“I know your face,” I tell her, and I hate how soft it sounds. How close it comes to confessing everything I’m not supposed to want.
Her mouth parts like she’s about to say something, but she stops herself. Her shoulders square, chin lifting, and when she finally speaks again, her tone is all business.
“Don’t,” she murmurs, quiet enough that I almost miss it. “I’ll email you the finalized details for our coffee date on Saturday tonight. I think we should bump our arrival up to 9:30 to avoid the potential lunch crowd.”
I swallow down the thousand things I want to say that aren’t about timing. “I can’t do anything without my wardrobe guidelines.”
“Considering your… whole thing right now?” Her eyes flick over my sweaty gear. “Doubtful.”
“I’ll have you know I put this outfit together all by myself.” I gesture down at my sweat-soaked practice gear. “Pretty sure I’m redefining casual.”
She huffs out a breath. “Smart casual, Kyle. Not a locker room disaster.”
“I can be both,” I say, grinning. “Multi-talented.”
“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” Her gaze flicks up, but she doesn’t hide the twitch of her mouth this time.
“Not when it comes to you.”
The rink noises fade into background static, but none of it matters. What matters is that she’s close enough that I can feel the edge of her control, and I’m the reason it’s slipping.
“I wasn’t joking.”
She freezes. “You said you’d make it easy.”
“I did, and I am.”
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like this isn’t pretend.” Her voice trembles once, quick and contained, before she smooths it out again. “Please.”
The word please is probably the first honest thing either of us has said today. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then I take one small step close enough to feel her inhale, and to see the flutter in her throat she tries to hide.
“I’ll keep it professional, Torres,” I whisper. “But if you think I can un-feel this, you’re out of your mind.”
Her eyes flicker up, causing something in my chest to pull tight. I don’t know what I’m seeing exactly, only that it isn’t just annoyance or frustration. There’s something guarded there, something that tellsme this isn’t just about PR guidelines or a bad headline.
“This can’t be anything but fake. I’m the one who loses everything if we get caught playing a different story than the one I wrote.”
I want to understand, but all I can do is piece together what little I know—how hard she works, how tightly she holds the line between her job and everything else, how fast she shuts down when things get personal. Maybe she’s just protecting her job. Maybe she’s protecting herself. Maybe it’s both. Either way, I can’t tell, but I feel the weight of it anyway.
I want to tell her she’s wrong. The story she wrote doesn’t have to end the way she thinks it does. But she’s already stepping back, pulling her armor tight again, and I know that if I push right now, I’ll lose her completely.
“Then we won’t get caught.”
She laughs, but it’s hollow. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise I won’t let you get hurt.”
“That’s not how this works, Kyle. You don’t get to protect me from something you caused.”
The words hit harder than they should, mostly because she’s right. I’m the reason this entire mess exists. I’m the one who kissed her when I shouldn’t have, who looked at her like she was the only thing worth breaking a rule for.
“I’m sorry,” I respond. Two words that feel too small for what they’re supposed tofix.
“Don’t apologize for something we both wanted.” She shakes her head, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut.
