The First Glader

12

After a moment, she glanced over her shoulder. "You're staring."

George jumped like he'd been caught in a crime. "I—I wasn't— I mean—" He cleared his throat, trying to recover. "Okay, yeah. I was."

Ada turned back to the lake, hiding a faint smile. "Why?"

George hesitated, then wandered over and dropped beside her, legs stretched out in the grass. He scooped up a pebble, skipped it across the water, cleared his throat again—lower this time.

"Because you looked... far away," he said.

Ada paused mid-motion. "Is that your way of saying I looked sad?"

"No." His voice gentled. "It's my way of saying you looked like you needed someone to sit with you."

Ada's breath caught.

George wasn't using his loudness or jokes as a shield. He wasn't filling space with nonsense. His voice had gone low—husky even—soft around the edges, serious in a way he almost never was.

It unsettled her more than his teasing ever had.

She dipped her hand back into the water. "I don't always need someone."

"Yeah," he said, leaning back on his palms, head tilted up toward the fading sky. "But sometimes you do. And I'm... I'm here, you know."

Ada swallowed. "You make it sound simple."

"It is simple," George said quietly. "At least, it is for me."

She looked at him then. Really looked.

His usual bright grin had softened into something gentler, more vulnerable. His eyes—green and warm in the last bit of sunlight—weren't darting around or trying to read her reaction. He just held her gaze, steady and sure.

He wasn't teasing.
He wasn't flirting for the sake of seeing her blush.
He was present.

And he meant it.

Ada tore her gaze away, heart suddenly too loud in her chest. "Newt seems to be adjusting."

George nodded, still watching the water ripple. "Yeah. Kid's got guts. Trembles like a leaf but still shows up." He smiled a little. "Reminds me of someone."

Ada narrowed her eyes. "Who?"

"You." His tone was soft, sincere. "You trembled when you started too. You just hid it better."

She froze.

He didn't look at her—but the set of his jaw, the careful way he spoke, made it clear he wasn't mocking her.

"You were alone," he said, voice low and even. "Longer than any of us. And you still held it together. Still kept this place alive." Finally, he turned his head, his expression unguarded. "You're stronger than you think, Ada."

Something hot rushed through her chest—this strange mix of comfort and fear.

"I didn't do it alone," she whispered.

George's smile deepened. "You didn't. Not anymore."

Ada's throat tightened. "George..."

He swallowed, the husk in his voice deepening. "What?"

"You... can't just say things like that."

"And why not?"

"Because," she said, barely above a breath, "you don't mean them the way you sound."

George blinked, seeming almost hurt. "Ada... I always mean what I sound."

She stared at him.

He stared back.