We’ve been working for three hours now, and somehow we’ve found our groove. I take pictures of each fragile document with my phone for digital proof. He organizes them by date and writes down how they help our legal case. We speak minimally but still know what the other person needs, passing materials back and forth like we’ve already done this before.
“Look at this correspondence,” I say, carefully turning a delicate page inside its protective sleeve. “It references a physician named Samuel Wells who provided medical care to ‘travelers’ while they waited for transport.”
“So the building served medical purposes even earlier than our initial documentation suggested.” Zayn makes a notation. “That strengthens our argument for continuous healthcare use throughout its history.”
We both reach for the same document simultaneously. Our fingers collide, and that familiar electricity shoots up my arm. I jerk back so violently I nearly topple the lamp.
“Sorry,” we both say in unison, then lapse into awkward silence.
The door creaks open, and Reed enters carrying a cardboard drink carrier and a paper bag that smells amazing.
“Figured you two might need sustenance,” he says, squeezing into our cramped workspace. “Got turkey sandwiches from The Daily Grind and fresh coffee.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” I say, suddenly realizing how hungry I am. My stomach releases an embarrassingly loud growl as if agreeing.
Reed deposits the food on the table’s only clear surface. He surveys our scattered documents with genuine interest. “Making progress?”
“Significant progress,” Zayn confirms, accepting coffee gratefully. “Mrs. Patterson’s collection was just the foundation. We’re uncovering an entire network of collaboration.”
I observe them conversing, barely believing what I’m witnessing. Three days ago at the town meeting marked their first interaction in five years. Now Reed’s delivering late-night food and Zayn’s engaging him like they never stopped being brothers.
“I contacted some people at county records,” Reed mentions, unwrapping his sandwich. “We can access the original property deeds tomorrow morning. Might uncover more proof there.”
“That would be invaluable,” Zayn says. “The more evidence we compile regarding the building’s Underground Railroad connection, the stronger our preservation case becomes.”
“We?” I question Reed, eyebrow raised. “You’re coming too?”
My brother shrugs, avoiding direct eye contact. “Took the morning off. Three people can cover more ground than two.” He bites into his sandwich, then adds almost casually, “Besides, it’s pretty interesting stuff.”
I glance at Zayn, who’s poorly concealing a smile behind his coffee cup. Watching my brother and my ex-boyfriend falling back into their old friendship feels weird. And terrifying. Like watching ice reform over water I thought would stay broken forever.
Reed lingers about twenty minutes before checking his watch and standing. “I should head out. Early meeting before I join you both at records.” He squeezes my shoulder on his way past. “Don’t stay up too late, Soph.”
The door closes behind Reed, leaving Zayn and me alone again in this cramped space. The wall clock reads 11:47. My eyes burn from deciphering faded nineteenth-century handwriting for hours.
I take a steadying breath. Now or never.
“Did you actually refuse that job offer from Cameron?” I ask, keeping my gaze fixed on the document before me even though the words have stopped making sense.
Zayn’s pen stills. I feel his attention shift entirely to me, but I don’t look up.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “My life is here now.”
The certainty in his voice—that unwavering confidence—makes my heart skip a beat for a second. I’ve heard him sound that sure before. Five years ago, when he promised he’d visit during holidays. When he swore nothing would change between us.
“That’s what you said last time,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
Pain flashes across his features. “I know. I was wrong then.” He leans slightly closer, near enough that I can see the subtle gray flecks in his blue eyes. “But I’m not the same person I was at twenty-one, Sophie. Not even close.”
“Three hundred thousand dollars,” I say, my voice breaking slightly. “Plus performance bonuses. Partnership track. That’s… that’s life-changing money.”
“It is,” he agrees without deflection. “And five years ago, I would have accepted immediately. Would have started packing that same night, convinced I was making the smart choice.”
“But not now?” My voice emerges barely above a whisper. I hate how desperately I want to believe him.
“Not now.” He sounds absolutely certain, and it makes my heart stutter. “Not ever again.”
I look down at my hands, at the photographs of people who ran away to find freedom. People who had to choose what mattered most when everything was on the line.
