The silence stretched.
Ava didn't fill it. She stood still, arms crossed, gaze unflinching—waiting.
Zach sat down slowly, like the truth was a weight pulling at his spine. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and for a moment, Ava thought he might lie. Or retreat. But then—
"She was the first girl I ever loved," he said quietly. "Orihime."
Ava said nothing. Her breath caught in her throat.
Zach continued, his voice distant, like he was watching memories instead of recounting them. "We were young. I was seventeen. She was sick—congenital heart defect. We knew from the start that our time was limited. But she had this… fire. Laughed like every second mattered. Dared me to stop being my family's puppet. She made me feel like I was more than just another Ford."
"What happened to her?" Ava asked, her voice barely a whisper.
