An inch.
But it feels like a mile.
“I can’t...talk about anything right now,” she says, voice tight.“I just need to get through today.”
“Okay,” I say immediately.“You don’t have to talk to me.Or anyone.”
She nods, relieved.
“But don’t push me away,” I add softly.“I can’t pretend I don’t care.”
Her hands tremble.
“I’m not trying to push you away,” she whispers.“I just...can’t let anyone in right now.”
And I get it.I do.
But it doesn’t stop the small, sharp pain that digs under my ribs.
“Okay,” I say again.“Then I’ll stay right here.”
“Finn—”
“Not close,” I promise.“Not smothering.Just...here.In case you need something.”
Her throat works.She nods once, then slips past me, heading toward the rink.
I watch her go.
Shoulders tight.
Steps too quick.
Head down like she’s dodging invisible blows.
And I know—
deep in my chest, deep in my bones—
that something is hurting her.
Something she’s not telling us.
Something big.
And I don’t know how to fix it without breaking the one rule she just gave me:
Give her space.
So I stay exactly where I said I would.
Not close.
Not smothering.
Just here.
And praying she lets me in before whatever’s scaring her gets worse.
