The room seemed to narrow around the admission. I kept holding her hand, though every instinct wanted more distance and more information at once.
“You let me believe—” I could not finish. “Were you unsafe to coach me?”
“No. I could read you. I could not admit I needed to read myself.”
“The second race?”
Dani’s breath changed. “I did not tell Gloria this part.”
I waited.
“I thought a finish would make the first one smaller. I trained through pain. On the course, the noise started again. I pushed harder. My knee failed before I reached the place.”
“You wanted a different ending so badly that you accepted a different kind of damage.”
“Yes.”
The neighbor’s television laughed through the wall. A bus braked outside. Dani stared at our joined hands.
“Professional facts,” I said. “Two starts. No finishes. One panic-related medical removal. One injury after training through pain. Current treatment status?”
“Back in therapy. Rose knows the symptoms. No current injury.”
“Current training?”
“Six to eight miles once or twice a week, plus client miles. No race plan.”
“Considering a marathon?”
“Yes.”
Dani’s thumb rubbed once across my knuckles, then stopped when she noticed the movement.
“Do you know why?”
“No.”
“Then say that before offering safer substitutes.”
“I will.”
I withdrew my hand only long enough to reach for the notepad on her table. “We need one behavioral rule.”
Dani gave a weak smile. “Of course we do.”
“If a choice could change your race status, your training risk, or a shared plan, you tell me before acting. Not because I approve it. I do not possess your race choice.”
Her attention sharpened.
“I do possess my decision about whether to build intimacy around accurate information,” I continued. “You may choose a race I dislike. You may not manipulate the facts so I remain available while you choose it.”
Dani looked down. “Yes.”
“And you give Rose the same information you give me about mileage and symptoms.”
“Yes.”
“What will you do tomorrow?”
