Roman nods.
Evan looks up. “He can run the meetings. I can keep the rookies from acting like abandoned puppies.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m a nurturing presence.”
I give him a look.
Evan’s smirk fades. “Hope she’s okay.”
The words are plain.
That makes them count.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
The car to the helipad feels too slow. The helicopter feels too loud. Peyton is already there when I arrive, standing beside the open door with her coat belted tight, hair whipping loose in the rotor wash. She holds a small overnight bag and no notebook in her hands.
That should not matter.
I climb in first. She follows, careful with the headset, her knee brushing mine for one brief, accidental second before she shifts away.
My body notices because my body is an idiot with terrible timing.
The pilot lifts off. San Antonio drops away under us, roads thinning into scrub and fields and late light.
Peyton waits until we level out. “Ryan.”
I keep my eyes forward.
“I am sorry.”
The words are too tidy for the mess inside me. I have no use for them and need them anyway.
“Stay out of my way,” I say.
She absorbs that without a flinch. “Okay.”
The quiet afterward is worse than arguing.
I look at her because I should not. She is watching the darkening land below, hands clasped hard in her lap, mouth pressed like she is holding back seven questions and one curse. For once, she seems smaller than her nerve.
“My mother hates being fussed over,” I say.
Peyton turns her head.
I do not know why I offered that.
“Then I won’t fuss,” she says.
“You will.”
“Probably. I have a face people confess to and nerves with good manners.”
Against all good sense, a breath leaves me that is close to one.
Her eyes warm, then gentle. “I hope she’s okay.”