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The words land harder than they should. I have missed him too, but saying so feels like opening a door I’ve spent days trying to keep closed. At home, there are people waiting to explain what my life should be. Plans existed long before I met him, and expectations have shaped every decision I’ve made. I can already hear the questions they’ll ask if I refuse them. I can imagine the consequences. What I cannot do is make myself regret Chicago simply because I don’t know how this ends.

“I missed you, too,” I say.

He goes still for a beat. Not dramatically. Just enough that I see it. “Yeah?”

“Yes, Daniil.”

His eyes search my face. “I wasn't sure you'd say that.”

I swallow. “Why wouldn't I?”

“Because you went home.” He says it without accusation. “And I don't know what that means for us.”

There it is. The question we’ve both been avoiding, the one that has followed me across the Atlantic and waited for me in every quiet room since I left him.

“I don’t know what it means either.”

He nods once, taking the answer for what it is instead of trying to turn it into something easier. That somehow makes it worse. I could handle him demanding a promise. I could tell him I couldn’t give him one. But he isn’t asking me to decide the rest of my life on a phone call outside an arena.

“I’m not asking you to figure it out tonight,” he says. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to see your face.”

My fingers tighten around the cushion’s edge. “I’m glad you called.”

His expression changes, the guardedness easing just a little. “Good. Because I was standing out here trying to decide whether calling you was a terrible idea.”

“Why would it be?”

“Because I scored the winning goal, and instead of celebrating with my teammates, I spent ten minutes wondering if you'd text me.” He gives a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Then you did, and I spent another ten wondering if you'd answer when I called.”

My throat tightens. “You could have just asked.”

“I'm asking now.”

I hold his gaze. He isn’t asking me to promise him anything. He’s asking if he’s allowed to keep wanting me, if the six days we had meant something to me beyond the moment, and if he’s about to become another thing I leave behind because my life is easier when I follow the plan.

“I want you to call,” I tell him. “Even when I can't tell you what happens next.”

His jaw shifts, and for a moment I think he might say something that changes everything. Instead, he nods. “Okay.”

Just that. No demand. No bargain. He lets my answer stand.

A gust of wind catches the microphone. He turns his head and mutters something in Ukrainian.

“Go inside,” I tell him. “You're going to freeze to death.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're going to lose a toe, and then I'll have to explain to your teammates that you died because you couldn't end a phone call.”

“Worth it.”

“Rez.”

“Anna.” His voice drops a little. “I wish you were here.”