The question hit her harder than she expected. She leaned against the brick, letting it hold her up.
“Liz, the mayor, thinks letters of support could help,” she said. “From people who can show this is more than just a business plan. She thought maybe… if you were comfortable with it…you might write something. About Bryn. About why this wall and this space would matter.”
Silence hummed for a moment. She almost rushed to backtrack. Tell him it was okay if he couldn’t, that she understood.
“Yeah,” he said, voice a little rougher. “Yeah, I can do that.”
Relief flooded her eyes before it hit her chest. She swiped under her lashes.
“You’re sure?” she asked.
“Bree,” he said. “My wife died far too young. If there’s a chance some good comes out of that, that someone walks into a building ten years from now and sees her name and remembers her for the person she was… I’d crawl across glass to help.”
Her breath hitched. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Besides,” he went on, lighter now, “if those board guys say no after reading my heartfelt prose, they’ll have to live with the crushing weight of my disappointment. And my mother’s. You know how she gets.”
Bree laughed, a wet, hiccupy sound. “Terrifying,” she said.
“Exactly,” he chuckled, “Send me whatever details you want included. I’ll write it tonight. And Bree?”
“Yeah?” she said.
“I’m proud of you,” he said. “Bryn would be too. Staying, fighting for this…it’s big.”
She pressed her forehead against the cool brick. “I’m scared,” she admitted.
“Of course you are,” he said. “Big things are scary. Do it anyway. You’ve got people in your corner. One of them apparently drives very fast for a living. You’re not alone there, even if it feels like it sometimes.”
The words Diaz had used earlier stirred in her chest; not alone. Useful. Planted.
“I love you,” she said.
“Love you too,” he replied. “Now go buy a building. I have to call Gracie and tell her I'm sorry I balked at her having a boyfriend.”
That night, back in her hotel room, she curled against Hank on the bed, paperwork spread across the comforter like a second quilt.
“We sign the special use application tomorrow,” he said, tapping the page. “Jason’s already filled in most of it. Liz added some notes in mayor-ese.”
She traced the line where their names appeared together: applicants Hank James, Aubree Spencer.
“You sure you’re up for this?” she asked quietly. “If the board drags it out, we could be bleeding money for months.”
“We’ll adjust,” he said. “Scale back some of the initial studio stuff, ramp up the shop work. I can take more rebuild contracts, and Colby can pick up consulting. Brian’s already talking about merchandising.”
“Brian’s always talking about merchandising,” she said.
“True,” he said. “Point is, we’ll flex. I meant what I said today. I’m more scared of not trying.”
She studied his face, the faint grooves near his eyes, the steady line of his mouth. He’d carried weight before. Different, heavier. This was a different kind of load. Chosen.
“You make it sound easy,” she said.
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s worth it.”
He set the papers aside and tugged her closer, rolling so she sprawled partly on top of him. Heat slid between them, familiar and new all at once.
“You know what else is worth it?” he asked.
