"Hey." I stayed near the door, suddenly unsure. We'd been sharing drinks at The Drop, walking through town where everyone stared, and having one memorable afternoon in this workshop where he'd kissed me until I forgot my own name. Still, we hadn't defined it and hadn't yet talked about what might happen if Crawford took everything away.
"How was class?" He set down his measuring tape, giving me his full attention.
"Good. Really good, actually." I moved closer, drawn by the steadiness of his presence. "Taught six people how not to hang themselves with yarn."
He chuckled softly. "High bar."
"I'm an excellent teacher."
"I know." He said it simply, like it was a fact. Like he'd always known.
I stopped a few feet away, close enough to see sawdust caught in his hair, far enough to run if the conversation went wrong. "Crawford says they might sell the franchise. Move the team."
Rhett paused, and his jaw tensed. "When?"
"Maybe spring. Maybe sooner. Nobody knows." I shoved my hands in my pockets. "Could end up anywhere. Whoever needs a warm body who can still throw punches."
"Or you could stay." His voice was even, but his knuckles had gone white where they gripped the edge of the workbench. "Take Margaret's offer. Build something here."
"We've been dating for less than a month."
"I know."
"Everyone in town watches us like we're their favorite reality show."
"I know that too."
"I don't know what this is yet." I sounded desperate. "Don't know if we're serious or just—"
Rhett crossed the workshop in three steps. He reached out for my hips and pulled—not gentle, not asking permission.
"I cleared a drawer for you," he said.
"What?"
"In my dresser. Last week." His grip tightened. "Didn't tell you because I didn't want you to feel pressured. But it's there. Your stuff. When you want it."
I stared into his eyes.
"I told Sloane about you before our second date," he continued. "Put your number in my phone under your real name, not some bullshit code. And I keep—" He stopped. "I keep planning things. Months out. You meeting my dad before he forgets who I am. Teaching kids together next fall. Stupid shit that doesn't make sense for casual."
"Rhett—"
"I'm scared too," he said, and his voice finally cracked. "Of you leaving. Of building something and watching it walk away. But I'm doing it anyway."
He kissed me—hard, desperate, like he was trying to prove something neither of us had words for.
When we broke apart, I was shaking.
"Even if I'm not good enough at anything?" I managed. "You taught six people tonight."
"That's not—"
"That's everything." His hands stayed on my hips, anchoring. "Stop trying to be enough. You already are."
I bit my lip. "Even if it's smaller? Quieter?"
"Yes." He leaned forward. "I don't need loud. I need honest."
