“Bold choice,” she said, eyes darting to the chocolate.
“You said no flowers.”
She hummed in acknowledgment, grabbed the chocolates, and her fingers brushed mine. Too quick to mean anything, too deliberate not to.
“You didn’t turn them down,” I teased.
She didn’t argue. That told me everything.
We ended up in the clinic lounge. Not her apartment. Not a restaurant. Just here — familiar, neutral ground, the kind of place that already carried her fingerprints. The walls were painted in soft neutrals, the couch sagged like it had been carrying too many stories for too long, and two mismatched mugs sat half-full of something I didn’t ask about. The early spring air leaked in from the cracked window, cool and damp, smelling faintly of thawed earth.
Ava folded her legs beneath her and unwrapped her taco like it was a test. I waited.
One bite. Then another. Then, finally, she gave a little wiggle of approval.
“Okay. You’re safe. For now.”
“Noted,” I said, setting mine on a napkin. “So, this is what passes for a first date in your world?”
She gave a humourless smile. “I don’t do first dates.”
“What do you do then?”
She didn’t answer. She just studied me with those ocean eyes that never looked the same twice. Tonight, they were more green than blue, sharp as glass when she wanted distance, softening when she thought I wasn’t watching. But I was always watching.
And I caught it, the flicker she tried to hide. The same pulse of awareness I felt humming low in my chest.
So, I picked up my taco and let her study me.
The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Curious. Charged.
“I was half-expecting you to cancel,” I finally said.
“I almost did.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Her gaze flickered down to her lap, then back up. “Because you asked like someone who wouldn’t ask again.”
That hit somewhere deeper than I expected. Because she wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t here to play games.
She took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. “You want the tragic backstory?”
“I want whatever you’re willing to give me, Ava.” And I meant it.
Her shoulders dropped just a fraction, like no one had said that to her in a long time. Her gaze softened, blue bleeding through green, and she began.
“You know Remi and I grew up together, right?”
“I figured. You two practically finish each other’s sentences.”
She smirked. “Sometimes thoughts, too.”
I leaned back, giving her room. Letting her steer.
“She wasn’t always like this,” Ava said, tapping a finger against her knee. “Remi used to want to be an artist. She was wild and carefree, like the wind… if the wind was in technicolour. But after Jenny… after the fallout, she hardened. She took hit after hit, and instead of breaking, she solidified. Now she’s more like the earth than the wind.”
Her voice cracked on Jenny’s name. I didn’t press. I just listened.
