27. Declan
Declan
Six Months Later
“Wait—wait—do I cut it now?”
Flynn is already halfway under the ribbon before anyone answers, the oversized scissors clutched in both hands as he looks back over his shoulder like he’s not entirely sure he’s doing this right but doesn’t want to wait long enough to find out.
“Not yet,” Talia calls, laughing as she lowers the camera just enough to catch him before he moves again. “You’re going to take someone’s hand off if you don’t hold still for two seconds.”
“I am holding still,” he insists, even as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the ribbon stretching slightly where he’s leaned into it.
I reach out, and catch the edge of it before it pulls any further. “You’re doing fine,” I tell him, steadying it without taking it out of his hands. “Just wait for the signal.”
He nods like that was always the plan, his focus snapping back to the ribbon with a seriousness that doesn’t quite match the way he’s practically vibrating with energy.
The crowd gathered along the edge of the tarmac quiets as someone steps forward to say a few final words, the sound carrying easily across the open space. It’s smaller than the events we usually host. There’s no stage or formal seating, but it doesn’t feel like anything’s missing.
The scholarship banner stretches between two posts behind Flynn. The Crossridge Foundation logo printed cleanly across the center, the words aviation program catching the light as the sun dips lower along the horizon.
I don’t miss the way Talia adjusts and steps slightly to the side to frame him just right, her attention locked in without losing track of everything else happening around her. She doesn’t direct the moment. She just catches it.
“Okay,” someone calls from the side. “Go ahead.”
Flynn doesn’t hesitate this time.
The scissors close with a loud, uneven snap, the ribbon parting just slightly off-center as the ends fall away. There’s a brief beat of silence before the applause starts, spreading outward in a way that feels more genuine than practiced. A few people laugh as Flynn looks down at what he’s done.
“It’s crooked,” he says.
“It’s perfect,” Talia answers without lowering the camera.
He grins at that, immediate and bright, and steps back as someone moves in to gather the ribbon. His attention shifts toward the plane again like the last thirty seconds already belongs to someone else.
I stay where I am for a second longer, the sound of the applause fades into the background as the moment becomes quieter. It doesn’t need to be repeated or explained.
Six months ago, none of this existed, at least not like this. Now, it does.
The crowd starts to thin a few minutes later. Conversations break apart into smaller clusters as people make their way toward the parking area. A few linger near the plane, pointing things out to their kids or taking pictures. Anything to stretch the moment a little longer.
Flynn doesn’t hesitate.
The second the space opens up, he’s moves and heads straight for the edge of the tarmac where the small plane sits angled in sun. “Can we go closer?” he asks, even as he’s already halfway there.
“Stay where I can see you,” Talia calls after him, lowering the camera as she watches him go.
“I will,” he says, which probably means he’ll try.
I follow at a slower pace, not because I need to keep up, but because I don’t feel the need to rush it.
The air is warmer out here, the heat from the pavement still holding from the day, the faint scent of fuel and metal mixing with the sharper edge of the open sky.
It’s quieter without the crowd, the noise calm and contained.
Flynn stops just short of the plane, his head tipping back as he takes it in. The kind of full-body stillness that only happens when something actually captures his attention. “It’s bigger up close,” he says.
“They usually are,” I answer.
He glances back at me, like he’s deciding whether I’m serious, then nods once. “Do you think I could fly one?”
The question is innocent.
I step up beside him, following his line of sight out across the runway to the stretch of open space beyond it. Uninterrupted in a way that feels different from the city, boardrooms, from anything that ever needed to be controlled.
“Maybe,” I say. “If you want to.”
He considers that, quiet for a second longer than usual, like he’s already building something out of it in his head.
“Can we fly one day?” he asks.
I glance down at him, then back out at the horizon, the light catching along the edge of the runway as the sun dips lower.
“We already are.”
He frowns, like that wasn’t the answer he expected, then looks again, trying to make sense of it anyway.
Behind us, I hear the soft click of Talia lowering the camera, the sound familiar enough now that it doesn’t pull me out of the moment. When I turn, she’s watching us, her expression softer than it was earlier. Not focused on capturing anything this time, just… there.
That still catches me, not the way she looks at me, but the way she doesn’t need to. I let that sink in for a second, and don’t try to define it. I don’t try to hold onto it any tighter than nesccary, and for once, the instinct to move past it doesn’t follow.
It stays. And so do I.
The last of the crowd drifts off behind us, the noise fades until it’s just the three of us at the edge of the runway, the open stretch of it catching the light as the sun dips lower. The air shifts with it, cooler now, the warmth of the day giving way to something quieter.
Flynn nudges closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he looks out across the tarmac again, like he’s trying to hold onto it a little longer. Talia steps in on my other side, her hand finding mine with an ease that no longer feels new.
I glance back toward the building, more out of habit than anything else, and catch sight of the last few people lingering near the entrance. Graham is already gone. Marcus, too. The space they occupied has folded back into something ordinary without leaving anything behind.
Adrian is still there.
He stands just off to the side of the entrance, angled slightly toward a woman I don’t recognize. Her dark curls catching the last of the light as she says something that capitvates his attention in a way I haven’t seen before. It’s not obvious. Most people wouldn’t catch it.
I’ve seen that look before. I know what it costs, and exactly what it’s worth.
A smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth before I turn back, and I let the moment stay where it is instead of making it something bigger than it needs to be.
“Ready?” Talia asks quietly.
I glance down at Flynn, then back out at the runway, the open stretch of it fading into the horizon as the light dips lower, softer now, less defined.
For a long time, I would’ve seen it as the next step, the next place to go. Now, it doesn’t feel like that. It just feels like space.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice steady, easy in a way that doesn’t take effort. “I am.”
Flynn reaches for my hand as we turn back toward the building, his grip sure, unthinking, like it’s always been there. Talia stays close on my other side, her shoulder brushing mine as we fall into step together, the rhythm of it easy, familiar.
For once, nothing about this feels temporary.
And for the first time, I don’t feel the need to move on.
This is where I stay.