zaraxkumar

[zaraxkumar]

Zara lets out a soft snort, one brow arching as she shoots him a sidelong glance. “A gangster boyfriend, huh? That sounds about right. Someone who won’t flinch when I tell them about my rather eventful day because his stories will be just as entertaining.” Her smirk fades just enough to show the truth tucked beneath the joke.

But his point—about age, baggage, and the unrealistic expectations they once had—makes something settle in her chest. She exhales, quieter this time. “Maybe I am overthinking it,” she admits. “But it’s hard not to when you’re always trying to calculate how much of yourself you can show someone before they walk.” She glances over at him with a softer expression now, more sister than soldier. “You’ve got Easton. You figured it out. It’s just harder when you’re still circling the edge of everything.”

At the mention of the painting, her gaze returns to the canvas and her smile returns, lopsided and warm. “He totally would. Bet he’d write a whole essay about brushstrokes and symbolism while I’m still debating if it’s upside down.” She nudges him lightly with her elbow. “Get it for him. He’ll pretend it’s about the human condition, and you’ll both feel very intellectual.” A pause, then more sincerely, “It’ll mean something, coming from you. That’s what makes it worth hanging.”

"Maybe you can find a gangster boyfriend who's okay with it all," Rahi says, a joke that carries a certain bite underneath it. They used to sit on the floor and dream up ideas of people —faceless, nameless— that they would one day marry. There was a certain lack of accuracy, looking back at it. "We're in our forties, Z. Everyone our age comes with baggage. I think you're overthinking it." Says the overthinker, himself.

Back to the painting, he laughs. "God, I know. I could give him a candy wrapper and he'd probably get it framed." Obsessed with one another, the two of them are. "Fine, okay. I'll just get it. He'll see all the... love metaphors or whatever you said is happening here."

[zaraxkumar]

Zara listens, jaw tight and eyes steady as Rahi speaks. There’s no defensiveness in her posture—just the quiet weight of someone who’s already considered every possibility he’s now naming, and still made her choice anyway. His words land with the force of history. Of love. Of fear wrapped in logic. And she can’t fault him for any of it. “Yeah,” she murmurs, a small, wry curve to her lips. “I probably do sound like them.”

There’s no pride in it, just a quiet acknowledgment—like someone who’s already accepted the consequences of the echo in her voice. “I know it’s not rational. I know it doesn’t check out on paper, or in equations, or however you map the world. But not everything I do is about survival, Rahi. Some things are about… being able to look at myself in the mirror. Teaching Saira that fear doesn’t get the final say. That comfort isn’t the same as safety.”

She looks at him then, fully—same eyes, same stubborn set to the jaw. “I don’t blame you,” she says softly. “Not for wanting me out of it. Not for worrying. But I need you to understand this isn’t about dying for a cause.” A breath. “It’s about living like I’m not afraid of the world anymore.” And while Zara wouldn't admit this to anyone, not her brother, not the leader, and not even her own shadow--a part of her felt like she was doing this to really feel something again--it had been too long since there was a fire ignited within her.

"I don't think it's a death wish," Rahi shakes his head. "But more, death awareness. Just the knowledge that things could blow up at any time — in ways you can't predict they might." He finds a clean, empty glass to play with; passing it from hand to hand in a looping motion. "I've done the calculations, reverse-engineering just about every scenario you could think of. And even then, things happened that — they weren't even in the scope of what to consider."

That’s the revolution.

His eyes — the same color, same shape as hers — meet Zara's, that familiar feeling creeping up on him by means of words known, spoken, and chanted in the streets many years before. "God, you sound just like them."

"What? You're my sister, Z." He sets the glass down, and steps closer. "I'm not walking away. But I plan, I risk-assess for a living — whether rockets will fly, or explode. And the Brotherhood is, by design, meant to catch on fire." Beat. "Don't blame me for not wanting my sister to be on board when that happens."

[zaraxkumar]

Zara lets out a breath, not quite a sigh—more like an exhale she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Her arms cross over her chest as she leans slightly against the edge of the table, eyes still fixed on the canvas even if her thoughts are miles away. “Honestly?” she says, glancing over at Rahi with a dry, self-aware smile. “No one’s really lining up to date me, bhai.”

She says it like a joke, but it lands somewhere in the middle—between amusement and truth. “I mean, who wants to deal with all this?” She gestures vaguely to herself, to the weight of her double life, to the mess she keeps trying to manage. “A daughter. A dangerous side hustle. Questionable morals." Zara shrugs, more resigned than bitter. “The mess is the reality. Most people want... less chaos. Less risk. And I can’t even blame them for it.” Then, softer—more vulnerable than she usually allows herself to be: “I think I just stopped expecting anyone to choose this version of me. Not because I don’t want it. Just… because they never do.”

