“Want some?” Connor asks, offering you half a Danish.
You smile “No.” Sip your coffee.
“Fighting the forces of middle-aged spread?” he grins -- your scarred, teasing, hopeful boy.
“I am not spreading. Anywhere!”
He plays this game every time. Doesn’t understand he’s already letting you taste sunflared beach parties, awkward college crushes, letting you sink your teeth into home comings, and normal annoying families. Moments of grace. A life you didn’t sign away in blood. You don’t need pastries too.
And when he slips away from you, walks free into the daylight, you can almost feel your heart beat.