“You vanished.”
“Yes.”
“No explanation.”
“I had my reasons.”
“Care to share them?”
“No.”
Around us the lounge grows louder as the night wears on. Someone starts a chant near the far side of the room, and a cluster of contestants begins dancing badly to a song that sounds vaguely like something Bron probably mocked at least once in his life.
Bron shakes his head slowly. “You know what drives me crazy about you?”
“Everything?”
“You act like what we had was some brief experiment that didn’t work out.”
“That’s because it didn’t.”
“That’s not how it felt.”
I swallow and look away again. Memories have a way of creeping up on you in places like this, especially when exhaustion strips away the mental defenses you usually rely on.
“You were chaos,” I say quietly.
“And you loved it.”
“For a while.”
“And now?”
“Now I have responsibilities.”
His gaze sharpens slightly at that word. “What kind of responsibilities?”
The question lands between us with a quiet spark of danger. I set my glass down on the table with deliberate care.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Start digging again.”
He studies my face, clearly recognizing the shift in my tone. “That’s interesting,” he murmurs.
“Bron.”
“You get real tense whenever that topic comes up.”
“Because you keep poking it.”
“Because something about that kid doesn’t add up.”
My heart stumbles.
“We are not having that conversation again.”