Now trying to push past that suddenly honest assessment she continued, gesturing to the painting in front of them, "now--I think Easton will love this, especially because he loves you."

"I can try," he tells her, "but I don't think it's gonna do much."

Instead of studying the canvas further, Rahi studies her. The face that he knows well — and that shares oh so many similarities to his own. "That's very hopeless romantic of you." A harmless poke, in true brotherly fashion. "Is that a sign that you're dating again?"

[zaraxkumar]

Zara lets out a soft, almost musical laugh, the kind that lives somewhere between amusement and curiosity. She watches him abandon the glass, head tilting as if trying to get a clearer read—but Hans never made that easy. “I wouldn’t call myself a femme fatale,” she replies, a wry smile curving her lips. “Too messy. Too moral. But I’ve been known to make a man or two regret underestimating me.” Her voice lingers on the edge of flirtation, just enough to keep him guessing.

She steps a little closer, gaze dancing between intrigue and appraisal. “You might be surprised how many people are chasing something without realizing it. Even the ones who swear they’re just ‘living.’” A pause, then, her smile sharpening just slightly. “Survivors always have a vision, Hans. Even if it’s just making sure they stay one step ahead of the mess.”

"Hmm," he voices. "And you're one of those people, I'm guessing?"

Instead of playing with his —now empty— glass, Hans just abandons it on the nearby credenza. His system tells him he needs one more, because fuck it, be a shame not to celebrate a win like this.

"Just between us, I think most things are a bad investment. Ask me how many clients I saved from NFTs." No need, for the answer is simply, Too many. Then, his smile spreads a little wider — a little less businessman, and a little more resident sleazebag. "Well, fuck me. I didn't take you as a femme fatale, but color me impressed."

As for his own vision, for his own future, there's very little Hans can offer. He's a survivor, not a planner. "Yeah, yeah — not everyone is chasing something. Some people are just living, and not really thinking ahead."

[zaraxkumar]

She couldn't help the grin on her face because he was right and clearly he was being difficult but honestly that was something she loved--especially now after everything she'd confessed to him. "Physics was never my thing and while I applaud you for enjoying it--it's not helping in the gift-giving department, now is it?"

Zara chuckled softly at his words before nodding at his assumption before sighing. "Okay so yes it's a bunch of shapes, but firstly each shape and piece of art they've attached to this canvas, speaks about their love story, each piece was specifically curated for this." Zara's tone takes on an edge of wistfulness, something Rahi could notice but she hoped he hadn't. "It's saying that each memory shared with a special someone is enough to become important, can you try to see that?" She asked, venturing a glance at her brother.

"Are you a scientist?" Rahi challenges. "No, I'm a scientist. It makes sense because..." He motions, and motions, then shrugs. "It just does. And if you'd done any of your physics homework, you'd understand why."

Through the gallery, he lets himself be guided. "Uh... no. I don't." He'd never been a creative, no matter how often he found himself in settings like this. "It just looks like... shapes." He looks back at his sister. "What about it says 'love'?

[zaraxkumar]

"You doing all my physics homework equates to me helping you find a present for your husband? Since when?" She grinned as she looped her arm into the crook of his elbow and guided him along where one of the other displays was. "Personally--this one tells a story, it's almost as if...it's talking about unlikely love, do you see it?"

@zaraxkumar setting: the eden gallery, event

"Okay, help me. If you were a 6'3 190lb football player — which one would you like?" About a month away is their wedding anniversary, and although Rahi had long since accepted he's the least creative of the two, he still had to try. "I mean, I always did all your physics homework. I feel like you owe me now."

[zaraxkumar]

ZARA KUMAR at The Eden Gallery.

Zara didn’t come here as a part of the job — she came because her friend sent her the invite with a cheeky “you need to get out more” and, honestly, they weren’t wrong. It’s been months of late nights, code audits, and silence in her apartment, and the idea of an open bar sounded… weirdly normal. She’s not here to network or do anything too drastic — not tonight. She’s here in heels, holding a glass of something expensive, and enjoying the theatre of it all.

[zaraxkumar]

Zara’s breath catches briefly beneath Tristan’s steady hands, a flicker of hesitation flickering deep inside—quick and quiet, like a shadow passing beneath the surface. But she doesn’t let it show. Not now.

