Page 26 of Ignition Rites

“That’s my girl.”

The words are casual enough that I decide not to look directly at them.

“What are you even studying,” he asks, “at this mysterious college nobody in the house ever mentions?”

“Music. Voice, technically. I do musicals when the department lets me, and choir when they don’t.”

“You sing?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked. I’m recalculating everything I thought I knew about you.” He grins, genuine. “Sing something.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on. One line.”

“I will end this date early.”

“Fine, fine.” He holds his hands up, still grinning. “For the record, though — that’s the first actually normal thing you’ve told me about yourself. Everything else has been survival skills. This is just something you like.”

He’s right, and something about him noticing that out of everything I could have said warms something in me before I can guard against it.

I don’t tell him the part that would ruin the moment — that half my performances happen in Alistair’s church, choir robes and all, because it’s the one place he lets me be good at something without asking what it costs him. That even the thing I love the most, I’m technically borrowing space for, inside a building with his name on the cornerstone. I don’t say any of that. Tonight, it’s just a thing I like, and I let it stay that simple for as long as he’ll let me have it.

Somewhere in the middle of dinner, I stop performing being fine long enough to actually have a good time.

“You’re doing the thing again,” he says, watching me over his glass.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you look surprised you’re having a good time. Like it’s not allowed.”

“I don’t do that.”

“You absolutely do.” He leans back, easy, unbothered. “It’s kind of your tell. You get this look like you’re waiting for the bill to come.”

I don’t have a good comeback for that, mostly because it’s true, and he doesn’t push it. He just lets the observation sit there between us like he’s not trying to win anything by saying it.

By the time we leave, it’s fully dark, and the walk back to the bike feels longer than it should, both of us in no particular hurry to end it.

“Best decision I’ve made all week,” I say, meaning it.

“High bar. Your week’s been rough.”

“You’d know. You’re the one who wrecked it.”

“In my defense, I stand by it.” He stops beside the bike and doesn’t immediately reach for the helmets. “You mad at me? For telling you. Actually mad, not just processing-mad.”

I think about it honestly instead of giving him the easy answer.

“No. I don’t think I am.”

Something shifts in his face, relief he’s not quite hiding fast enough.

“Good,” he says. “Because I wasn’t going to apologize for it, and that was going to make things awkward.”

“You’re unbelievable.”