my drink. The cold sweat beading on the bottle feels good against my overheated skin. “No. I mean, yes, but it was just… too much.”
“I didn’t mean to make anything worse. You shared something real, and I should’ve been more careful with it.”
I lapse back into silence. My head spins. I apologize every other sentence, it feels like, but Tristan’s apologies are rarer and more intentional. He doesn’t apologize just for existing. It’s strange to have someone apologize tome, and equally disorienting to have someone respect a boundary. Back home, my parents wanted to controleverything,right down to the thoughts in my head.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I didn’t know it would upset me that much. I’m sorry, too, for ruining our dinner.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Tristan says gently.
Something eases inside me. Not much. Barely a millimeter. But enough that my lungs expand all the way for the first time since the panic hit.
I shake my head, staring at my lap. “I did. And I—” My throat tightens. I force the words out anyway. Old instincts snap into place: collapse in on myself, make it easy for him to let you go, don’t cling. “If this is… if I crossed a line, you don’t have to keep me on. I understand if you want to fire me.”
The word hangs between us, heavy and ugly. Fire me. Lose the job. Lose the house. Lose the fragile little scaffolding I’ve built around myself to stay upright. I don’t look at him because I can’t bear to see the moment he decides I’m too much trouble. “I can start looking for somewhere else to live,” I add quickly. “I’ll manage. I always do.”
Tristan’s silence stretches just long enough to make my chest ache.
Then he lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Fire you?” He turns in his seat to look at me fully. “Minerva, then whose homemade snacks baked with love would Viktor Abbott steal out of my locker?”
I blink, caught off guard despite myself. He sounds… offended on my behalf. Like the idea hurts him. The thought wedges under my ribs and stays there.
“I’m serious,” he continues, still light, but steady underneath it. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You got overwhelmed. That happens to people. It doesn’t mean you’re disposable.”
The word hits harder than he probably realizes.
I swallow. “I just don’t want to make things awkward.”
“They’re not,” he says without hesitation. “And if they were, that would be on me to deal with. Not you.” He pauses. “You’re safe here. Job included.”
Safe.
My fingers curl around my bottle, knuckles white, because part of me wants to believe him more than anything—and part of me has learned better than to trust that kind of promise.
He leans in so he can give me a shoulder bump. “This was great. We should do it again sometime.”
The casual affection steals my breath. Like we’re already woven into each other’s days, not just sharing square footage.
I manage a chuckle. “The burrito was worth coming back for, huh?”
“I wasn’t talking about the burrito. We could go anywhere. Check another food truck off your list.” He smiles at me, and I go all mushy and melty inside. It would be so easy to fall for a guy like this. Someone who watches. Someone who sees. Someone who takes all my quirks and shortcomings in stride.
Then I wonder: could a guy like Tristan fall for someone like me?
My sister would say no. She’d add a cruel and cutting remark, no doubt. But I’m not so sure. He’s surprised me in other ways, after all.
“Ready to go home?” he asks.
Home. The house that will welcome us both. “Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m ready.”
Chapter Eight
Tristan
The puck jumps my stick on the one-timer.