Instead, her lips curve into a slow, fierce smile, fierce and certain. “Official, huh?” she murmurs, voice low but steady—equal parts challenge and promise. She leans into it, eyes locking with his. “Let’s make sure they remember why we showed up. No half-measures.” A pause, then with that same fire burning quietly beneath her words, she adds, “I’m ready to burn it all down. Together.”

The metaphor suddenly becomes literal, and it's as though Tristan can hear music now, the perfect soundtrack underneath her slow realization. That raw, imperfect connection, he nods, fondness growing in his gaze. Knowing you’re part of something bigger than yourself.

"Honey, I know you are," he says, then. "I knew it since the start." Allowing himself closer, Tristan's hands come up, framing her face between his palms — not unlike a crazed coach and his newest star player. "Welcome to the Brotherhood, officially." Bright beat. "Let's burn their shit to the ground."

[zaraxkumar]

Zara lets Tristan’s words hang between them, the image of that scratched-up vinyl stirring something inside her. She taps her fingers lightly against her glass, considering. “There’s something honest about that,” she admits, voice softening. “That raw, imperfect connection—feeling every note vibrate through the crowd, knowing you’re part of something bigger than yourself.” Her eyes flick up to meet his, a slow smile spreading. “Maybe that’s why it does sound like me. Because beneath all the careful planning and control, I’m drawn to the noise, the chaos, the fire of it all.”

She leans in a little, the edge in her voice tempered by something almost hopeful. “I’m starting to think I’m ready for the next song." And with a bright smile, she nodded, "count me in Tristan. I'll be there."

Tristan holds her gaze for a moment, silence doing a lot of his own heavy-lifting. "Because I know you will. Everyone does. It's like listening to your favorite artist off an old, scratched up vinyl — versus being there, in person, singing along with thousands of people who know these lyrics as well as you do." There are strenght in numbers, this he has always known; and while many complaints may be dismissed, there's no ignoring crowds blocking the streets. "No feeling will ever compare to it."

He hadn't meant for it to be a tease, or a trap. If easy is what Zara wants, then easy is what she's gonna get until that notion changes. But maybe it already has.

"I think it sounds a lot like you."

[zaraxkumar]

Zara’s eyes spark with a mischievous glint as she leans back, folding her arms casually. “Gambling, huh? That’s a new one. Not really my style though—I like my chances a little more... deliberate.” She gives him a teasing smile, tilting her head slightly. “But maybe I’m chasing something just as unpredictable.”

Her gaze sharpens, locking with his. “What I’m after isn’t on any spreadsheet. It’s the kind of change you feel—down where it counts. In the people who won’t settle for the scraps life throws them.” She taps her glass lightly. “That said, if you think a super-yacht and a globe-trotting mistress are bad investments, maybe you’ve got some interesting ideas worth sharing. Personally having a lover in a different part of the world would be ideal, they'd be there when you need them but not a distraction otherwise. Best of both worlds.” She leans in a fraction closer, voice dropping to a playful whisper. “So, Hans... what are you chasing? Because I have a feeling it’s not just yachts and logistics.”

"Just a yacht," Hans counters, nonchalant. "Yachts are for the rich — superyatches are for nepos with something to prove." As for the rest, he shrugs. "I don't like art — and what's the point of having a mistress half-way across the world? Logistically, it sounds like a nightmare."

The best investments don’t exactly show up on spreadsheets. That gets Hans's attention — and his eyebrows to shoot up in positive surprise. "You got into gambling, or something?"

Doesn't seem like her style, but stranger things had certainly happened. "Yeah, yeah — what else is a guy to do? Tax evasion is so 2013." Shifting in place, Hans finds her gaze. "What are you chasing, Kumar?"

[zaraxkumar]

Zara doesn’t interrupt him—not once. She lets every word settle where it lands, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t deflect. But the guilt coils in her gut all the same, low and sharp. Because it wasn’t just disappointment in his voice—it was hurt. And that? That was always the thing that undid her when it came to Rahi. When he finishes, she leans her hip against the counter, arms crossed, eyes steady.

“I did trust you,” she says quietly. “That hasn’t changed. But I also knew if I told you before, I’d start second-guessing myself. Not because you’re wrong, Rahi—but because you’re you. You’re the one person who can still get in my head before I’ve even finished my own thought.” Her voice doesn’t rise. It just anchors. “And maybe I was trying to protect that closeness. Maybe I didn’t want you to look at me the way you are right now.”

