He cocked his head, the faintest trace of amusement curving his mouth. “You said that like it’s a dare.”
I exhaled, rubbing my temple. “Kyle’s just… busy. Again. I’m proud of him, I am. It’s just?—”
I stopped myself, words catching on a sigh. Why was I even saying this to him?
Beckett’s voice softened, just barely. “It’s just what?”
I stared at the papers in my hands, not really seeing them. “I’m tired of being the thing that waits.”
The room went still. I expected the smirk, the sarcastic comment — something cutting to deflect the weight of it. But instead, he just nodded, slow and thoughtful.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That sucks.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “That’s it? No smart comment?”
He met my eyes, serious now. “Not everything needs one.”
That threw me more than any insult could have.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It was… grounding. Like we’d both stopped pretending for a second.
I slumped into the chair across from him, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. He didn’t move, just sat there watching me — not in a way that felt invasive, but like he was trying to understand something for once instead of fight it.
We both looked wrecked, honestly. Me from lack of sleep and too many responsibilities. Him from constant practice, the weight of his own messes hanging over him like a storm cloud.
He broke the quiet first. “You know what I hate? People who think showing up is optional.”
I let out a half-laugh, shaking my head. “That’s rich coming from you.”
He grinned, low and unoffended. “Yeah, well, I’m a quick study.”
That pulled a reluctant smile out of me. “Apparently.”
We sat there like that for a while — not talking, not needing to. The conference room was empty except for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the smell of burnt coffee lingering from the morning.
It wasn’t romantic. Not even close. But it was… safe.
The kind of quiet where I didn’t feel like I had to be the composed one, or the professional one, or the one holding everything together.
I could just be tired. And he didn’t try to fix it.
Beckett leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “You know,” he said after a beat, “for someone who claims she’s fine, you say a lot for a person who’s fine.”
I arched a brow at him. “You’re one to talk. You yell at referees for breathing wrong.”
He grinned, that sharp, boyish kind of grin that almost made me forget he could be infuriating. “Yeah, but at least I’m honest about it.”
“Honesty,” I murmured, glancing down at the papers I’d stopped pretending to read. “Novel concept.”
He tilted his head toward me. “Try it sometime. Might help.”
I met his gaze, steady this time. “Maybe I just did.”
Something flickered in his eyes — surprise, maybe. Or respect.
Either way, neither of us said anything else after that.
And then Naomi’s voice broke the moment like a light flicking on. “We got the new sponsorship banners!”
