“Right,” I say.
His hands flex once at his sides.
I hate that I see the fight in him. I hate that some part of me wants to make this easier because I know the shape of his guilt now, and because I know he believes love and responsibility are things you prove by standing in front of damage until it stops moving.
But that is the problem.
He keeps standing in front of things.
Sometimes that blocks the exit.
“I am not trying to make him material,” I say, lower now. “That is exactly what I am trying not to do.”
Ryan looks back at me.
“I believe you,” he says.
The words land badly because they are too late and still matter.
“I need more than that.”
He swallows.
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.” My voice stays steady. I am proud of that. “You keep thinking this is about whether I will hurt him. It is not only about that. It is about whether the room keeps teaching him that needing help is something to hide until someone else decides he is allowed to need it.”
Ryan’s face closes.
Then opens again, barely.
“I did that,” he says.
Not a confession for me.
A realization he does not get to dodge.
“Yes,” I say.
The word is not cruel.
It does not need to be.
For a long second, neither of us speaks. The television keeps moving through muted celebrations. Men hitting glass. Men raising sticks. Men turning pain into something the crowd can cheer.
I think of Finn’s face in the tunnel. The beat before Ryan answered me. The way Ryan is standing now, as if every word has somewhere physical to land.
I turn toward the door.
“Peyton.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Ryan says. “About what he wants. Not what’s useful for the room.”
“That’s different from what you’ve been doing,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Don’t say it and then manage it anyway.”
