After we hung up, I sat on the bathroom floor for a long time, phone dark in my lap. The tile was cold through my pajama pants. Steam from Seth’s shower still clung to the mirror, and somewhere in the apartment, I could hear him singing off-key to whatever was playing on his phone.
This was real. All of it. The acceptance, the meeting, the man in my kitchen making coffee like it was the most natural thing in the world.
For the first time in longer than I could remember, the future didn’t feel like something to survive. It felt like something to want.
Seth insisted on celebrating.
“It’s Tuesday,” I said. “We have class.”
“Skip it.”
“I can’t skip?—”
“You got into your dream program, and you’re meeting with Riddell. Skip class.” He was already pulling on jeans, moving around the bedroom with the easy efficiency of someone who’d made up his mind. “We’re going to breakfast. Real breakfast, not coffee and whatever’s in the fridge.”
“There’s nothing in the fridge.”
“Exactly my point.”
We ended up at the diner three blocks off campus—the one that looked like it hadn’t been updated since sometime in the mid-seventies and the waitress who called everyone sugar. It was mostly empty this time of morning, just a few truck drivers at the counter and an elderly couple sharing a newspaper in the corner booth. The smell of bacon grease hung in the air, and the coffee was already brewing, rich and dark.
Seth ordered enough food for four people. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns, and a side of biscuits because “You can’t not get the biscuits, Tanner, that’s illegal.” I watched him charm the waitress into bringing extra honey butter and thought about how different this felt from every other morning of my life.
Three months ago, breakfast had been whatever I could force down between anxiety attacks. Six months ago, I’d been counting Dad’s medications and trying to remember if he’d eaten anything that day. A year ago, I’d sat in this same diner alone, staring at my phone and wondering if I should call Mom again or if it would just make things worse.
Now I was sitting across from someone who looked at me like I mattered, ordering more food than two people could reasonably eat, celebrating something I’d been afraid to even want.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“You’re interesting.”
“That’s my line.”
I smiled into my coffee cup. Under the table, his foot found mine, pressed against it with familiar warmth.
“I talked to Coach yesterday,” he said, reaching for the syrup. “About the bowl game situation.”
My stomach tightened. Three more games in the regular season, then the bowl if they made it. More weeks of watching him come home bruised. More weeks of ice packs and careful movements and pretending I wasn’t terrified every time he walked onto that field.
“What did he say?”
“We’re projected for the Independence Bowl. December twenty-sixth.”
“That’s the day after Christmas.”
“Yeah.” He met my eyes. “I was thinking— Wilmington for Christmas. Then I’ll fly out for the game and come back after. We could do New Year’s together.”
The careful way he said it made something loosen in my chest. He was planning around me. Building a future that had space for both of us.
“I’d like that,” I said.
His whole face relaxed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I poured more syrup on my pancakes, thinking. “What about Thanksgiving? That’s only a few weeks away.”
Something shifted in his expression. Not quite a flinch, but close. “What about it?”
“I’m going to my mom’s. It’ll be quiet. Just the two of us, probably. You could come if you want.”
