She pauses as she passes him, not out of wariness, but there’s so much in her expression. Longing, anxiety, uncertainty. Under it all a little bit of fear.

I guess I got sick of being scared, she’d said once. Or something like it. He’d said some day they’d make sure she would be sick of being happy, or something like that. She remembers that conversation. Vaguely. Like a dream or something she rehearsed in a mirror.

Still, looking him in the face this close, it’s impossible not to remember the way she felt around him when she was younger, too. Safe.

Safe.

“Jesus,” her voice is teasing, but it’s lost its relentlessly perky edge. “You’re going white above your ears, old man.”