23. Talia
Talia
“Slow down,” I call, already knowing it won’t make a difference.
Flynn doesn’t even look back.
He’s out of the car before I can grab my bag from the passenger seat, sneakers hitting pavement with a light slap as he takes off toward the cluster of people gathered beyond the temporary fencing.
There are banners strung between metal poles, bright and clean against the gray of the morning, and the low hum of voices carries across the open lot where Crossridge’s newest project is still being built.
“Flynn—” I try again, sharper this time, but the word disappears into the noise.
He’s already slipping past a volunteer in a neon vest, ducking under the rope line with the kind of confidence that comes from not yet understanding where the boundaries are supposed to be.
I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to drop as I fall into step behind him. This was my idea. Bringing him here. Letting him see something that wasn’t headlines, hurried explanations, or the careful, measured version of the truth I’ve been giving him for days.
I’m letting him see Declan.
I adjust my grip on my bag and step through the opening in the fencing, offering a quick apology to the volunteer who looks like she might try to stop me before thinking better of it.
The ground shifts under my feet, uneven dirt packed down into pathways that haven’t quite decided what they want to be yet.
The air smells like fresh soil and something faintly green, like the beginning of something that hasn’t settled into itself.
It takes me a second to find him. Not because he’s hard to see, but because he’s not where I expected him to be.
The stage is set up at the far end of the lot, a small platform with a podium and a backdrop printed with Crossridge’s logo and the name of the foundation in clean, careful lettering.
There are chairs arranged in rows in front of it, and a scattering of people already seated, waiting for whatever speeches are supposed to come later.
He’s not there.
He’s off to the side, near the edge of what will eventually be a garden, crouched low to the ground with a group of kids gathered around him.
Someone has marked out small squares in the dirt, each one staked with a thin wooden sign, and there are plastic buckets lined up nearby, filled with saplings that look too small to matter yet.
Flynn doesn’t hesitate. He runs straight toward him, and for half a second, I think about calling him back. About stopping him before he crosses that last stretch of open space, before this turns into something I’m not ready for.
I don’t.
Because Flynn is already there, already slowing as he gets close, his steps turning uncertain in that way they do when excitement catches up with nerves.
He hovers just outside the small circle of kids, his attention fixed on Declan with a focus so complete it feels like I can see it from where I’m standing.
Declan doesn’t notice him right away.
He’s focused on the girl in front of him, his hands wrapped around the base of a sapling as he guides her through the process of lowering it into the shallow hole.
His voice doesn’t carry all the way to me, but I can see it in the way his mouth moves, steady and patient, like he has all the time in the world.
He says something soft, slowing her down, showing her how to lower the roots instead of forcing them.
He adjusts his grip, large hands surprisingly careful as he presses the soil in around the base, firm but not forceful. The girl watches him closely, then mimics the motion, her smaller hands clumsy in comparison but determined.
Flynn takes one more step forward. I follow without thinking. Declan looks up, and for a moment, everything else falls away.
It’s not dramatic. There’s no visible shock, no outward reaction that draws attention from the rest of the group. But something skitters across his expression, subtle enough that no one else would notice, and I feel it all the way where I’m standing.
Recognition followed by something gentle.
“Hey,” he says.
Flynn doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at him, his hands fisting at his sides like he’s trying to decide what he’s allowed to do here.
Declan doesn’t stand. He doesn’t close the distance. He just moves his weight slightly, lowering himself the rest of the way down so he’s fully on his knees in the dirt, bringing himself level without making it feel like a move.
“You want to help?” he asks, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Flynn nods immediately.
The hesitation disappears as quickly as it came, replaced with something bright and eager that I haven’t seen as often lately. He steps into the circle without looking back at me, dropping to his knees beside Declan with a small puff of dust.
Declan reaches for another sapling, brushing dirt from his hands before passing it over. “Okay,” he says, angling it so Flynn can see. “We start here. You hold it steady, and I’ll show you what to do next.”
Flynn takes it carefully, his fingers tightening around the thin stem like he’s afraid it might break if he gets it wrong.
