“Yeah,” he says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “But you rebuilt.”
I glance at him.
He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “You’re still here. Still designing. Still doing your thing.”
I take another bite, smaller now, more thoughtful.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I guess I am.”
There’s a quiet beat. He nods once, like that should be the end of it. But then his thumb drags along the edge of his cone, catching a drip that’s already started to fall.
“That kind of stuff,” he adds, not quite looking at me, “sticks with me.”
I tilt my head. “What kind of stuff?”
He hesitates. It’s small. Most people wouldn’t notice it, but I do. I’m noticing more and more about Ty McCade every time I’m around him now.
“People getting all the way to the edge of something big,” he says finally. “And then realizing it’s not right.”
His gaze drifts out toward the street, following nothing in particular.
“My parents did that,” he adds, quieter. “Except they didn’t stop.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“They went through with it,” he continues. “Even when it wasn’t working. And then…” He shakes his head a little. “It didn’t just end. It blew everything up with it.”
He glances down at his hands, like he’s checking where he is again.
“Family, house, all of it,” he says. “One decision…ripped straight through everything else.”
The words sit there between us. Weighted and full, and I can see it’s a part of him he doesn’t let out for others to see easily. I stay quiet, wanting him to keep going when he’s ready. He finally looks at me, one shoulder lifting in that familiar, easy shrug—but it doesn’t quite land the same now.
“So yeah,” he says. “I think stopping before it gets to that point? That’s a good call.”
I study him for a second, seeing him a little differently than I did five minutes ago.
“Yeah,” I say. “Guess it is.”
We sit in silence for a moment, our gazes locked—held just a second too long—before he nudges my arm with his elbow, his attention dropping to my cone.
“You’re losing your ice cream.”
I let out a small laugh, catching another drip. “It’s a high-risk ice cream.”
“Clearly.” He points to a drip. “There…get it.”
“Wait—” I say, trying to tilt the cone just enough to save it, which somehow makes it worse.
A slow, inevitable drip slides over the edge. “Okay, that one’s gone?—”
“Hold on,” Ty says.
Before I can protest, his hand closes gently around my wrist, steadying it. Not tight. Definitely not urgent. But it’s his warmth and the electricity of his very touch that sends something tingling through me, hitting me in my toes.
“Angle it,” he says, focused now. “Like this?—”
He adjusts my hand slightly, his fingers brushing mine, guiding the cone upright before the rest of it can collapse, the heat of his breath on my cheek.
