“I know.”
“I just needed—” He stops. Runs his hand through his hair, which is damp from exertion. “I needed to figure out what I was feeling first. Before I said it out loud.”
I look at him. At the man who couldn’t name a single emotion two months ago and is now telling me he needed to identify his feelings before he could share them, like it’s obvious, like that’s just what you do.
“That’s actually really healthy,” I say.
Amusement moves across his face. Not quite a laugh. “I’ve had a good teacher.”
“She sounds exhausting.”
“She really is.” He looks at the ice. “The inquiry is because of Main Street. The video. They flagged it under the wellness protocol.” He says it flatly, the way he says things he’s practiced saying. “There’s an evaluation. If it goes badly, I could be suspended.”
“I know.”
“During the playoff run.”
“I know, Bennett.”
He looks at me then—really looks, the way he does when he’s trying to read something and isn’t sure he’s going to like what he finds. “Are you going to tell me it’s not your fault?”
The question lands sideways. I didn’t expect it.
“No,” I say slowly. “Is that what you think I should say?”
“I think—” He stops. Starts again. “I think you’re standing here and you probably drove here and you probably feel responsible for some of this because you were the one who refused to let me hide.” He meets my eyes. “And I need you to know that you’re not. Responsible. None of this is on you.”
I stare at him.
“You saved my life,” he says, simply, like it’s not enormous. “That street was going to happen. The only question was whether anyone was going to show up when it did. You showed up.” His jaw tightens. “The league can file whatever they want. That doesn’t change what you did.”
I have been a person who holds things together through competence and composure for my entire adult life. I have sat with clients through divorces and diagnoses and grief and professional disasters and I have never once cried at my styling station.
I am not at my styling station right now.
“Hey.” He moves before I can stop him, stepping close, both hands on my face. “Hey. No. This is—I’m fine. I’m going to be fine.”
“You’ve been sitting in your truck outside my apartment.”
His hands still.
“Margot saw you,” I say. “Two nights ago. Eleven PM.” I meet his eyes. “You came and you didn’t come up. I’m your soft place to fall, Bennett. I don’t want you to ever think you can’t lean on me.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t explain it. Just looks at me with an expression that is all the explanation I need—the specific lookof a man who knew exactly what he should do and was too afraid to do it.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be sorry.” I press my hand flat against his chest. Feel his heart beating under my palm, steadier than I expected. “Just don’t do it again. Don’t come to my street and sit in the dark and drive away. Come up. Knock on the door. Let me in.”
“What if I don’t know what to say yet?”
“Then you say that.” I hold his gaze. “You say ‘I don’t know what to say yet’ and you come in anyway and I make you tea and we sit on the couch and you figure it out when you’re ready. That’s the deal. That’s the whole deal.”
He stares at me for a long moment.
“You make terrible tea,” he says.
“I know.” My chest loosens. “I’ve been working on it.”
