He stilled. “Of what?”
“Of disappearing inside your world,” I said. The words tasted raw. “Your life is loud and fast and public. Mine orbits it by definition. I follow you from track to track. I write about you. And I’m afraid that somewhere along the way I’ll stop being Wally Pulaski and start being… an extension of Jonathan Hirsch’s season.”
I forced myself to hold his gaze.
“I’ve spent ten years building a career that’s mine,” I said. “I can’t lose that. And I don’t want to wake up one morning and realize I traded my voice for proximity to yours.”
Silence settled, not empty but full of recognition.
Jonathan’s grip tightened slightly. “I don’t want that either,” he said. “I fell in love with you because you had your own gravity. I’d never ask you to give that up.”
“I know,” I said. “But fear doesn’t always listen to reason.”
A small, rueful smile touched his mouth. “No. It doesn’t.”
We sat there with it, the noise of the restaurant a distant murmur, the weight of what we were choosing pressing gently but insistently on my chest.
“So what do we do?” he asked.
“We keep saying the hard things out loud,” I said after a moment. “Especially when they’re inconvenient. Especiallywhen the season gets brutal and it would be easier to pretend everything’s fine.”
Jonathan nodded slowly. “No silent resentments. No heroic sacrifices that no one asked for.”
“No disappearing,” I added.
“From either of us,” he agreed.
The fear didn’t vanish. It settled into something steadier, a shared understanding of the terrain ahead.
He squeezed my hand once, a promise and a question wrapped together.
“We’re still trying?” he asked softly.
I felt the risk of it, sharp and undeniable. And underneath that, the certainty that walking away would cost more.
“Yes,” I said. “We’re still trying.”
This time the relief that crossed his face wasn’t just joy. It was recognition — that we were stepping forward with our eyes open.
“Nightcap?” Jonathan asked quietly as we reached the elevator, his voice casual but his eyes holding a question that had nothing to do with drinks.
My room key felt heavy in my pocket. “Your place has the better view,” I said.
His mouth found mine in the quiet of the room, urgency burning away the last of the distance between us.
After we finished, he collapsed against me, breathing hard, skin hot and slick. For a few seconds, he clung like he was afraid of falling through the mattress. Then the tension drained out of him, leaving a hollow quiet behind.
I stared at the ceiling, listening to his breath slow, feeling the distance open up even as his arm stayed heavy across my chest.
“Waldo,” he said eventually, voice low and exhausted. “Thanks. For… understanding.”
I kissed his temple and murmured something agreeable. It was easier than saying what I was actually thinking.
Because he hadn’t been making love to me.
He’d been running laps inside his own head, and I’d been the place where he stopped.
We lay there in the quiet, the mountain night pressing in through the windows. I could feel the space opening between us, not distance exactly, but structure. Schedules. Expectations. The reality of a season that didn’t pause just because we wanted it to.
