She doesn’t ask the question. Not out loud.

But it lingers in the air between them, thick as the Texas heat, suffocating.

Grayson doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and he just refuses to look.

She’s always been there—watching, waiting, hoping. But hope is a foolish thing, and she should have learned by now that she will never be enough. Not for him. Not when he still carries the weight of a love that burned too bright and ended too soon. Not when, in every room, his gaze flickers past her, searching for ghosts.

So she stops waiting.

Stops hoping.

She lets the silence stretch between them, lets it smother everything she never had the courage to say. If he ever loved her—if he ever felt anything at all—he would have said something by now.

Instead, he does what he always does.

He lets her go.

And she does what she swore she never would.

She leaves.