Something sharp flickers through my chest.
“I’ve been doing it alone for a long time.”
“I can tell.”
“That’s not the same as asking for someone to fix it.”
“I wasn’t offering to fix you.”
I swing my legs off the couch and stand, suddenly restless.
He follows me with his eyes. “Okay. I’m officially confused.”
“I don’t like being looked at like a project.”
“I’m not?—”
“And I definitely don’t like people assuming I’m struggling just because?—”
“Gina.” He sits up now too, slower than me, like he doesn’t want to spook whatever animal I just turned into. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
I cross my arms.
Of course I do.
“I meant… I see how hard you work. And I know how expensive places like this are to run. That’s not weakness. That’s reality.”
I swallow.
“That doesn’t mean I want you swooping in with a checkbook.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were about to.”
“No,” he says gently. “I was about to say I’d like to help. If you wanted it.”
I stare at the floor.
That’s worse.
“I don’t need saving.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The question hangs there.
He exhales slowly. “Maybe not saving. But… purpose. Yeah.”
I glance back at him.
He looks almost embarrassed.
“I’ve been chasing seasons my whole adult life,” he admits. “Wins. Contracts. Owners. Headlines. Coming back here reminded me that I used to love the game before it turned into survival.”
“That doesn’t make me your solution.”
