And that unsettles me far more than if he’d already rolled away.
I shift again, my fingers tracing an idle line across his forearm. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tense. Just lets me.
“That pin idea was genius, by the way,” I say.
“Which one?”
“‘I Survived Dinner With the Outlaws.’”
He laughs. “Mason’s already planning merch.”
“I would absolutely wear it.”
“Careful,” he says. “They’ll take that as encouragement.”
“I think they already have.”
Silence settles again. Not awkward. Weighted.
He shifts slightly behind me, his voice quieter when he speaks again.
“You don’t let people see much.”
Not a question.
Not an accusation.
Just an observation.
My instinct is to deflect.
Make a joke.
Say something clever.
Instead, I stare at the wall and say nothing.
For a second.
Then another.
“I let them see what’s useful,” I say finally.
He doesn’t push.
Doesn’t say a word.
So I keep going.
“I used to think being open meant being honest,” I say. “Turns out, it mostly just meant being available for commentary.”
He exhales slowly behind me.
“I dated someone once, a professional hockey player, actually,” I continue, choosing my words carefully. “Public-facing. Talented. Charismatic. Everyone loved him.”
I swallow.
“And somewhere along the way, I stopped being a person and started being… a storyline.”
