For a while, we don’t say much. Just sit there in the low buzz of recycled air and soft laughter and the kind of silence that’s louder than anything we could fill it with.
Then she speaks.
“I thought you had pre-flight at 0600.”
“I do.”
“And you’re out drinking with your co-instructor the night before?”
“I was hoping she’d talk me out of it.”
Nova snorts. “You’re not that easy to talk out of anything.”
“I am,” I say, “when she’s the one doing the talking.”
She glances up at that—just a flicker—and there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. It lasts all of two seconds before she smothers it.
But I see it.
We sit like that, drinking slowly. Letting the tension stretch thin like a wire.
“You still paint?” she asks suddenly.
The question knocks the air right out of me.
I grip the glass tighter. “Haven’t touched a brush since…”
I don’t finish the sentence.
She doesn’t make me.
But she’s looking at me now, really looking.
“I always liked that one you did,” she says, voice softer. “The porch. The rain.”
My throat’s tight. I nod, once.
“I never forgot it,” I say.
Something in her eyes falters. Just for a heartbeat.
“Bet I could still beat you at darts,” she says, pivoting fast, tone light.
I raise a brow. “Bet you couldn’t.”
“Wanna test that?”
I’m already standing.
We walk over to the back wall where the board is mounted. I grab the darts. She rolls her shoulders like a boxer warming up.
She throws first. Bullseye.
Of course.
“You cheat,” I mutter.
She grins. “I practice.”
