So I simply said, "I’m sorry to hear that."
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she shifted the conversation, the way she always did. But I was onto her now. She was an expert at deflection, at rerouting conversations to focus on anyone but herself.
I wasn’t going to let her do it forever. Not with me.
"Is your family doing okay?" she asked instead, her voice smooth, practiced.
I watched her for a beat, then made my move.
"Will you tell me about your mom someday?" I asked, lifting our joined hands and pressing a kiss to the back of hers.
Her lips parted, her breath caught, her walls cracking just slightly.
"Not now," I added. "But someday?"
She hesitated. I could feel her struggling, waging war between the part of her that wanted to trust me and the part that had been burned too many times to risk it.
“Yes?" It came out like a question, like she wasn’t sure why she was saying it.
I smiled. "I like learning things about you. The good, bad, weird, and fun."
Her throat bobbed, and then she nodded.
"But yes," I continued, answering her original question. "Things settled down with my family. My mom is one of my favorite people on earth, and she’s going through some tough shit with Alzheimer’s. It’s… crushing." I exhaled. "I’d rather not talk about it tonight, if that’s okay?"
"Of course."
She nodded, but her lips pressed together tightly, her eyes flickering with something unreadable.
Something like understanding.
She was so different now, the teasing edge gone, replaced with something softer.
And I wanted to pull her into my lap. Hold her until that look disappeared.
But instead, I turned on my stereo, blasting the heavy metal band I’d researched online.
She gasped, then laughed, throwing her head back.
"I use it to relax," I deadpanned.
"You would play a fake metal band." She rolled her eyes, but her laughter still echoed through the car.
"Not impressed?"
"I appreciate the effort, Madsen. Sometimes, that’s enough."
Her smile lingered, and I knew I’d done something right.
The drive to her place was comfortable, the kind of silence that felt easy, not forced.
The air between us was still warm from the night, still buzzing with something unspoken, something thick and heavy that neither of us had the energy to name. The music played softly in the background, the deep, throaty growl of guitars filling the space, a contrast to the slow, methodical tap of my thumb against the steering wheel.
Despite her earlier teasing, she bobbed her head slightly, her fingers twitching against her thigh, like she wanted to drum along to the beat but didn’t want to give me the satisfaction.
I caught it anyway.
