Finn clinks lightly, mouth set.“To showing up when she asks.”
Atlas taps his glass against ours like a vow, not a toast.“To ending this when she wants.”
We drink.The burn is cleaner now, or maybe I’m getting used to it.
Finn slides off the counter and paces exactly three steps before he catches himself and stops.“You think she’ll keep the phone off?”
“Tonight,” I say.“Tomorrow’s her call.We make every option easy.”
Atlas tilts his head.“Easy?”
“Simple choices,” I say.“Turn it on with us in the room.Turn it on after practice.Leave it off until she’s ready.No pressure disguised as advice.No shame if she changes her mind five times.”
Finn huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh.“You practice being this sane?”
“I learned it,” I say.
Atlas looks at me for a long beat, something like understanding passing between us without touching.He drains what’s left in his glass and sets it down with care.“I’m taking first hallway shift.”
“You’re not sleeping there all night,” I say.
“I didn’t say I was sleeping,” he says.
Finn glances at the clock.“I’ll take the couch.If she wakes up and doesn’t want to call out, she’ll text me.”
“She’ll text the thread,” I say.
He nods, already pulling his phone and opening the group chat, dropping a simple message that means we’re awake if you are:Finn:Lights low, door cracked.I’m outside.
Three dots pop up, then disappear.They aren’t hers.They’re mine; I typeCopy, thenAtlas:Hall.The thread looks like a floor plan now.It calms me more than the scotch.
“Kael,” Atlas says, pausing at the doorway, “you going to sleep?”
“Eventually,” I say.
Finn looks between us.“He’s skating tomorrow at six.”
“I’ll skate at six,” I say.“I’m captain at two.”
He doesn’t argue because he knows the order of those truths in me.
Atlas nods once and moves into the hallway, presence filling a space that was too empty a half hour ago.Finn shoulders into the couch, pulls the throw to his chest, and stares up at the ceiling like it might give him instructions if he asks nice enough.
I rinse the glasses and set them upside down on the rack.The kitchen goes back to quiet.
When I turn to the doorway, the apartment feels different again.Not smaller.Not bigger.Aligned.Like the furniture shifted a quarter-inch where it always should have been.
On my way back to the bedroom, I stop at the hall and meet Atlas’s eyes.“Ten feet,” I say.
He nods.
“And soft,” I add.
He grimaces.“I heard you the first time.”
I let the corner of my mouth tilt.“You were listening to the part you liked.”
He snorts, almost a laugh, then sobers.“Thanks.”
