He moved through the café carefully—the way big guys learn to move in small spaces, conscious of elbows and tables and the ceramic mugs on every surface. One hand came up automaticallyto check the clearance on a hanging plant, even though it was nowhere near his head.
I stood.
"Hey." His voice was rough when he reached the table.
"Hey. You're early."
"Yeah, I—walked fast. Or not fast enough. Time's been—" He yanked off his jacket, hung it on the chair. His hands immediately started drumming his thighs. "You're early too."
"Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty."
His hands stopped. The knuckles were red, one of them split along the first joint—probably from hockey practice. Enforcers' hands never quite healed between games. "You were nervous?"
"Terrified."
"You—really?"
"Still am." I sat. He followed, and the chair groaned under his weight—probably at least two-twenty, most of it muscle. He winced, shifting his weight like he was trying to distribute it better.
"Sorry—"
"Don't." I watched him try to make himself smaller, shoulders curving in. "You're allowed to take up space."
His hands went back to drumming—restless energy. Across the café, Margaret's needles clicked. Juno didn't pretend she wasn't watching.
"Juno got to you?" His voice was careful.
"Gave me the speech."
"Let me guess. Don't fuck this up, he's been hurt before?"
"Close enough." I paused. "Was she right?"
He scratched his beard. "People want one version. The enforcer or the—the other parts. When they figure out it's both, they get frustrated. Ask me to pick. Be simpler."
"I don't want simple."
He stared at me.
"I've built my whole life around simple," I continued. "Safe. Acceptable. It's boring as hell. I'd rather have complicated."
"And if complicated's too much?"
I reached across the table. Took his hand. His fingers were warm, rough with calluses—different from mine. Mine came from hammers and sanders, worn into the meat of my palms. His were from stick tape and friction burns along the fingers from blocking shots.
"Everyone's watching," he said quietly.
"Good. I picked the window table on purpose."
His thumb brushed against mine—careful, like he was testing the contact. "Why?"
"So there's no confusion." I met his eyes. "I want this. I want you. And I want Thunder Bay to know it."
His breath caught. "I'll probably fuck this up."
"Me too, but at least we'll be honest about it."
He laughed—smaller than his usual volume. Then winced slightly, hand going to his ribs. Saw me notice and dropped it. "Took a hit in practice. Desrosiers got under my guard."
