“Deserve’s a bad metric,” I say. “Try want. I want to be here.”
His eyes flick to mine, immediate, hungering. “Even if I—” He stops. Starts again. “Even if it’s messy?”
“Especially if it’s messy.”
He breathes out like a man dimly, delightedly dying. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”
“We’ll be bad at it together,” I say. “It’ll be our thing.”
“Great brand,” he says, but he’s smiling too hard for the sarcasm to land. He shifts, tucking in closer, an animal selecting a den. “Hale?”
“Mm?”
“You buying groceries… that got me,” he admits, like confessing a crime. “I know that’s small. But nobody… does that. They come for the game, or the win, or the fight. Then they go.”
“I’m not nobody,” I say.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “You’re not.”
His eyes finally start to dip closed, the violence in his face easing notch by notch. I drag my knuckles along his scalp and feel himrelease a layer I didn’t even realize he was still wearing. The drumline behind his eyes quiets. The lines at his mouth soften.
“Sleep,” I say.
He frowns like he wants to argue on principle, then yawns and betrays himself. “Stay.”
“I was planning to,” I say.
He blinks once, heavy-lidded, the blue of his eyes almost translucent in the pale light. “The thing you said last night,” he murmurs. “About not hiding.”
My chest tightens. “I meant it.”
He nods, small as a nod can be. “Let me… catch up,” he says. “I’m coming, I swear. I just… I want to do it right. Not a headline. Not a stunt. Us.”
“Us,” I echo. I bend and press my mouth to his temple. “Take your time.”
He closes his eyes. A minute passes. Another. The building’s old bones click and settle. I breathe with him, matching the rise and fall, letting it anchor me to something that isn’t duty or expectation. When his hand loosens on my knee and the weight of him shifts into sleep, I let myself look straight at the feeling I tried to fidget around all night.
I want this. Out loud. In daylight.
He makes a small sound, the kind that would be embarrassing if he were awake. I smile at it like it’s a gift. “You’re ridiculous,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. He’s here, warm and heavy, trusting me with the softest version of himself. I stroke his hair and the morning keeps unfolding—slow, generous, ordinary in the way I never let myself want.
“Just let me take care of you,” I say into the quiet, more vow than request. “Let me stay.”
Hours later, Magnus is draped across the couch when I finish dressing, one arm flung over his eyes, blanket twisted around his waist. The morning light sharpens every edge of him—the bruise along his jaw, the cut on his knuckle, the curve of a mouth that looks too smug for someone still half-asleep.
I’ve just slipped my watch on when my phone buzzes. Dad.
Lunch. 12:00. My office. Don’t be late.
It’s not a request.
I stare at the screen longer than I should. Magnus notices.
“Don’t go,” he says, voice still rough with sleep.
“I have to. It’s my dad.”
