“Jet lag.”
“Mm.” She didn’t call bullshit outright. “I heard the radio clip already circulating.”
He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Then you know how that went.”
“You bit first,” she said mildly.
“They were laughing at me.”
She paused—just long enough for the silence to settle. “They were laughingwithyou. Until you turned it into a war.”
His jaw flexed under her thumbs. Dana felt the muscle lock harder, snapping into place.
“You still do that,” she said. “Strike before the blow lands.”
He said nothing.
She moved to his shoulders—solid, carved from years of punishing sessions. She’d known him since those shoulders were narrower, since they’d hunched against school taunts and the heavier weight of a name that demanded perfection before he could even reach the pedals.
“You’re not that skinny kid anymore,” she said, voice casual on the surface. “Haven’t been for a long time.”
His breath hitched—small, almost imperceptible.
“But your body remembers,” she went on. “Remembers waiting for the next shove. Remembers laughter that always came right before someone reminded you whose grandson you were supposed to be.”
He stared at the floor, jaw working.
“Back then it was classmates trying to cut you down,” Dana continued, easing the pressure to let blood flow. “Now it’s the whole world watching, waiting for you to prove the Moreau name still means something—or fail so they can write the obituary early. Either way, you’ve spent your life braced for the hit.”
Silence thickened.
“You grew into someone they can’t ignore,” she said. “But that doesn’t erase the reflex. Laughter still sounds like trouble. Questions still sound like traps.”
“And Mia?” Dana added casually. “She’s not the enemy. She’s just calling what she sees.”
“Mia thinks I’m an arsehole,” he muttered.
Dana snorted. “Mia thinks you’re defensive.”
“Same difference.”
“No.” She stepped around to face him, arms crossed loosely. “An arsehole enjoys the wreckage. You look surprised every time it leaves blood.”
He leaned back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling. “She doesn’t trust me.”
“She doesn’t know you,” Dana said. “Big difference.”
He closed his eyes for a beat. “Doesn’t feel like one.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” she replied.
She stepped back, giving him space.
“Just… try not to fight ghosts that aren’t in the room.”
He didn’t answer. Although the tension in his shoulders didn’t vanish—it eased. Folded smaller. Tucked away.
* * *
