Dan had learned patience the hard way.
It wasn't a virtue he'd been born with, or something he'd admired in others. Patience, to him, had always felt like weakness, hesitation dressed up as wisdom. But over the years, after mistakes that left scars both visible and buried deep, he had learned that waiting could be far more dangerous than acting too soon.
Waiting meant watching.
And Dan had been watching Ava for days.
He sat in his car now, his engine off, his window rolled down just enough to let smoke drift out. The cigarette between his fingers burned slowly, the orange tip glowing faintly every time he inhaled. He didn't rush it. He never rushed it anymore.