A beat. She glances toward the hall again, where the soft sounds of Saira’s play drift through. “You’re right—I was the first one you told everything to. And I never forgot that. But this wasn’t about not trusting you. It was about needing to remember I could still trust myself.” Then softer, the guard around her heart shifting. “I’m not asking you to be okay with it. And I know you can’t take the same risks anymore. You’ve got more to lose. So do I. But I’m not walking into this with a death wish, Rahi. I’m walking into it with my eyes wide open.”

Her fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. “No one’s ever ready. I know that. And maybe Izaak knew it too. But maybe we stop waiting for the perfect moment and start showing up for the imperfect ones. That’s the revolution.” She looks at him then, eyes gentler than her words. “You don’t have to agree. Just… don’t walk away from me over it.”

"So you knew what my opinion would be," Rahi starts, a little in disbelief, "and you did it anyway? What happened to you trusting me?" It feels like he's been transported to an altternate reality where they aren't as close as he imagined; or that she was trying to carve a new path for herself, without the need for his support. "You were the first person I told—" His voice falters. "About everything. Everything. Right, or wrong. It was always you, Zara."

It becomes clearer, then, what aspect is the one that stings. Not the Brotherhood, or her alleged recklessness in bonding with them. He just wishes she hadn't done it behind his back.

"Obviously, I want my kids to grow up to a good future, too. And they know that if they need me on the streets, I'll be there. But I just... can't take the same risks I used to." Beat. "And I wish you wouldn't, either. But I can't really stop you."

Rahi shakes his head, "No one's ready. Even Izaak wasn't, and I believed in him. He's in prison right now — I bet he never saw that coming." Running his palms over his face, he attempts to sober up. "I mean, if we waited until we're ready, no one would ever do anything. Especially not something like this."

[zaraxkumar]

Zara doesn’t respond right away. She studies him instead, her head tilted just slightly, like she’s listening to something just beneath his words. Electric.

That part caught her. The corner of her mouth lifts—not mocking, not indulgent, just… intrigued. “You say that like you know I’ll crave it once I taste it,” she murmurs, eyes flicking over his face like she’s trying to decide if he’s right.

A protest. It shouldn’t tempt her. It didn’t, not that long ago. But now, with her hands back in the current, the idea of standing shoulder to shoulder with people who believe in something—fighting for it, loud and out in the open—it doesn’t scare her like it used to. It stirs something. Old muscle memory. Maybe even hunger.

“I did ask for something easy,” she finally says, her tone cool but thoughtful. “But I didn’t say I’d take it.” She leans back in her seat, watching him like she’s weighing a dare. A small, wicked smile. “Now don't you think, that sounds a little more me.”

A pause, then softer: “Electric, huh?” She doesn’t say she’ll be there. But she also doesn’t say she won’t.

"That's good. But... Ugh, no, no," he shakes his head. "It can't be that. It has to be something... shallow. We can't ruin a fundraiser, we'd look like the bad guys."

There's no doubt in his mind such an event happened not out of the goodness in billionaires' hearts, but as a convenient excuse for tax write-offs. Still, the optics wouldn't be on the Brotherhood's side should their molotov cocktails cut such an honorable ceremony short.

At the suggestion, Tristan's eyes meet hers, and there's a pause that lingers. Are they there, yet? Can she read his tone, his gaze, his heart? The more time she spends around their revolutionary crew, Tristan's sure, such things would start to come naturally.

"This event... I don't want to attend it. I want to protest it."

"... And I'd invite you to join us on the streets, but you asked for something easy." Tristan shrugs. "And I can't lie, that's not easy. But it's electric."

[zaraxkumar]

Zara’s lips curved, slow and deliberate, at first in response to his hand in hers—and then fully, undeniably, at his words. There was something so unapologetically Heath about the way he said things like you’re family or ain’t nobody better company, like he wasn’t trying to charm her, especially because he didn't need to, he was just speaking from somewhere unvarnished and true. It disarmed her in the best kind of way. Heath was always a person she felt connected to because of that very behaviour of his.

She looked down briefly at their joined hands, then back up at him, the playfulness in her eyes a little warmer than usual. “You know, you say shit like that and I’m half tempted to believe you actually mean it.” But there wasn’t a wall in her voice—just a softness, the kind that rarely got to slip through. A little peace tucked in the shape of his name. “And for the record,” she added, squeezing his hand back, “if I ever do end up learning how to ride solo, you’re gonna regret it. I’ll never shut up about how I was better than you by week two.”

