I stared at the message for a long time.
Then I typed back:
Good.
That was all.
Ten minutes later, he answered:
Yeah. I deserved that.
I smiled despite myself, then put the phone down and went back to folding laundry with hands that were not quite steady.
After that, he did not chase me. Not in the old way. Not with possessive looks in hospital rooms or half-confessions dressed up as guilt. He texted once a week, sometimes less. Small things. Honest things. Nate is threatening to buy me a cane with flames on it. Callum says I limp like an old dog with unpaid debts. Passed inspection on the first renovation job. Thought you’d like to know. I did not always answer. When I did, I kept it brief. Careful. But the spaces between us began changing shape. They were no longer full of running. They were full of waiting for the right kind of courage.
By late fall, I came home from a shift to find him sitting on the curb outside my apartment building.
Not leaning against a motorcycle like a fantasy.
Not smirking like he had a right.
Sitting.
Pale around the edges, one hand braced carefully against his side, wearing jeans, boots, and a black jacket that made him look like trouble had cleaned up just enough to be invited inside but not enough to be trusted alone near anyone’s daughter. Cupcake sat three feet away from him, glaring like she had been appointed my legal counsel.
Dylan stood when he saw me.
Slowly.
Carefully.
No games.
No touching.
No Beautiful.
Not yet.
“I’m not here because Georgia left,” he said.
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.
That was the right first sentence.
The only one, maybe.
“I know she left.”
“I know you know.” His voice was rough, but steady. “I needed to say it anyway.”
Cupcake hissed.
Dylan glanced down at her. “Fair.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
