“It means six percent fewer concussions. Six percent less trauma.” Seth’s voice was steady, certain in a way I couldn’t be. “That’s not nothing, Tanner. That’s someone’s dad coming home and still knowing who they are.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It’s what you’ve got.” His thumb moved in a small circle against my knee, and I felt the touch like a brand. “And you’re doing it anyway. Even though it hurts. Even though reading those studies tears you apart. Even though you can’t save your dad.”
The words hit me somewhere deep, somewhere I’d been protecting. My throat closed up.
I set the mug down on the coffee table before I dropped it. My hands were shaking again, and I watched them tremble like they belonged to someone else. Like they belonged to Dad, those last months, when he couldn’t hold a glass without spilling.
“I hate this,” I said, and the words came out ragged, torn from somewhere I usually kept locked. “I hate that I can’t just let it go. I hate that every new study feels like watching him die all over again—like I’m back in that hospital room watching the monitors and knowing there’s nothing I can do. I hate that I’m sitting here crying about research that should just be academicinterest, that should be data points and statistics and nothing more. I hate that I saw that appointment reminder on his desk and didn’t say anything to Mom because he’d snapped at me before about minding my own business. Maybe if I had just told her, she could have driven him, and he never would have gotten behind that wheel trying to feel like himself again, and he never would have?—”
My voice broke completely. I couldn’t finish. The words stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat, tangled up with everything I’d never said—to Dad, to Mom, to anyone. The guilt I’d carried for two years pressed down on me until I couldn’t breathe.
“It’s not just academic for you.” Seth’s hand tightened on my knee, anchoring me to the present when everything else felt like it was spinning away.
“It should be.” My voice cracked on every syllable. “God, it should be. I’m supposed to be able to look at data objectively. I’m supposed to be able to look at things objectively. But every time I read one of those studies, I see him. I see him forgetting my birthday. I see him throwing a plate at the wall because he couldn’t remember where we kept the forks. I see him looking at me like I was someone who’d broken into his house.”
“Tanner—”
“And the worst part is I can’t even hate the game for what it did to him becausehe loved it. He loved every second of it. He used to tell me stories about his teammates, about the wins, about the way the crowd sounded when they scored. That was the happiest he ever was, and it was killing him the whole time, and he didn’t know.” I sucked in a breath that felt like broken glass. “None of us knew.”
“You’re right. No one knew back then, but they do now, and we’re both going to find a way to keep other sons from feeling the way you do.” Seth shifted closer, and then his arm was around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. His grip was fierce, almost too tight, like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go. “And what you’re feeling is normal. You’re allowed to grieve. You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes. You’re allowed to be angry and sad and completely fucking wrecked by this.”
I should pull away. Should maintain some kind of distance, some kind of dignity. Should protect whatever fragile thing was growing between us from the mess I carried inside me. Instead, I turned into him, pressed my face against his shoulder, and let myself break.
He held me. Didn’t try to fix it or make it better or tell me it would be okay. Just wrapped both arms around me and let me shake apart while he held the pieces together. I felt his chin come to rest on top of my head, felt the steady rise and fall of his chest against mine, felt his hand spread wide across my back like he was trying to cover as much of me as possible.
I cried the way I hadn’t let myself since the funeral. Ugly, wrenching sobs that tore out of me without permission. I cried for Dad and for Mom and for the way our family had splintered apart after we lost him. I cried for the appointment reminder that I ignored, the car crash I couldn’t have prevented, and the years of memories that had been stolen before I even knew they were in danger.
I didn’t know how long we stayed like that. Long enough that my throat went raw. Long enough that my breathing evened out, the panic receded, and I could think again without the weight of all that research crushing my chest.
“Sorry,” I said into his shoulder, my voice wrecked.
“Don’t apologize.” His arms tightened. “Don’t ever apologize for this.”
“I’m a mess.”
“You’re grieving.” His hand moved up to the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair with a tenderness that made my chest ache. “There’s a difference. You lost your father, Tanner. Not just once—you lost him piece by piece for years before you lost him for good. That’s not something you get over. That’s something you survive.”
I pulled back enough to look at him. We were close enough that I could count the faint freckles across his nose, see the exact shade of green in his eyes, see the way they were shining like maybe he’d been crying too. His hand stayed in my hair, thumb tracing small circles behind my ear.
“Thank you,” I said. “For the hot chocolate. For this.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do. You didn’t sign up to be my emotional support when you agreed to be my roommate. You signed up for someone to split rent and utilities with, not—” I gestured vaguely at myself, at the mess I was. “Not this.”
Something flickered across his face, too quick to read. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke, his voice was rough. “Maybe I did. Maybe I knew exactly what I was signing up for.”
The air between us felt heavy, charged with something I didn’t have the energy to examine but couldn’t ignore either. Seth’s thumb was still moving against my skin, gentle and steady, and I realized I had leaned into the touch without meaning to. Myhand had found its way to his chest at some point, resting over his heart, and I could feel it beating faster than it should have been.
“I should probably eat something,” I said, even though I wasn’t hungry. Even though leaving this moment felt like stepping off a cliff.
“Probably.” But he didn’t move. Neither did I. We stayed frozen like that, caught in the space between pulling away and closing the distance. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then back up. My pulse kicked hard against my ribs.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket, and the spell broke.
Seth pulled back, reaching for his phone with a grimace. “Sorry. Coach is probably wondering where I am. I was supposed to be at the facility twenty minutes ago.”
