“Fine.”
Ryan waits while I pack the laptop and answer one last email from Gil with two words and no punctuation. I tell myself that is work, not delay.
In the elevator, we stand side by side in a silence that would have scared me a month ago. Now it feels earned, not easy.
Outside, Austin is still warm, hospital-bright behind us and hotel-neon ahead. Ryan points across the street.
“Diner.”
“I thought you were solving dinner.”
“I am.”
Ryan
The diner across from the hotel is open all night and decorated like the nineties refused to leave quietly.
I order a club sandwich. Peyton orders pancakes at nine-thirty at night because apparently chaos comes in many forms. She drowns them in syrup while I watch, helplessly fascinated.
“You are judging me,” she says.
“I am learning you.”
Her fork pauses.
I did not mean to say it like that.
Or maybe I did. I am tired of pretending accidents are accidents when they are choices I am too afraid to own.
Peyton sets the fork down.
“This one’s just ours?”
“Always, with this.”
She studies me across the table. Her hair is pulled back, face bare, dark circles under her eyes. She looks exhaustedand stubborn and real. Nothing about her is packaged. Nothing about her is safe.
“I keep waiting for you to turn back into the man who left my place,” she says.
I deserve it.
“I keep waiting for you to walk away before I can.”
Her expression shifts.
“Is that what you do?”
“Usually.”
“Leave first?”
“Control the loss.”
I hate how honest it sounds.
Peyton leans back against the booth. “That is bleak.”
“You asked.”