A woman near the hotel entrance spots him first. I see the recognition spark, travel, become decision.
“Ryan McAllister?”
Ryan’s hand leaves my back.
Not fast, not guilty.
But it leaves.
I watch Captain McAllister arrive where the man had been.
Shoulders open. Face calm. Smile controlled but kind. He signs a receipt because the woman has no paper, bends down for a photo with a boy in a Stampede sweatshirt, answers a question about the next game with exactly enough warmth and exactly no information.
He is good at it.
That is the problem.
The city loves him in pieces he has learned to hand out safely.
I stand beside a planter and watch a dozen strangers take their portion.
When he comes back, the first thing he does is look at my hand.
Not reach for it.
Look.
Ask without asking.
My chest tightens.
I put my hand in his before fear can turn distance into dignity.
Ryan’s grip closes, then loosens, as if he has caught himself wanting to hold too hard.
“Sorry,” he says.
“For being recognized?”
“For making you stand there.”
“I write about athletes for a living. I understand public consumption.”
“That is not what I said.”
No. It is not.
We walk past the glow of Sternewirth, music from the bar spilling warm through the doors, hotel lights catching in my hair when I turn toward him.
“It is strange,” I say. “Watching the city reach for you like that.”
His mouth tightens. “You want out?”
“No.”
The answer comes too fast for safety.
Ryan stops beside the old brick wall. The crowd moves around us, making a pocket of almost-privacy where none exists.
