That was the one I’ve been waiting for.
The one she used to give me without thinking.
The one that said everything she wouldn’t say out loud.
And she gave it to me.
My chest tightens.
Hard.
Because for a second—I almost moved. I actually took a step.
Like I was going to walk down there.
To her.
In front of everyone.
Didn’t even think about it.
I stop at the edge of the parking lot, dragging a hand through my hair, exhaling hard.
“Get it together,” I mutter.
Because what the hell was that?
“Tristan.”
I freeze.
Isa’s standing a few feet away.
Boot.
Crutches.
Hair perfect.
Lip gloss catching the light.
Always put together.
Always intentional.
“You just leave?” she asks, her voice soft, that Texas drawl wrapping around the words like it always does. Sweet. Easy.
But her eyes?
Sharp.
Watching me.
“I had stuff,” I say.
It’s weak.
We both know it.
