They don’t even notice. They’re already talking about Grayson Locke now—his name rolling off their tongues like a punch I should’ve seen coming. “Locke’s carrying the team this year. Guy’s a machine.”
My jaw aches from how tightly I’m biting back words. I back away from the table, keeping my smile fixed until I reach the kitchen, where it drops like a stone.
Manny glances up from the grill. “They giving you a hard time?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say, but my voice cracks halfway through.
He frowns, but doesn’t push. “Take five.”
I nod and slip into the back hallway, pressing my palms to the cool tile wall. I breathe in the scent of citrus and smoke, trying to anchor myself. But the words keep echoing.Golden boy. Lost his penthouse. Slipping.
They have no idea how close to home those words hit.
By the time I get home that night, the sky is bruised purple and the apartment feels colder than it should. The rain that’s been threatening all day finally starts to fall, a slow patter against the balcony doors.
Leo’s sitting at the table with his laptop open, the glow from the screen throwing hard light across his face. His eyes look shadowed, rimmed in exhaustion. There’s a plate of food in front of him—untouched.
“I made dinner,” I say softly, setting my keys down. “Salmon. Ginger rice. It’s good for recovery.”
He doesn’t look up. “Not hungry.”
My throat tightens. “You need to eat, Leo. You barely had anything this morning.”
“I said I’m fine.” The words come out too fast, too sharp.
Something inside me splinters. “You’ve been saying that for weeks, and it’s never true.”
His jaw works, but he still doesn’t look at me. “I’ve got film to watch.”
“Right. Because film fixes everything.” The sarcasm slips out before I can stop it. I hate the sound of it—brittle, defensive, small.
That finally gets him to glance up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re not the only one under pressure, Leo!” I say, the words tumbling out before I can reel them in. “I’m walkingon eggshells here, trying to make things easier for you, and you won’t even look at me.”
His expression flickers—something between guilt and frustration—but it’s gone just as fast. “I didn’t ask you to fix anything.”
“I know,” I whisper.
Silence. Just the sound of rain, steady and relentless.
He rubs a hand over his face. The ache in my chest deepens. I nod once, too tightly. “Then eat. Or don’t. Whatever.”
I turn toward the hallway before he can see the tears stinging my eyes. “I’ll be in my room.”
“Sage—” he starts, but I’m already gone.
The door shuts behind me, and I finally let the tears fall.
The rain’s still coming down hours later, soft and steady against the windows. In the next room, the muffled sound of the TV fades.
Then nothing.
When I finally step out, Leo’s asleep on the couch, one arm slung over his eyes, the tablet still glowing in his lap. He looks older like this. Defeated, somehow.
For a long moment, I just stand there, watching him breathe. The anger I’d been holding onto softens into something else—something dangerous in its tenderness. I walk over quietly and lift the blanket from the back of the couch, tucking it around him. His hand twitches but doesn’t wake.
I brush a damp strand of hair from my face, trying not to think about how lonely it feels to care this much for someone who can’t meet me halfway right now.
