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‘I still do,’ I say, softer.

He takes a slow sip of his drink, then glances at me. ‘What about you?’

I grimace, swirling the ice in my glass. Me, my least favourite topic to discuss.

‘What about me?’

‘What have you been up to, before you came back?’ he asks.

‘Work and study.’

‘Sounds thrilling.’

‘Yeah, totally.’

He waits, patient in that infuriating way of his. I sigh. ‘I work in marketing. At a firm in the city. I’m also doing a degree in graphic design.’

His eyebrows lift slightly. ‘Oh?’

‘Mmhmm.’ I nod.

‘Impressive.’

I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable, well aware that my reality is far from what I wanted to do five years ago when we would daydream about our futures. I wanted to travel and teach overseas, but my stepfather insisted I do something more business-orientated because, direct quote, ‘that’s where the money is’.

‘But?’ he presses. His eyes are cold, blue, and unflinchingly steady, like he can see every thought I’m trying to keep tucked away.

‘But I hate it,’ I admit, the words spilling out. ‘The job, the office, the people there. I sit at a desk all day and stare at a screen and wonder how this became my life.’

Ash studies me quietly, his expression unreadable. ‘And outside of that?’

I hesitate, suddenly feeling quite embarrassed. ‘There isn’t much outside of that.’

His jaw tightens. ‘You were destined for more than this, Bryn.’

I laugh softly, hating how he sees right through me and forces me to face all the thoughts I’ve been trying to push away. ‘Funny. I ended up being boring instead.’

He doesn’t smile. He just looks at me as if he’s cataloguing my every word, every crack in my voice.

‘Boring doesn’t describe you,’ he says finally.

A flush creeps up my neck, and I glance down at my glass. He slowly circles his own drink on the table, and my eyes shift over to his hands. They’re big and veiny, with a light tan from the sun.

‘I’m doing something else too.’

I glance at him. ‘Yeah?’

‘I’m writing.’

‘Writing what?’

‘A book.’

‘You’re writing a book?’

He’s amused by my surprise. I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised. He was always drawing and writing notes in his journal. When he wasn’t doing that, his head was in a book.

‘Didn’t think I had it in me?’