I stop, but I don’t turn around.
“You already said what you needed to say,” I tell him. “We’re done.”
Even as I say it, I know it sounds thin. Like I’m trying to end a conversation that was never really under my control in the first place.
“We’re not done.”
“We are.”
“Turn around.”
“I’m good.”
Then—
“Nova.”
Just my name.
That’s all.
And somehow it lands low and warm and entirely too certain, and my body betrays me before my pride can get involved.
I turn.
He looks different up close. Not undone. He’s too contained for that. But there’s less distance in his face now. Less blankness. His focus is direct enough to feel physical, and there’s something in his mouth—not softness, exactly, but the possibility of it—that makes my pulse trip over itself.
“You apologized twice.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
Because once felt polite and this wasn’t polite. Because I needed him to understand I meant it. Because I’ve spent enough of mylife swallowing things that mattered and pretending they didn’t leave bruises.
“Because once didn’t feel like enough.”
He studies me for a second.
“You always do that?”
“Do what.”
“Decide something matters and then go all in on it.”
I fold my arms. “You always do that?”
His eyes stay on mine. “Do what.”
“Stand there like you already know exactly how this is going to go.”
He shifts, barely. It’s not much, but it’s more than he usually gives.
“I don’t.”