But watching her slide into clinical mode like I’m nobody special—it cuts deeper than the injury.
The slam of a medicine ball echoes down the hall, followed by a burst of laughter from Torres, and it only makes the silence between us sharper.
Halfway through the session, her hand brushes my quad as she checks alignment, quick and impersonal. But my whole body reacts anyway, a rush of heat I smother under clenched teeth. She doesn’t notice. Or she pretends not to.
As she sets the timer for the ice and steps back, my jaw aches from how hard I’ve been clenching it—not from pain in my knee, but from the weight of the silence between us.
“Charlie.” It comes out low, rough.
Her hand stills on the tablet, and for a second her guard slips. Her eyes lift to mine, open and waiting.
My chest squeezes. My throat locks. I try to say I miss her laugh. That I miss my hand finding hers without thinking. The way she softened when it was just us and the rest of the world fell away.
But the words stick. Because wanting her and protecting her aren’t the same thing, and I can’t risk her job just because I can’t keep my distance.
But all that comes out is, “Thanks. For… this.” My voice sounds strained, unfinished, and it grates like sandpaper in my throat.
Her lips part like she’s waiting for more. When I don’t say anything else, she nods, quiet, and adjusts the brace, her fingers brushing my skin. The touch is quick, clinical, but my body reacts anyway, heat sparking under my skin.
Vic ducks in, asks if the table’s free in ten. She answers without looking at me. The door clicks shut, and what’s left is quieter than I can stand.
The flicker in her eyes is gone, the tablet already a shield between us. And I hate myself for putting that wall there.
The silence follows me after she steps away, louder than the hum of the vent or the tick of the clock.
I wanted distance. Now I have it.
And it feels like hell.
By the time afternoon rolls around, I’m pulling into the school parking lot. The sun’s still high, bouncing off a bright banner strung across the main entrance:
Support Our Spring Musical! Bake Sale Today 3:30–5! Help Fund the Cast’s Pizza Party!
As soon as I step inside, I’m hit with the scents of chocolate, frosting, and powdered sugar. Parents drift between tables with paper plates, and kids wave cardboard signs that sayCupcakes $2andBrownies for the Cast!
A few teachers count money near the door, their laughter echoing against the tile.
Sophie’s easy to spot in the middle of the cafeteria, her dark ponytail swishing as she stands behind a long table with Maya. Their table’s loaded with cookies and brownies, little handwritten price signs taped to each tray. Maya’s calling out prices while Sophie collects money.
“Dad! You came!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, bracing on my crutch as she barrels over. She tugs me toward her table, still talking a mile a minute about how much they’ve sold when a familiar voice threads through the noise.
I glance up, and there she is.
Charlotte stands at the end of the same table, beside Erin, helping out with a line of kids. She’s in her work polo still, hair tucked behind one ear, sleeves pushed up.
For a second, she doesn’t see me. She’s focused on passing a cupcake to a little boy, smiling faintly at something Erin says. Then her gaze lifts, and the second our eyes meet, the noise of the room drops away.
“Dad?” Sophie tugs my sleeve, breaking the moment. “Can we get one of those chocolate cookies? The big ones.”
“Sure,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Grab a few.”
When I look up again, Charlie’s turned back to her table, keeping busy, but her shoulders are a little too straight.
Sophie waves a cookie bag toward me, grinning. “You want one?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, eyes still on Charlie. “Definitely.”
