Pickle's hand twitched against my chest at 3:47 a.m., fingers curling like he was catching something in his sleep. I watched it happen three times before I realized I'd been holding my breath.
He'd stopped talking twenty minutes ago. Mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-explanation of why emperor penguins were emotionally unavailable compared to their Adélie cousins. The words had simply trailed off. His body went slack against mine, all that kinetic energy draining out of him like water from a tub.
In sleep, Pickle was a different species. The constant motion quieted. The nervous energy that made him bounce on his toes and straighten salt shakers—all of it switched off. What remained was a body. Young. Warm. Breathing slowly against my ribs.
His palm pressed flat against my chest. Not gripping. There, like his hand had found me in the dark and decided to stay.
He didn't know what I'd done. Didn't know about Naomi's emails or the network's demands or the footage I'd already sent. He'd fallen asleep believing I was worth trusting. I'd lethim, because telling the truth might mean torching something I wasn't ready to lose.
Wake him up. Say the words.
He looked too peaceful. He'd come home glowing from that road trip—seven points, plus-eight, the best stretch of his career. He'd talked for an hour about Heath's face, the breakaway in Toledo, and the moment his internal broadcast stopped and left only instinct.
I couldn't take that from him. Not tonight.
That's not protection,a voice whispered in the back of my head.That's control.
My left arm had gone numb. That was what finally made me move. Pickle had been lying on my bicep for three hours.
I started the extraction slowly, easing his head onto the pillow with the precision I usually reserved for adjusting a lens mid-shot. One wrong move and he'd wake up—and then I'd have to look him in the eye and choose between truth and another lie.
Pickle stirred when his cheek hit fabric. His face scrunched—confused, offended, like the universe had personally inconvenienced him.
"Mmnh."
He reached out blindly, patting the warm spot where my body had been. When he found only a mattress, his brow furrowed.
"You're leaving." Not a question.
"Just for a bit. Work stuff."
"S'early." He turned into the pillow. "Come back."
"I will."
"Promise?"
The word was barely audible. Sleep was already pulling him under.
"Promise."
I waited until his breathing deepened. Then I eased out of bed and padded to the kitchen, looking for something to write on.
The first piece of paper I found was a grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cartoon pickle—a gift from Jake, probably. Pickle's handwriting sprawled across it. I'd recognize his writing anywhere:pickles (lol), cheese?, call mom, tape for stick, peanut butter the good kind NOT the healthy kind, ask Hog about yarn.
I turned it over. The back was blank.
I added my note:Had to check on some work stuff. Call you later. —A
Ten words. I placed it on the nightstand.
Outside, Thunder Bay was beginning to stir. As I stepped outside, the cold found every gap immediately—collar, cuffs, the space where my jacket didn't quite meet my jeans. The autumn sky was a gray that made you forget blue existed.
I drove past The Drop. Closed, but memories flooded my mind anyway: Pickle bursting through the door like a human confetti cannon. The parking lot where I'd found him in orange Crocs, trying to teach a dog to harmonize.
It's not what it looks like,he'd said.
I think it's exactly what it looks like.