“It won’t break,” Declan says quietly, reading the worry before Flynn has a chance to voice it. “You’d have to try pretty hard to mess this up.”
That earns a small, uncertain laugh.
“Like this?” Flynn asks, lowering it into the hole with exaggerated care.
“Exactly like that.” Declan’s voice is softer now, more focused. “Now we fill it in. Not all at once. Just enough to hold it in place.”
He reaches for the soil, guiding Flynn’s hands through the motion without taking over, letting him do the work even when it would be faster to do it himself. There’s no rush in him, no edge of impatience. Just a steady, quiet attention.
I stay where I am, just outside the space they’ve created together, and watch.
The noise of the event continues around me—voices, movement, the distant clatter of someone setting up equipment near the stage—but it feels removed, like it’s happening somewhere else entirely.
Flynn leans closer, pressing the dirt in with both hands now, his concentration absolute.
“Is it supposed to look like that?” he asks.
Declan glances at the uneven mound, then back at him. “It looks like something that’s going to grow,” he says. “That’s the important part.”
Flynn’s answering grin is quick and unguarded.
The sound that comes out of him a second later, half laugh, half something brighter, hits me harder than I expect. It’s been days since I’ve heard that. A real laugh, unforced, not the careful version he gives me when he thinks I need it.
Something in my chest loosens, the tension I didn’t realize I was holding easing by degrees as I watch them together.
This isn’t the man from the boardroom, or the headlines, or the version of him that still lives in the back of my mind, defined by a night that ended before it had the chance to become anything more.
This is something else. Quieter. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s going anywhere.
I shift my weight slightly, my pulse picking up in a way that has nothing to do with the walk across the lot or the uneven ground beneath my feet.
For the first time since all of this started, I’m not bracing for what comes next.
I just stand there, watching him stay, until I realize I’ve already moved.
It’s a small step at first, then another. Slow enough that it doesn’t draw attention, steady enough that it closes the distance before I can stop myself. The noise of the event presses in at the edges as I move, but my focus stays on them. On him.
Flynn is talking now, his hands moving as he explains something, his words spilling over each other in the way they do when he’s excited and trying to keep up with his own thoughts.
Declan listens like it matters, like there isn’t anything else competing for his attention, his head angled slightly toward Flynn, his expression open in a way I’ve only seen in flashes.
“—and then it grows, right?” Flynn says, pressing his palms into the dirt again, testing the firmness of the soil like it might give him an answer.
“It does,” Declan says. “Not all at once, though. You won’t see it right away.”
Flynn frowns slightly at that, considering. “Then how do you know it’s working?”
Declan’s mouth curves. “Because you gave it what it needs. The rest takes time.”
The words shouldn’t matter, but they do.
Flynn leans back on his heels, brushing his hands together with a small, satisfied huff. Dirt clings to his fingers anyway, caught under his nails and streaked across his palms.
“Can we do another one?” he asks.
Declan glances at the row of empty spaces marked out beside them, then back at Flynn. “We can,” he says. “But you’re in charge this time.”
Flynn straightens immediately, the responsibility taking hold like something solid. “Okay,” he says, already reaching for the next sapling.
Declan lets him, and that’s what undoes me; not the way he helps or the way he explains, but the way he doesn’t take over.
He stays where he is, close enough to guide, but far enough to let Flynn figure it out on his own, stepping in only when he needs to, his voice low and steady, never rushing him, never correcting in a way that feels like failure.
It’s patient, intentional, and not the version of him I’ve been holding onto.
Flynn shifts the sapling too quickly this time, the thin roots bending at an awkward angle. He freezes, looking up at Declan with a flicker of uncertainty.
“I messed it up.”
“No, you didn’t.” Declan reaches out, not to fix it, but to adjust Flynn’s grip, guiding his hands back into place. “You just went a little fast. Try again.”
Flynn hesitates, then nods, his focus narrowing as he corrects the angle.
“There you go,” Declan says quietly.
Something tight in my chest loosens again, the reaction unexpected enough that I don’t trust it at first. It would be easier if this felt forced, if there were some edge to it I could point to and say there, that’s what doesn’t fit. But there isn’t.