“Overdue is another,” Trixie chimes in.
I feel a blush creeping up my neck, but I don't pull away. Instead, I lean slightly into Troy's side, allowing myself this closeness I've denied for too long.
“I'm Trixie,” she says. “I've heard a lot about you.”
Troy shakes her hand, a hint of his old confidence returning. “All terrible things, I'm sure.”
“Mostly,” she agrees cheerfully. “But I believe in seeing for myself.”
Lacey throws her arms around me with a squeal. “You won! You're a genius! I knew it!”
I laugh, returning her hug with genuine warmth. When I pull back, I see her eyes dart between me and Troy, questions swimming in them.
“You remember Troy,” I say.
Her smile turns sly. “Oh, I definitely remember Troy.”
Before anyone can say anything embarrassing, I spot Jonathan approaching, his expression congratulatory despite his own team's loss.
“Well done, you two,” he says, shaking Troy's hand. “That educational component was inspired.”
As the conversation flows around me—Trixie explaining their water flow project to Troy, Lacey chatting with Jonathan about the reception—I feel something settle inside me. A sense of rightness I haven't experienced in months.
Here I am, surrounded by people I care about. People who know me—the real me, not the carefully constructedversion I used to present. People who stayed despite my walls, or who I've let in since.
And Troy, standing beside me, our arms occasionally brushing as we talk. Not back where we were, but maybe somewhere new. Somewhere with possibility.
For the first time in my life, I'm not watching from the outside, waiting for it all to fall apart.
I'mhere.
41
TROY
I've been sprawled in this armchair at the back of Elliot's Books & Oddities for two hours, but I'm not even close to being bored.
The shop closed twenty minutes ago. Mr. Abernathy left after dinner, entrusting Delilah with locking up as usual. Now it's just us—me with my engineering textbook open but mostly ignored, and Delilah moving through the stacks, reorganizing a section that some customers apparently decimated earlier.
Rain patters against the windows, turning the already cozy bookshop into something that feels almost magical. The smell of old books and hot chocolate, the warm yellow light from the antique lamps, and Delilah humming under her breath as she works—it's perfect in a way I never would have appreciated before her.
She's standing on a small step stool, stretching to reach a high shelf. Her UMS hoodie—technically mine, but I've long given up any claim to it—rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. I should probably offer to help, being several inches taller, but I'm enjoying the view too much.
“You could help instead of staring, you know,” she says without turning around.
I grin. Of course she knows I'm watching.
“I could,” I agree, not moving. “But where's the fun in that?”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder, eyebrow raised in that way that used to intimidate me and now just makes me want to kiss her.
“Besides,” I add, “I'm learning valuable architectural principles. Weight distribution. Structural integrity. The perfect angle of your?—”
“Don't finish that sentence if you want to stay past closing,” she warns, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
I close my book and finally stand, stretching my arms overhead. “If you insist, I suppose I could be useful.”
I move to her side, easily sliding the final few books into place above her head. She steps down from the stool and looks up at me, arms crossed but smiling.