She rose from her seat then, slinging her jacket over one arm, the familiar edge returning to her voice but not replacing the warmth—just sharpening it. “But until then? You’re stuck with me as your badass pillion.” A beat. Then, eyes locked on his with quiet certainty— “Lead the way, Heath. I'd be stupid not to trust you.”

the way her gaze lingered on the window, paired with the soft drop in her voice, pulled at something in him. heath knew that tone too well, the weight behind it, the effort it took to hold things back. he’d spent enough of his life swallowing his own worries to recognize when someone else was doing the same. pushing her to speak wasn’t in his nature, trust, he believed, had to be earned and never forced.

still, there was something about her choosing to ride with him that meant more than he let on. most people wouldn’t so much as slide into the passenger seat of his car, let alone climb onto the back of his bike "believe me, i ain’t ‘bout to put ya in no risky spot. learned early on, blood ain’t the only thin’ that makes family…and shoot, ya’re family to me, no doubt ‘bout it"

without thinking much of it, he reached for her hand, giving it a slow, reassuring squeeze "it’s a real honor to have ya ridin’ pillion" he added with a grin "ain’t nobody better company, and i’ll be damned if ‘nyone else could look as downright badass sittin’ on a harley like ya do" there was a playful glint in his eye as he lifted his cup, finishing the last sip of coffee "and just so we’re clear, this here ain’t just ‘bout bike rides. any kinda adventure ya’re hankerin’ for, any time ya want a partner, just sign me in"

the man set the empty cup aside, stretching, almost feeling the road calling his name "well, whenever ya’re ready, we’ll head out to the highway" heath said, tossing her a wink "and who knows, maybe teachin’ ya to ride that bike yerself is somethin’ we’ll get to. maybe a lon’ term plan? but hell, it’s one i’m real lookin’ forward to"

[zaraxkumar]

Zara lets out a slow breath, something between a laugh and a sigh, as she looks at the hand he’s offering her. There’s something almost absurdly simple in the way he says it—all I need you to be is you—as if that’s ever been a light ask. But the way he says it? It makes her want to believe it’s enough. She places her hand in his, firm but not performative. “You really know how to ask for a favour without sounding like you are,” she says, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. “But lucky for you, I’ve got a few events coming up. The kind where everyone’s pretending not to look at each other’s watches while still doing the math on who spent more.”

Her thumb brushes against his before she lets go. “There’s a fundraiser next Friday. Art world crowd, tech investors, and one or two washed-up royals trying to stay relevant. Should be exactly your kind of nightmare.” A pause. Then, wryly, “And mine.”

But beneath the quip, something steadies in her. Because for all the chaos, she believes in this. In him. In what they might actually be able to pull off. “I’ll send you the details tonight. You’ll want a fancy suit. And a glass of something expensive to nurse while the world burns behind a velvet rope.”

I appreciate that, Zara says, and he smiles. The not asking. Just checking in.

"Get used to it," the words come with warmth. Never had he seen her as something to be repaired, mended, or fixed. Quite the opposite, Tristan had seen a world that needed aid, and spotted in Zara the talent to help him bring it back to life.

Tristan shifts on the couch again, this time framing his arms over its cushioned arch; a chin coming to rest upon where they connect.

"Alright. Tell me where your rich friends hang out. Not usually — I know that much. Give me an event, somewhere they'll all be at. I'm talking CEO's, politicians, stakeholders. The worst of the one percent." Beat. "Nothing heavy. Just a date, a time, and an address."

Stretching out his arm then, he offers her a hand. "All I need you to be is you, Zara. That's it."

[zaraxkumar]

Zara exhales through her nose, quiet but not cold, her eyes flicking briefly toward the hallway—toward Saira—before returning to Rahi with something between guilt and resolve etched in her features. “I know you would’ve talked me out of it,” she says softly. “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.” She leans against the counter across from him, not in defiance, but so they’re eye to eye—level, even when the ground between them isn’t.

“I’m not trying to be a martyr. I’m not trying to pretend like the penthouse isn’t real, or that I don’t have more than most. I do. I’ve been lucky, and we’ve both fought tooth and nail for every bit of that luck.” Her fingers tap anxiously against her mug. “But I still look around, and I still see a world where Saira’s going to grow up navigating the same bullshit I did. And I don’t want her to have to make herself smaller to survive it. So maybe I can’t fix everything, but I can at least try. And that means stepping up where I still can.”

