“Do you want to talk about it?”I ask.
Her lip trembles.She doesn’t look at me.“Not really.”
“Okay,” I murmur.“Then we won’t talk.”
She deflates like that was the right answer.Like she needed permission to not explain her pain.
We sit like that for a minute.Two.Her fingers curl around the glass like she’s afraid to let go.Then, quietly, like she’s confessing a sin:
“I hate that he still gets to do this to me.”
My blood goes cold.“Who?”
She shuts her eyes, wincing at herself.“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You can say anything,” I whisper.“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breath stutters.She lifts her drink to take another sip, but I gently touch her wrist.
“Hey,” I say softly.“You’re shaky.Maybe let me take that?”
She hesitates.
Then she nods and lets the drink go.
She’s letting me help her.
That alone feels like the kind of trust I don’t deserve.
I slide the glass away from her before she can change her mind.When she looks back up at me, the bar lights catch her eyes — brighter from alcohol, glossy with emotion she’s fighting hard to hide.
“You’re...nice,” she murmurs.
I laugh, but quietly.“Pretty sure that’s the first time a woman has told me that in a bar.”
“No, you are,” she insists, a tipsy conviction softening her tone.“You’re safe.”
The words hit me harder than anything on the ice ever could.
I swallow, feeling heat rise in my throat.“I’m glad you feel that way.”
Her fingers drift toward mine on the bar top.She stops herself before touching me, like she’s afraid she’s crossing a line.
I bridge the distance for her.
I lay my hand gently over hers, giving her a chance to pull away.
She doesn’t.
She lets out a tiny breath — relief, maybe — and her shoulders sink.
“Can you stay for a little?”she asks quietly.
I don’t hesitate.“As long as you want.”
Her head tips slightly until it rests against my shoulder.Light.Careful.Testing.
I go still.
