That undoes me; I can feel my sternum loosen like a knot at the first real tug. “Okay,” I whisper. “But if he—”
“If he breaks me?” A shadow of a grin. “He won’t. And if he does, you can tape me back together with those labels you love.”
I swat his shoulder, useless and in love. He kisses my forehead, quick and warm and indecent in the most beautiful way, and the room gasps again because people who’ve never been hungry don’t understand how small bread looks when you’re starving.
He steps away. I let him go because that was the deal I made with myself: I wouldn’t ask men to stay small to keep me safe. I watch him cross the floor toward the stage door, the line of his back something I could name in the dark with my eyes closed. He disappears. The door hushes itself shut.
I exhale. My hands shake once. Then I square my shoulders, smooth my dress, and do the thing I was born to do: pull a room back from the edge like it never almost fell.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say to the emcee, who is suddenly very happy to have me within arm’s reach. “Five to the welcome. Let’sreset. The tree lights up two percent. Cocoa bar ready to roll on my signal.”
The staff snaps to it, bless them. The donors pretend they weren’t planning to die for gossip. The band looks at me like I just tossed them a solo they actually want to play. The room obeys. It’s a cathedral again, not a Coliseum.
Only one thing doesn’t move where I put it: my heart, which is standing in a hallway behind the stage, waiting for two men to decide what language they’ll use to tell the truth about me.
I lift my hand, press two fingers to the ribbon under my cuff, and breathe in. I don’t pray. I don’t need to. I picked the weather. Now I own the storm.
Triston
The hallway behind the stage is colder than the ballroom, narrow walls painted the kind of beige that pretends not to notice arguments. The muffled sound of clinking glasses and a woman’s laugh slips through the door like a reminder that there are safer places to be. I don’t move.
Myfather figure in all but name is about to walk in here with enough anger in his chest to power the scoreboard lights, and I’ve got two choices: stand or fold. I’ve made my choice.
The door opens.
Wayne Michael enters like the hall belongs to him. It probably does. He shuts the door behind him with deliberate calm, no slam, no theatrics, just finality. His shoulders fill the space, and for a second I feel fifteen again, bracing under a man’s shadow, praying not to be seen as a disappointment. But that boy’s gone.
“Triston.” He says my name flat, like it doesn’t belong in his mouth.
“Coach.” My voice is steady. I don’t break eye contact.
We stand like that, ten feet apart, silence dense as ice under a blade. I can hear my own pulse and the faint hum of the ballroom beyond the wall.
“You think kissing my daughter in front of the entire donor base is a career move?” he asks finally. His tone is soft—too soft. I’d prefer yelling. Yelling means he’s a man, not a scalpel.
“No,” I answer. “I think it’s a life move.”
His jaw flexes. “Don’t get poetic with me.”
“I’m not,” I say, and I let him see it, the stripped-down truth. “I love her. I’m not hiding it anymore.”
There it is—the twitch at his temple, the flare in his nostrils. He hates it more because I said it calm. He can’t shove calm into the penalty box.
“You’ll destroy her,” he says, low. “You think obsession is love, but it’s heat. Heat burns out.”
I step closer, slow. “With respect, Coach, you don’t get to define what burns out for her. That’s hers to decide. Not yours.”
“You were her brother’s best friend,” he snaps. “You were family. And now you—” He breaks off, dragging a hand down his jaw like the words taste like blood.
“And now I love her,” I finish. “Do you think Andrew would’ve wanted me to walk away from her if she felt the same? Do you think he would’ve told me to pretend she doesn’t exist when she’s standing in front of me, choosing me back?”
The air sharpens. That name is holy here. Dangerous. But I won’t unsay it.
Wayne’s voice drops. “Don’t you use my son as your shield.”
“I’m not,” I say firmly. “I’m using his memory as my compass. He trusted me with her. I’ll break myself before I break that trust.”
We stare each other down. The weight of his grief hangs between us like a third body, and for a second I see it in his eyes—the way it guts him, the way it makes every instinct curl protectively around what’s left. Sammie.
