“Mm.”
“My son informed me this afternoon that one of the daycare toy bins contains a ‘suspicious duck.’”
Bron’s mouth curves. “That feels actionable.”
“He was extremely serious.”
“Did he explain the duck’s crimes?”
“No, and apparently I lacked the investigative instincts required to earn further detail.”
“That’s tragic,” he says. “You used to be good with leads.”
I try very hard not to smile at that and fail enough for him to notice. His own expression softens in response, not triumphant, just quietly pleased in a way that lands much harder than flirting ever did. He wraps both hands around the mug, the fossil still in his pocket—I know it is there because I caught him touching the fabric over it twice during dinner as if confirming the thing had not disappeared.
We stand there a moment longer while contestants drift through the lounge behind us in loose, tired clusters. Someone near the far wall is playing cards badly. Somewhere else a pair of eliminated-athlete-turned-commentary-favorites are debating whether the producers manipulate wind speeds between heats. The sound of it all forms a low human tide under the hum of climate controls.
“You were good today,” I say before I can talk myself out of it.
Bron glances sideways at me. “That sounded almost complimentary.”
“It was observational.”
“Ah. Clinical praise. My favorite.”
“I mean it.”
His posture shifts, the joking ease giving ground to something more attentive. “Thanks.”
I take a slow sip of tea. It tastes of citrus peel and black spice and the edge of something floral I cannot identify. “You didn’t take the center line when it opened. A month ago you absolutely would have.”
“A month ago I was an idiot.”
“That timeline is generous.”
He huffs a laugh. “Fair.”
“And you didn’t leave me at the barrier.”
“No.”
“You could have.”
He looks down into his mug before answering. “Didn’t want to.”
I let that sit between us. The room around us seems to recede by increments, not because it has gone quiet but because my attention has narrowed without permission. I know there are safer topics available. Rankings. Strategy. Jesse’s current obsession with categorizing screws by moral character. Instead I hear myself ask, “Why not.”
His eyes lift to mine again. “You really want the polished answer or the ugly one.”
“I’m too tired for polished.”
He nods once, accepting the terms of the exchange. “Because it stopped mattering to me whether I looked brave a while ago.” He rolls the mug lightly between his palms, watching the steam unwind. “What matters now is whether the people I care about get through the day.”
Something in my chest goes very still.
That sentence should not feel revolutionary. It does.
I look away first because if I keep holding his gaze I may say something I have not prepared for. “Well,” I say, too dryly, “that is inconveniently mature.”
