She sits at the tiny table, watching me move. Her shoulders slowly inch down from around her ears.
We eat mostly in silence. Her first bite is forced. The second is less so. By the time the sandwich is half-eaten, some of the tightness around her mouth has eased.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“For putting food on a paper plate?” I tease.
“For believing me,” she says. “For not telling me to be strategic. For not asking me to be smaller so I fit better in your world.”
I shake my head. “I like you big,” I say simply. “Big thoughts. Big feelings. Big fight. Second Chance is here because someone said no to being small.”
Her eyes shine again, but the tears don’t spill this time.
When we’re finished, we clean up together, the small domestic rhythm strangely intimate.
After, we walk. Through the path that leads from the cleared area into the woods where the air smells green and clean. Gravel crunches under our feet. Cicadas buzz their endless chorus.
No tourists here. No other staff. Just trees and sky and us.
She stuffs her hands into her sleeves, head bent for a while.
“You never asked me to be less,” she says suddenly. “Everyone else in my life has. My parents. My teachers. Even well-meaning people who liked me better when I masked. You never…” She gestures vaguely. “You never asked me to turn down the volume on myself.”
“You are not too loud,” I say. “World is too quiet. You carry truth. That is not wrong.”
She gives a small laugh. We keep walking.
The staff housing glows ahead, warm rectangles of light through the windows. She slows as we get closer, like part of her doesn’t want the walk to end.
She looks toward the guest barracks, then at me.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she says quietly. “Not after… all of this. Not in my own head.”
Heat flares under my skin. Want crashes through me so fast my breath comes out ragged.
I force myself to breathe slow.
“Do you want company,” I ask, “or distraction?”
Her eyes close briefly. When she opens them again, they are clear.
“Company,” she says. “You. Just… you. I need to feel like I’m not the only person holding this.”
Relief and desire mix so sharp I almost sway.
“Then I come,” I say. “If you are sure.”
“I’m sure.”
She reaches for my hand.
This time, she doesn’t let go.
We walk the last stretch together, our fingers laced, the night humming around us.
At her door, she hesitates. Her gaze searches my face as if she’s checking for any sign I don’t want this. Any hint of pressure.
All she finds is yes.