Her voice drops a little then, not with shame but with sincerity. “I don’t know if Tristan’s ready. Maybe he isn’t. But he listens. And he gives a damn. I don’t trust easily, Rahi, but I believe in what they’re trying to build—and I’m not just showing up with good intentions. I’m working, every damn day.” A pause, and then—“You say it worries you. That’s fair. It should. But I need you to know… I wouldn’t have gone back if I didn’t think I could walk the line. I’m not reckless. I’m a mother. I’m your sister. I get what’s at stake.” Then, quieter still, “But this time, I couldn’t sit it out.”

"I mean, yeah — we'd be there for her. That's not even a question." Rahi stands up suddenly, yet at the sight of Saira at the corner of the room, his voice drops to a whisper: "God, do you hear yourself?"

He takes Zara by her wrist, in no way violent, just seeking to distance their conversation away from young ears. They make it to the kitchen, far enough from where they'd been that his niece wouldn't notice the commotion — yet strategic enough to still watch her from afar.

"...Right. So you joined them because you're not changing the world with your 9-5, but it's the career you chose. It's what you wanted to do. Now you're a part of their 'revolution', but you still live in a penthouse while most people can't make rent. And so do I!" He motions around them. "This place is like, 20 million? Sometimes I feel bad about it, but you know what, I can't. I did a lot. I gave a lot. I get to just live my life now."

Some would certainly call him a hypocrite. And perhaps he is — though all Rahi would call himself, is human.

"You should have told me before it happened, and I would have talked you out of this... insane idea. Who's that new guy, anyway? Tristan? I trusted Izaak, but I don't know about him. He was a kid when I joined — a kid. And now he's your boss?"

Now I’m the one walking back into something you managed to escape.

"Listen... Z." He sighs, then allows for a pause as he cools his thoughts down. "I don't think it's something to escape. There's a reason I believed in them — I mean, I still do. They do a lot of good. But it comes with a lot of danger, too. It is a fight worth fighting for, but only if you have nothing to lose. And I 'escaped' because Izaak was a friend, and I was with them for most of my life. He understood. And even then, I had to prove myself a thousand times over."

Rahi leans against the crowded kitchen island, hands wrapped around the marble. He shakes his head, "It doesn't hurt me, Z. It worries me. It's different."

[zaraxkumar]

Zara's lips curved, just slightly. “She always did like me.” A beat. Then, quieter, more sincere— “Tell her I said hi, yeah next time you talk? How's she doing by the way?” She glanced quickly at her watch, making note of her next meeting not being for another hour at least. "So tell me, do you have time for a coffee? Just to catch up?"

"You know," what a rare treat this is. Usually it's Rahi he's bumping into, sharing glances that are riddled with a deep history and resentment. But Zara? She's another story. "My mother still asks about you."

@zaraxkumar

[zaraxkumar]

Zara didn’t flinch at the bitterness. It rolled over her like cigarette smoke—sharp, familiar, and not worth reacting to unless it burned. What she did notice was the way he almost reached for her. The way instinct betrayed him before his mouth could armour up again. She studied him for a second. Really studied him.

“You think I want to hear you say that?” she asked, softly. Not accusing. Just… tired. “AJ, if I needed that kind of reassurance, I wouldn’t come to you for it.” Her gaze drifted lower for a beat, then lifted again with the kind of calm that always came right before a storm. “But I’ll tell you what happens,” she said, her voice quieter now, like she was talking to something deeper in him. “If you say it—if you mean it—then I’ve got to decide what to do with it.”

A pause.

“Do I stay? Do I give this… whatever this is… another chance to ruin me a little softer for next time?” There was no venom in her words, only the echo of old bruises not quite healed. “Or do I walk out that door knowing I almost had something real, but not something right?” She looked at him then—really looked at him—like she was memorizing the moment, just in case it was the last one that mattered.

“I didn’t come here for permission to stay,” she added finally. “I came to see if you’d even notice when I left.” And that, right there, was the truth she hadn't meant to say aloud. But truthfully she didn't think he would, and even if he did notice--she didn't think AJ was the type to admit it either way.

"You always want something from me," he says, bitterly and as if he's trying not to be heard, but not putting too much effort into that effect. She moves closer and he almost touches her. It's been months since their very brief and very intense affair, and still reaching out comes somewhat second nature to him.

And then the other shoe drops. "Ah, okay," he laughs, not amused or angry, but defeated. Like the weight of the world hangs on his shoulders. "You want me to say I don't want ya to leave? That it?" AJ looks at her, bored, heavy eyelids threatening to cut his night short. "Alright, I'll bite. What happens if I say it? Eh?"