Her eyes open, but she doesn’t answer.
The silence stretches until it feels like a wall between us. I close my eyes and let the weight of it sink in. The fight, the kiss, the mess I made of all of it.
She shifts slightly, just enough that our hands almost touch. Not quite. It’s enough to wreck me.
We lie there, two people caught between what we want and what we’re afraid of. Too close to be strangers. Too far to feel safe.
And as the city hums outside our window, I realize something I can’t take back:
I might’ve just lost the one thing I was fighting to protect.
Chapter 21
The Silent Zone
Sage
Morning light slicesthrough the blinds, sharp and accusing. For a heartbeat, I just stand there, the weight of last night pressing against my chest—regret tangled with something I can’t name. My thoughts are heavy, scattered, the quiet between us louder than any argument. It paints harsh lines across the kitchen counter—the same counter where everything broke open last night. The same counter where we couldn’t stop.
The air still smells faintly of him. Of sweat, coffee, and that clean cedar soap he uses. My stomach twists. My brain’s still catching up with what my body did. Whatwedid.
Leo’s already dressed for practice, crouched on the edge of the couch. His shoulders are hunched, jaw tight, and he hasn’t looked at me once.
I linger in the doorway, arms wrapped around myself. Only when the chill from the tile seeps through my bare feet do I realize I’m wearing one of his shirts. It hangs off one shoulder, soft and familiar, and somehow that makes it worse.
“Coffee’s ready,” I say finally. My voice sounds too small in the space between us.
He nods once without looking up. “Thanks.”
The word lands flat, lifeless. I pour my own mug just to have something to do with my hands. The silence feels like a third person in the room—loud, heavy, impossible to ignore.
“Did you sleep?” I ask, trying for normal. Casual. Like my heart isn’t pounding hard enough to shake the mug.
“Fine.”
That’s it. One word. Not even a glance.
It hits harder than last night’s fight. Harder than his kiss. Because at least those things had heat. This is ice.
I set the mug down before my hand shakes. “You’ve got a game tomorrow, right?”
He finally looks up, and for a fraction of a second, I think I see it—the guilt, the exhaustion. But it’s gone before I can name it. “Practice first,” he says, standing. He grabs his duffel, his keys. His shoulders brush past me, and the static between us is unbearable.
“Leo—” I start, but the word dies when he turns back.
His eyes are unreadable, voice even. “I’ll be late tonight.”
It’s not an apology. It’s not anything.
The door closes behind him, leaving me in the echo of silence he always carries when he’s hurting.
I stare at the empty space he left behind, my chest tight. The coffee goes cold in my hands. The morning light shifts, softer now, but it doesn’t feel forgiving.
Last night, his body told me everything I wanted to hear.
This morning, his silence says it didn’t mean a thing.
The kitchen at the restaurant hums with the usual chaos—orders shouted, pans clattering, the low hiss of oil hitting the skillet—but I can’t find my rhythm today. Every motion feels halfa second off, like Leo’s timing on the ice this morning. Maybe we’re both breaking down in our own ways.
