She crosses her arms and leans against the railing beside me.
“Bron.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve been weird all evening.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“You’re pacing, staring at nothing, and pretending you’re fine. That is the emotional equivalent of waving a flag that sayssomething is wrong.”
I breathe out slowly through my nose.
The truth sits heavy in my chest, like a stone I’ve been carrying around all day hoping it might dissolve if I ignore it long enough.
It hasn’t.
Tilda nudges my shoulder with her elbow.
“Talk to me.”
Her voice is softer now.
That does it.
I scrub both hands over my face and stare down at the courtyard lights.
“All right,” I mutter. “Fine.”
She waits.
“Remember that delightful gentleman who kicked in my door a few weeks ago?”
Her expression tightens instantly.
“Mysk.”
“Yep.”
“What about him?”
I hesitate.
The night air suddenly feels colder.
“He gave me a deadline.”
Her brows knit together.
“For the debt.”
“How long?”
I laugh quietly.
“Seven days.”
Tilda’s eyes widen slightly.
