Page 54 of The Wright Man

She jumped like I'd caught her red-handed, eyes wide. Then she stammered, tried to come up with a joke, a lie, anything—but all that came out was a stutter and a weak laugh before her shoulders sagged a little.

"Do I lose happy reunion points if I admit I was hiding?"

I smirked. "I already knew that. So no."

And just like that, the ice started to melt. Not all the way, not yet. But enough.

We were still us. Just... a little out of practice.

At least, that's what I told myself.

Before I could overthink it, I stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.

She wasn't expecting it.

Her body stiffened for a second—and then melted. She felt boneless, like my arms were the only thing keeping her from coming apart. The way hers had held me together when my mother was dying and the world stopped making sense.

I closed my eyes and breathed her in.

Still vanilla and citrus. Still home.

"It's good to see you," I murmured, though the words felt pathetic. Like trying to use a thimble to hold the ocean.

"You too," she whispered, that husky voice brushing my ear.

Jesus.

I pulled back slowly. Slower than I probably should've. Her hands lingered on my arms like she wasn't ready to let go either, but eventually, we did.

"I got you something," I said, motioning toward the bench at the foot of the bed. Not on the bed. Too intimate. Too risky.

She sat down, legs crossed, curious. I handed her the box—small, wrapped in recycled paper, tied with a strip of hand-dyed cloth I picked up from a street vendor in Tokyo.

She pulled out the small wooden hair tool organizer I'd carved during a deployment in Okinawa—burned her name into the side in block letters with a soldering iron I'd stolen from a supply room. Glossed it smooth. Added little slots for products, combs, brushes, clips. Compact enough for a station or a countertop.

It was supposed to be her wedding gift.

Instead, I'd held onto it for four years.

Her fingers traced the grooves like they were sacred.

"You still doing hair, right?" I asked, even though I already knew.

She lit up, her whole face warming like sunrise. "Yeah. I actually own a salon now... It's busy, a lot of work, but I've got a great crew with me. I love it."

"That's amazing," I said quietly. "She'd be proud of you."

Her eyes got shiny, but she blinked quick. "Thanks. I hope so."

We sat in a little silence after that. Not awkward, just heavy. Comfortable, even.

But it hummed — the particular charge of two people sitting close enough to feel each other's warmth, not touching, and both knowing it.

Something about sitting this close. The scent of her perfume. The way her knee kept brushing mine and neither of us moved.

She opened her mouth at the same time I did.

"I'm sorry about—"