When I move over, he steps up.
"Black coffee," he tells Austin. "No room."
Classic.
We wait by the pickup counter, pretending we're not watching each other. I toy with the strap of my bag. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. There's a sort of buzz in the quiet between us—a low-hummed chord waiting to resolve.
Then, like it's the most casual thing in the world, he says, "You headed anywhere?"
I blink. "Just taking a walk. Needed to clear my head."
He lifts his coffee. "Mind some company?"
Every instinct tells me to say yes and no at the same time. I settle for a nod. "Sure."
We walk out together, the bell above the door jangling behind us. Then, turning toward the lake, we walk on the paved walking trail next to the lake. It's early enough that the path is quiet, the surface still damp with dew. Birds chatter overhead. The lake glimmers through the trees. There's a hush to the world that feels almost sacred.
We walk in silence for a while, sipping our drinks. It's not awkward. Not really. It's something different—something with the pull of an old song you haven't heard in years, but still know by heart. Comfortable and aching all at once.
At first, I don't look at him because if I don't see Asher, I can pretend I'm walking with Bear, and I'm much more comfortable with Bear.
Finally, I glance over. "I thought you might be avoiding me."
His lips curve just slightly. "I thought you might be avoiding me."
"Touché."
He takes a slow sip of his coffee. "Things got messy."
I nod. "They still are."
"But not everything has to be."
I stop walking. He stops too. I look at him, really look at him. "What are we doing, Asher?"
He studies me. "Having coffee. Walking. Talking."
"You know what I mean."
He nods. "I do. And I don't have a good answer."
We start walking again. My fingers are wrapped tightly around my cup.
He adds, more quietly, "I just know I like talking to you. Even when I shouldn't. Especially when I shouldn't. And I don't want to stop."
I stare at the path. "You're not the only one."
He glances over. "No?"
I shake my head. "Bear was easy. Until he wasn't. Until he was you."
He's quiet for a beat. "Bear was me. But not a lie—not the parts that mattered. Bear is the me that doesn't have to be the older brother taking care of my family. The cowboy who is busting his ass from sunup to sundown so my brothers can still have fun. Bear is who I am when you look at me and leave all the rest at the door."
We walk a little farther and fall into a more natural rhythm. After a few minutes, he glances over and says, "Finn's the wild one. Still chasing rodeos."
I raise an eyebrow. "Really? I didn't realize that."
"Yeah," he says with a chuckle. "He's good, too. Has the kind of flair that gets the crowd on their feet. But it's a hard life. Unpredictable. Lots of highs, lots of crash landings."