My hand slams the bottle down harder than I mean to. The sound cracks through the air. Water sloshes out, dripping down the counter.
Sage flinches—just a little—but it’s enough. Guilt hits me like a puck to the chest.
“Shit,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead. “I didn’t—sorry. I just?—”
She steps closer, voice low, steady. “Hey. You’re okay. Just… breathe.”
Her hand brushes my arm, grounding me. I exhale, the fight draining out of me all at once.
She nods toward the pot on the stove. “Dinner’s almost ready. Omega-3s for your brain, turmeric for inflammation, magnesium for sleep.”
Despite myself, I huff out a laugh. “You turning into my team nutritionist now?”
“Better than your PR manager,” she says softly, eyes flicking up to mine. “You’re not what they say you are, Leo.”
I don’t answer, but something in my chest loosens a little. The warmth of her kitchen seeps into me—the scent of garlic, the hiss of the pan, the quiet hum of her trying.
For a moment, I let her.
I let the noise fade.
Dinner ends quietly. She makes conversation about normal things—new recipes, the neighbor’s cat, some documentary she watched—but my thoughts keep drifting back to the rink. To the looks. The whispers. The damn headline.
By the time I shower and pull on an old Surge hoodie, she’s cleaning up in the kitchen. I linger by the counter, watching her move. Calm. Unhurried. Like the world outside doesn’t spin quite as fast when she’s in the room.
“Hey,” I murmur. “Thanks for earlier.”
She glances up, gives me that small smile that hits harder than any compliment. “You don’t have to thank me for basic human decency, Leo.”
I start to say something else, but her phone buzzes on the counter. She wipes her hands on a towel and checks it. “Spam text,” she says, brushing it off. But something in her tone catches. She sets the phone down too carefully.
I tilt my head. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” she says quickly, forcing a smile. “Just some weird number.”
She changes the subject fast, asking if I’ll taste-test her new batch of granola bars. I go along with it, because pressing her won’t help. But the shift in her energy lingers like a faint draft under the door.
Later, while she finishes dishes, I catch sight of the bouquet sitting on the counter. Those damn flowers again. Still too fresh, too perfect, like they don’t belong in this apartment.
Sage moves toward them, hesitates. Her expression goes still, then distant—like she’s listening to something I can’t hear.
I open my mouth to ask what’s wrong, but she’s already turning away, wiping her hands again, voice light. “You’re up early tomorrow, right? Better get some sleep.”
It’s dismissal wrapped in care, and I’m too drained to argue. I squeeze her shoulder as I pass. “Night, Sage.”
She nods without looking at me.
When I’m gone, I swear I hear the faint rustle of stems and paper. But by then, I’m too far down the hall to know if it’s real.
The apartment is dark when I wake in the middle of the night. No sound but the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional city noise filtering through the window. My phone buzzes with a team group text—someone posted a meme about Trevor’s latest penalty minutes. I should laugh. Instead, I set the phone facedown and rub my temples.
I think about Sage’s face earlier. The tension she tried to hide behind her smile. The bouquet she didn’t throw away this time.
I roll onto my side, staring at the faint glow under her door. She’s still awake.
Then something sharp cuts through the quiet—thecrinkleof paper, followed by a soft thud. I sit up, listening. Nothing. Just my pulse thudding in my ears.
Morning comes too early. When I shuffle into the kitchen, Sage’s hair is tied back, eyes shadowed like she didn’t sleep either. The trash bin is closed tight, the counter spotless.
