She laughed. Wet and raw and real—the kind of laugh that lives next door to crying.
"Okay," she said. "Let's try again."
"Let's try again."
I kissed her forehead. Her nose. The corner of her mouth.
"But this time, we do it right. No more running. No more silence. If something's wrong, we talk about it."
"Even if I'm scared?"
"Especially if you're scared." I pulled her close. "I can handle scared. I can't handle gone."
She nestled against my chest. The tension draining out of her body.
"I can do that," she murmured. "I can try."
"That's all I'm asking."
We fell asleep tangled together. The first real sleep either of us had gotten in a week.
When I woke up with her still in my arms, I knew something had changed.
We weren't circling each other anymore.
We were us.
Engine 295 the next shift.
Same locker. Same gear. Same smell of diesel and old coffee soaked into the walls over decades.
Everything looked different.
Shane was in the common room. Feet up, crossword puzzle, the picture of a man not waiting for me to walk in.
He glanced up. Did a double take. Grinned.
"Well, well."
"Shut up."
"You look like a man who finally pulled his head out of his ass."
"I said shut up."
But I was smiling. Couldn't help it.
The expression felt foreign on my face—had it really been that long since I'd smiled like this? Like I meant it?
"She's good for you." Shane set down the crossword. "I've been telling you that for weeks."
Brian appeared in the doorway. Travel mug. He looked at Shane. Looked at me.
"What's—" His eyes narrowed. "Oh." A slow grin. "Finally."
"Does everyone have an opinion about my love life?"
"Yes." In unison.
