There’s a pause.
Then—
“Come here,” he says.
It’s not a command.
Not even really a request.
Just—
An invitation.
I hesitate for half a second.
Then I step away from the bed.
The room is dim, lit only by a low lamp near the far wall, casting everything in soft gold and shadow. The air smells faintly of clean linen, warm skin, and that subtle metallic trace that seems to follow Bron everywhere, like heat and iron and something older.
He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, guitar leaning against the wall beside him, forearms resting loosely on his thighs as he watches me approach.
For once?—
He’s not performing.
Not smiling for effect.
Not deflecting.
Just… there.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey.”
I stop a few feet in front of him.
Neither of us speaks for a moment.
There’s too much between us.
Too much history.
Too many things we never said.
“You okay?” he asks.
I let out a slow breath.
“I think so.”
“That’s not convincing.”
“It’s honest.”
He nods.
“I’ll take honest.”
