“I’m realizing we missed a lot.”
His expression softened.
“Yeah.”
“Years.”
“I know.”
“I hate that.”
“Me too.”
We stood between game booths while lights blinked around us and other people lived entire painless evenings in every direction.
Dylan took a breath.
“I can’t give them back.”
“No.”
“I would if I could.”
“I know.”
His hand brushed mine.
Not taking it yet.
Just there.
A question again.
I answered by sliding my fingers through his.
His grip closed around mine like relief had a shape.
We walked like that through the carnival, slower than everyone else because Dylan’s body still had limits and I had finally decided not to resent them. We passed kids on a carousel, teenagers pretending not to flirt, a grandmother eating cotton candy with the serious concentration of someone who had waited all year for it. The fair lights made everything look softer than it was.
Maybe that was what dates were supposed to do.
Not erase the hard things.
Just put enough glow around them that you could breathe.
At the Ferris wheel, Dylan stopped.
I looked up.
The wheel turned slowly, seats swinging slightly in the evening air.
“No,” he said.
I blinked. “No?”
“No.”
“You survived a gunfight.”
