I step outside into the alley, blinking against the sunlight. The city noise hits all at once—horns, chatter, the faint hum of someone’s radio from a passing car. I lean against the brick wall and finally pull out my phone.
My hands are trembling when I call Leo.
He picks up on the second ring. “Sage.” His voice is low, tight, like he’s been waiting for this call.
“I saw it,” I say. My throat feels raw. “All of it.”
“I know,” he answers. “Don’t say anything online. PR’s already spinning.”
I blink. “Spinning?”
“Yeah,” he says, and I can hear the tension in his voice. “We’re getting ahead of it. Controlling the story before it controls us.”
I press a hand to my chest, trying to hold myself steady. “You mean controllingme?”
He rakes a hand through his hair, frustration flashing across his face. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Feels like it.”
The silence between us stretches, tight and painful. For the first time, I realize how far apart we really are—even when he’s the only person who should understand.
That night, the apartment feels like it’s holding its breath.
The TV glows on mute, some mindless sports recap running through highlights that barely register. Leo sits on the couch in a T-shirt and sweats, scrolling through his phone, his jaw tight. His shoulders look heavier than usual—like the weight of every word written about us has settled there.
I move around the kitchen, trying to busy myself with dinner that neither of us will eat. The smell of sautéed garlic fills the air, but it doesn’t cut through the tension. It just hangs there, sharp and lingering.
He hasn’t said much since the call. Just short answers. Practical ones. I tried to fill the silence once or twice, asking about practice, about his coach—but each question hit a wall.
Now, he says quietly, “They’re running damage control. Issuing a statement that says we’re just friends.”
The words land like a punch to the gut. “Friends,” I echo.
He looks up finally, eyes dark, searching. “It’s not forever. Just until the noise dies down.”
I swallow hard. “So I’m your PR problem now.”
His mouth opens, then closes again. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this.” My voice cracks before I can stop it. “I didn’t ask for this, Leo. I didn’t sign up to be turned into a headline.”
He stands, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think I did? You think I wanted you dragged into this mess?”
“I think,” I say slowly, “that somewhere along the way, you started treating this like a game you can win. But I’m not part of your team strategy.”
The silence after that feels like an open wound. The only sound is the sizzle of forgotten food in the pan.
He finally turns off the stove, sets the spatula down, and meets my eyes. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“Then maybe stop treating me like something that needs protecting,” I whisper.
We stand there—two people in the same room, breathing the same air, both completely alone.
He reaches for me, hesitates, then pulls his hand back. “Eat something,” he says softly.
“I’m not hungry.”
Neither of us moves. The food burns.
