"In the car."
"You need to ice it again. Twenty minutes on, twenty off." He was already moving toward my freezer, pulling out a bag of frozen peas. "This'll work."
He wrapped the bag in a dish towel and pressed it gently against my shoulder. "Sit," he said.
I sat.
He settled next to me on the couch, hand still holding the peas in place. "You want to eat first?" he asked. "Or talk?"
"I don't know."
"Okay." He didn't push. He sat there holding frozen peas against my shoulder.
"I'm scared," I said.
"Of what?"
"That you'll leave. That you'll realize this—" I gestured vaguely at myself. "—isn't worth the trouble."
"What makes you think you're trouble?"
"I'm loud. I'm messy. I don't know what I'm doing half the time." I stared at the frozen peas. "And I can't stop waiting for the other shoe. For you to wake up one day and unchose this."
"Unchose," Rhett repeated. "That's not a word."
I almost laughed. "You know what I mean."
"I do." He shifted slightly, adjusting the peas. "But here's the thing—I already know you're loud. I already know you're messy. I already know you overthink everything and spiral when you're scared." He paused. "And I'm still here."
"Today you're here."
"Yeah. Today I'm here." His voice was steady. "And tomorrow I'll be here. And the day after that. Not because I haven't figured out you're complicated—I have. But because I want complicated. I want a real person. I want you."
I turned to look at him. His eyes were dark and serious.
"My mom pushed," he continued. "She pushed hard, and I told her no. Not because I don't love her, but because I already made my choice. I chose Thunder Bay, the shop, and you." He set down the peas.
"But what if—"
"No." His hand came up, gripping my jaw. "We don't live life in the what ifs. You don't get to pre-emptively end this because you're scared. That's not fair to me, and it's not fair to you."
I blinked back the tears starting to form.
"I know nobody's stayed before," he said quietly. "I know people have disappointed you, and I can't promise I'll be perfect. In fact, I know I'm gonna fuck up, get stressed about work, and probably need space sometimes. But I'm not leaving. It isn't because you perform for me, make me laugh, or knit me things—though I like all that. It's because I don't have to be anything except myself when I'm with you."
"Even when I'm spiraling and can't get through a practice without getting benched?"
"Definitely then. Look at you. Instead of trying to handle this alone, you let me come over. That's not nothing, Hog. That's choosing me back."
The words were like a warm, heavy blanket thrown over me. "I don't know how to do this," I admitted.
"Do what?"
"Trust that good things stay."
"Then we'll teach each other. One day at a time. Not perfect. Real."
I closed my eyes and breathed in the scents of sawdust and coffee.
