And now it was here.
A knock at the door.
Her heart skipped and then the door opened, and Murphy stepped inside. He looked unfairly good for someone coming off the ice, hair still damp from his shower, hoodie loose around his shoulders. But the brightness she loved about him . . . it wasn’t there. Something was off.
“Hey,” he said, but his voice was quieter than usual, heavy.
Before she could ask, Sasha jumped in. “Good, you’re here. Saves us a step.” She patted the seat beside Hillary’s desk and slid her phone around so he could see. “We’ve got a situation. Someone snapped a picture—grainy, but clearly you two at the dog park.”
Hillary’s stomach lurched. She hadn’t even worked out how she felt about Kevin showing her earlier, and now Murphy was seeing it with fresh eyes.
He sank into the chair slowly, like his knees might not hold him, and just stared at the screen. His skin went pale underhis tan, lips parting like he was about to say something, but no words came.
Sasha kept talking, laying out the steps, her voice brisk and steady, but Hillary couldn’t hear a single word. All she could hear was the rush of blood in her ears and the sound of Murphy’s breath as it stuttered, sharp and uneven, beside her.
His shoulders slumped. His big, open hands curled into fists on his thighs.
He wasn’t mad; not yet. He was hurt. Exposed.
And it broke her heart.
Her hand slid over his, squeezing tight. “Murphy,” she whispered, his name thick on her tongue.
He didn’t look at her right away. His gaze was stuck on the grainy photo like it had clawed its way into him. But then, finally, he turned.
And her breath caught.
He looked . . . bad. Not just pale, not just shaken. He looked like someone had pulled the ground out from under him and he didn’t know how to stand anymore.
“Can we—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Can we talk in the hall?”
The way he said it, soft but urgent, left no room for argument.
Hillary gave Sasha a quick nod—half apology, half promise—and stood. She followed Murphy out into the hall, her heels clicking too loudly in the quiet corridor. He stopped just a few feet away, braced a hand against the wall, and bent his head like he was trying to breathe through something heavier than air.
Her heart was breaking.
“Hey, I gotta go.”
The words dropped like a stone in her stomach. Hillary’s heart stopped.
“What? Why? We can figure this out, we’ll—” She heard her own voice climb, panic clawing up her throat.
Murphy cupped her face in his big, steady hands, forcing her to look at him. His palms were warm, his eyes anything but. They were raw, stricken.
“No.” His voice was rough but firm. “The timing is shit, but I’m heading to Boston. Patrick took a turn.”
Everything inside her went still. The photos, the gossip, the job, none of it mattered. Not when he said his brother’s name like that.
Her breath caught. And before she could think better of it, the words tumbled out, fierce and certain.
“Then let’s go.”
His brows pulled together, startled. “You—you’d come?”
“Of course I would,” she said, gripping his wrist like she could anchor him. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
Relief softened his whole face, the kind that made her ache for him. The corner of his mouth trembled, almost a smile, almost a sob. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to. It was written in the way he leaned his forehead against hers for a single steadying beat before nodding.
