Phoenix shrugs. “I got good at hockey. That’s what mattered. My foster dad didn’t care—kept me around because I could score goals. But my foster mom…” He stops, swallows.
“She cared. Actually gave a damn if I ate, if I slept, if I didn’t kill myself from the inside out.”
There’s a crack in his voice when he says it, and it makes my chest ache.
“What happened to her?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just takes a long sip of his drink, like maybe it’ll wash the words down. Finally, he says, “Car accident. I was seventeen.”
The silence that follows is heavy. I want to reach across the table, but I don’t. He wouldn’t want pity.
Instead, I say softly, “I’m sorry.”
Phoenix shrugs again, but this time it’s hollow. “Shit happens.”
I study him. The cagey way he deflects, the way he hides behind shrugs and smirks. But I can see it now, the cracks in the armor. The reason for the thrill-seeking, the constant need for control. If he stops moving, he has to feel it.
“That’s why you party the way you do?” I say quietly. “It’s not about fun. It’s about not sitting still long enough to remember.”
His eyes snap to mine. For a second, I think he’s going to bite back, but instead he just shakes his head and mutters, “You ask too many damn questions.”
I should stop. I should let it drop. But I can’t.
“Phoenix,” I say, steady, “you don’t have to tell me everything. But don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not. Not with me.”
The words hang there. For once, he doesn’t smirk, doesn’t joke, doesn’t deflect. He just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out what the hell I am. And for the first time, I think he might actually let me in.
The bell over the café door jingles as we step outside, the crisp air meeting us like a reset button. Phoenix has a paper bag in one hand—two sandwiches, because he didn’t give me a choice about eating later—and his keys jangling in the other.
“You want me to drop you off?” he asks, voice casual, though there’s something beneath it, sharp and waiting. His eyes flick sideways to me, unreadable but intent. “Or you wanna come back to mine for the day?”
The question shouldn’t make my chest tighten the way it does. I should go home. My brother would expect me to rest, to heal like a responsible adult. But the thought of being alone with my thoughts, with the echo of Phoenix’s voice spilling secrets over coffee, feels unbearable.
“I’ll stay,” I hear myself say.
Phoenix’s grin flashes, quick and satisfied. “Good. Kinda figured you would.”
The walk back to his house is short, but his presence stretches it out. He matches my pace, not rushing me even though my knee twinges with every step. It’s nothing dramatic, just a dull ache, but Phoenix watches me like he’s memorizing each falter. By the time we reach his porch, I’m half-expecting him to scoop me up and carry me inside.
Instead, he opens the door, gestures me in, and says, “Couch. Now.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He takes my hand before I can protest. “You were on that knee too much yesterday, and don’t think I didn’t notice you limping when you went for your coffee refill.”
I scoff. “You sound like my brother.”
“Your brother wasn’t the one cleaning up your bloodied kneepad last week.” He points toward the living room. “Sit, rookie. Elevate.”
It’s ridiculous, but I go. The couch is soft, worn in, with a throw blanket tossed carelessly across the back. Phoenix crouches, grabs a pillow, and shoves it under my leg until my knee is propped up like I’m some fragile thing. His focus is sharp, mouth set in a line, like he’s on the ice mid-game.
“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter.
“Maybe.” His gaze flicks up, pinning me. “But I don’t like seeing you hurt. So I need you to heal fast.”
The words stick in my throat. I look away because meeting his eyes feels like falling.
Phoenix settles beside me, close enough that his thigh brushes mine. He leans back, stretches his arm along the couch behind me, casual as hell, but his presence is suffocating in the best and worst way.
