POV: Alex Ren
The moment she buckled her seatbelt, I knew peace was no longer an option.
"Okay," Ava began, with the energy of ten espressos and the innocence of a Labrador, "so today in torts we talked about liability and—Alex, do you think if someone slips on a banana peel in a grocery store, it's the banana's fault or the store's fault? Wait, don't answer that, I already wrote a 700-word essay in my head."
I said nothing. I kept my eyes on the road.
Didn't matter. She was already moving on.
"Oh! And Professor Giles wore a yellow tie today—like, banana yellow, weirdly thematic. And then Luca—remember him? You met him once at the uni mixer? No? Well, he remembered me and he offered me a granola bar but it had almonds and you know I hate almonds. And then Maya told me my eyeliner was on point and honestly, it was—like, just look at this wing!"
She leaned closer, flashing her wide brown eyes at me.
I risked a glance.
The winged liner was… fine. I didn't care. But I grunted anyway.
She gasped like I'd proposed. "Did you just compliment me with your grunt? Is this growth?"
"No," I said flatly.
"Liar. You love me."
"I barely tolerate you."
She laughed, a sound that bounced around the car like glitter I'd never get rid of. "You tolerate me so much you came to pick me up!"
"I was threatened."
"Threatened with eternal loneliness and guilt if you didn't love your wife enough," she singsonged. "Granny Ren is so iconic."
I didn't answer. My jaw flexed.
She opened the window, her hair flying wildly in the wind, one hand catching the breeze like she was in some indie music video.
"And then," she went on, "I almost tripped in front of the vending machine but caught myself because growth! And then I actually did trip over a squirrel because it was just… there. Chilling. Judging me."
"You tripped over a squirrel."
"I tripped for a squirrel. It was spiritual."
I blinked.
She grinned. "Anyway, I'm starving. Let's have waffles for dinner. Ooh, or ramen! No wait—you pick. I'll just make both. With dumplings. And that seaweed thing you pretend not to like but always eat off my plate."
"I don't do that."
"You do."
"Prove it."
She whipped out her phone and opened her photo gallery. "I take receipts, mister."
I sighed deeply, eyes on the road, but I didn't stop the corner of my mouth from twitching. Just a little.
Because her talking too much, being too much, loving too much—it filled the mansion with something I hadn't realized I missed.
Noise. Color. Chaos.
Her.
And as she launched into a story about how she once mistook her professor's dog for a raccoon (don't ask), I just let her talk.
I didn't tell her to stop.
Not once.