Chapter 18: Gentle Hours
"I'm glad you texted me," Bramwell said as we stepped onto the trail. "I was starting to think I'd invented you for character development."
A small breath of laughter slipped out of me. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small bottle.
"I come bearing nutrients," he said, watching me inspect it. "Or at least the idea of them."
I glanced at him, then back at the juice, "I went through a healthy phase," he said.
I gave him a look.
"Three days," he nodded. "Then I chose happiness."
A soft laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it.
"But this one is really good and healthy," he went on, shaking his head slightly.
I lowered my gaze, smiling into the bottle as I took a sip.
We started walking with him slightly ahead, his longer stride setting the pace. I trailed just behind, quickening my smaller steps to keep up, adjusting myself to his rhythm. Then, gradually, he slowed. His steps shortened and aligned with mine.
"If we see a bear," he continued as we walked again, "I assume you'll handle it."
I gave him a look. He gasped slightly. "No? Wow. Abandoning me already."
I shook my head, smiling despite myself.
"I'll be behind you," he added quickly. "Emotionally supportive and spiritually invested, but physically... elsewhere."
Then he started talking and... he really could talk. It came easily to him, one thought slipping into the next without pause, as if silence never quite found a place to settle. Strangely, he didn't seem to mind that I barely said anything in return. His voice carried the conversation on its own, warm and steady, moving from one topic to another so naturally it felt less like jumping and more like drifting.
It was soothing.
"And I think my parents realised something was a little off when I started bringing rocks home like they actually meant something," he said thoughtfully, a faint smile forming. "Not occasionally, not as a passing phase, but consistently, with a level of commitment that probably should have been questioned."
I glanced at him.
"I had a system, which in my mind made it completely reasonable," he continued. "Pockets, backpack, sometimes both if the situation required it, because it felt irresponsible to leave a good rock behind."
A small breath of laughter slipped out of me.
"They were very supportive about it," he added. "They asked questions, listened carefully, and treated every rock like it had a personality, which really encouraged me to continue."
He exhaled softly, amused.
"And the worst part is I escalated," he went on. "I started placing them around the house like decorations, adding more little by little until it stopped feeling charming and became something else, a quiet takeover. They turned into my version of letters and notes. My parents never said anything, but they kept them exactly where I left them... which, in hindsight, probably says more than words ever would."
I smiled, lowering my gaze.
A few minutes later, he was still talking, and I found myself genuinely enjoying his stories. Now he had moved on to a full rant about a movie, completely invested, like it personally offended him.
"I watched that volcano movie last night," he went on, already sounding mildly offended. "A disaster. Not in the entertaining way but in the deeply irresponsible way."
I glanced at him. That was all he needed.
"He outruns a pyroclastic flow, April. Can you imagine?" he said.
I blinked. He stopped walking.
