I start folding laundry in the living room just to fill the silence. Shirts. Socks. The tiny Voltage-colored hoodie Aubrey wore to the game. It’s something to keep my hands busy.
When Silas hangs up, he doesn’t come out right away. The conversation must’ve gone long; I hear the chair creak, the exhale he tries to hide.
“You okay?” I ask when he finally appears.
He nods, but his jaw is still locked. “The plus side of living in a town where everyone knows everyone else is they’ve already issued a warrant for his arrest thanks to the camera recordings. Lieutenant Cason will go in with the warrant squad to him in person.”
I fold one more towel before looking up. “Good.”
“Yeah.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I still don’t like you being here alone while I’m at practice.”
“I’m not alone. Your entire team drives by several times a day, and the neighbors watch from their window like it’s the town’s new TV channel.”
He doesn’t laugh. “Not the point.”
“It kind of is.” I step closer, slow, careful on my leg. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned since coming home, it’s that we can’t stop living just to avoid danger. It’s like calling a game misconduct for minor tripping.”
His eyes lift to mine, gray and storm-tired. “You think I’m overreacting.”
I step closer now, wrapping my arms around his waist. “I think you’re trying not to lose us by holding too tight.”
He exhales, the sound rougher than a sigh. “You get your therapist license overnight?”
“It came free with my crutch rental.”
That earns me a half-second of a grin before it fades.
“I just—” he starts, then stops, like the words jam somewhere between his chest and his throat. “When Thorn called me to the bench, it felt like my body forgot how to move. I was halfway through a drill while we had the ice, and suddenly nothing mattered but getting home. I keep seeing it, Oakley. Him on our porch. You on the other side of that door.”
I reach out and rest my hand on his chest, right over the spot that never seems to unclench. “He’s not here now.”
“I know.”
“Then let’s start living like it.”
He looks at me for a long time. “You’re really walking without the boot?”
“Mostly. Not far.”
“Show me.”
So I do—two steps, three—awkward but steady. His eyes follow every shift of weight like each one’s a minor miracle. When I stop, he’s close enough that I can smell the soap on his skin, the faint bite of coffee on his breath.
“You’re sure you should be—”
“Silas,” I warn.
He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay.” Then quieter: “It’s just good to see you standing.”
“I was standing before,” I remind him.
“Yeah, but this time you’re not shaking.”
I could argue, but the truth is there in my ankle, solid and sure for the first time in weeks.
That evening, the three of us eat on the porch. Aubrey insisted, said she wanted to “relax under the stars.” The air is crisp, the light fading to that soft gold that makes even the battered porch rails look beautiful.
Aubrey hums while she lines up her chicken nuggets like constellations. Silas keeps scanning the tree line between bites. I watch him instead of the sky.
