The next morning hit like a reality check.
Mira woke up to a string of missed calls and a voicemail from her sister.
"You can't keep disappearing, Mira. We have things to deal with. Mom's stuff isn't going to sort itself, and you left me with all of it. Call me."
She didn't listen to the rest.
Her fingers hovered over the call-back button for a long minute. Then she tossed the phone onto the bed and buried her face in her hands.
It was always like this—something good starting to bloom, and then the weight of the past crashing in.
---
She didn't tell Jace that day.
Instead, she showed up to the shop with two coffees and a smile she didn't quite mean. He didn't push. He never did.
They worked side by side in silence, his hands deep in a stubborn old speaker system while she tried to organize a tangle of wires on the floor.
"You're quiet today," he finally said.
"Just tired."
"From what?"
She hesitated. "Avoiding my life."
He gave her a look. "How's that going?"
"Mixed results."
He chuckled, then went still. "You wanna talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay."
That was it.
He didn't press.
He just passed her a screwdriver like it was a peace offering.
---
Hours later, they sat on the back steps of the shop, watching the sun drip down behind the trees like honey. Mira hugged her knees to her chest, leaning slightly into him.
"My mom died last year," she said suddenly.
Jace didn't move.
"I handled the hospital. The hospice. The aftermath. My sister was barely around. And now she wants to act like we're supposed to go through every box, every photo, together like some kind of therapy session."
"You don't want that?"
"I don't know what I want. But I know I can't go back there. To who I was in that house."
Jace nodded slowly. "That's fair."
"I just hate how guilt sneaks in. Like even when you're trying to survive, someone makes you feel like you're failing."
"I get that," he said quietly. "My dad did that for years. Made me feel like anything less than perfection was a disgrace."
She glanced at him. "How'd you deal with it?"
"I didn't. I left."
"Did it help?"
"Sometimes. But the echoes still follow you."
They sat in silence, the sky deepening.
Mira rested her head on his shoulder.
"I like that you don't try to fix me," she said.
"I wouldn't know how. I'm still fixing me."
She closed her eyes. "I think that's why this works."
He kissed the top of her head, so softly it barely felt like a kiss.
But it anchored her.
More than words ever could.