"I know." He looked at his coffee. "What about you?"
"Check my skates. Twice, minimum. Even if I checked them an hour earlier."
"Looking for what?"
"Loose rivets. Blade alignment." I rotated my mug in my hands. "Nothing's ever wrong. I check anyway."
Kieran rubbed his chin stubble, left over from the day before. "My dad used to say routines gave you control. Control the small things, and the big things will follow."
"Is he right?"
"Worked for him." Kieran swallowed a mouthful of the coffee, grimaced slightly. "Me? I'm just really fucking good at taping sticks."
A laugh escaped me. Short. Surprised by its own existence.
Kieran glanced up. Some of the tension in his shoulders released.
My knee bumped his under the table. Neither of us moved.
Booth seats were built narrow. Two people sitting across from each other meant proximity. Contact. Heat passing through denim.
I shifted half an inch closer instead of away.
He didn't break eye contact.
No one was grading my performance. No one was waiting for me to say the right thing.
Kieran was here because he’d chosen to be.
We both knew it wasn’t only that, but neither of us was going to be the first to name what we'd started.
"Should probably head out," he said eventually.
"Probably."
Kieran pulled out his wallet. Left bills on the table. I did the same. We stood and walked to the door together.
Outside, the street was empty except for a delivery truck idling at the corner. The smell of grilled meat drifted from the Turkish restaurant two blocks down. They stayed open until 4:00 am, catering to third-shift workers and insomniacs.
Kieran looked at me. "Only a few hours."
"Plenty of time," I said. "In theory."
He turned toward his car. I watched him walk away, shoulders straight and hands in his pockets.
Then I headed in the opposite direction.
My chest felt different. Anchored instead of floating.
Stable.
I made it home by three. I set an alarm for six-thirty, knowing I wouldn't need it.
The bed was cold. I pulled the blanket to my chin and stared at the ceiling. Water stains mapped patterns in the plaster like continental drift. My landlord had promised to fix them in August. It was late September.
My body was tired, but my brain kept running calculations. Ice time. Line combinations. The math of nineteen thousand people deciding whether I'd earned the right to stay.
I closed my eyes.
