She gives me honesty, not promises she cannot make. I want her more for that.
The walk back is warm and quiet. Parking-lot light. City noise. My shoulder brushes hers once, then again. I could take her hand. I do not. Not until we reach her hotel door.
We stop at the vending machine by the elevators because Peyton wants water and I want to pretend I do not need more food.
The machine takes her dollar and refuses to release the bottle.
Peyton stares at it. “I have had a long day and I will fight infrastructure.”
I step beside her. “Move.”
“Absolutely not. This is between me and capitalism.”
I look at the machine, then at her. “You going to report it?”
“I am going to write a series.”
I put another dollar in. The machine drops two waters.
Peyton’s eyes narrow. “It likes you.”
“Most things do when I follow instructions.”
“That was almost self-awareness.”
I hand her a bottle. Our fingers touch. The ordinary spark of it is worse than heat because it makes me imagine a hundred small futures: shared vending-machine grudges, bad coffee, her laptop on my counter, my hoodie on her chair, the two of us arguing about instructions until neither remembers who started.
I have never trusted imagined futures.
This one follows me down the hall anyway.
She slides the keycard, then stops with the door half-open.
“If you need to sleep, sleep,” she says. “If you need to sit in quiet, we can do that. If you need to leave, I will not make this ugly.”
I step closer.
“Peyton.”
“Yes?”
“I am done leaving rooms I want to stay in.”
Her breath changes.
I follow her inside.
The room is generic. Soft lamp. White comforter. Suitcase open on the rack. Her notebook on the desk. The air conditioner humming like it has one job and takes it seriously.
I shut the door.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Every time before this, I left. The night at her door after the first surgery, when I made myself stop and walked out anyway. The night after the Pearl, when I slid out before dawn because staying felt like more than I had earned. I have gotten good at leaving while it still looks like restraint.
This time, I take two steps and stop in front of her.
“Tell me yes,” I say.