Twenty minutes later we were in Grant's car heading down a forest service road he'd found on his phone, some easy loop trail that was rated for families and people who didn't know what real hiking was.
The trailhead was small—just a wooden sign and a dirt parking lot with one other car. Grant parked and turned to look at me, and I saw the worry he was trying to hide behind his coach mask. “Last chance to change your mind.”
“I'm not changing my mind.”
“Then let's go.”
I grabbed my water bottle from the cupholder and climbed out of the car before I could say something embarrassing about how much it meant that he cared enough to worry.
The trail started gentle—wide and well-maintained, winding through tall pines that blocked most of the wind. The air was cold and clean, smelling like snow and earth. I took the first few steps carefully, testing my weight on the bad leg, feeling for the pull of scar tissue or the warning ache that meant I was pushing too hard.
It held.
Grant fell into step beside me, matching my pace without making it obvious. Not hovering, exactly, but present in a way that said he was ready to catch me if I stumbled. I should've been annoyed. Instead, I was grateful.
“This okay?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Yeah. It's good.” And it was. The rhythm of walking, the quiet sound of our boots on dirt, the way my body remembered how to move even when it was slower than I wanted. “Thanks for doing this.”
“You don't have to thank me.”
“I know. But I'm going to anyway.” I glanced at him, caught the small smile pulling at his mouth. “What?”
“Nothing. Just... you're different up here.”
“Different how?”
“Softer. Less guarded.” He kept his eyes on the trail ahead. “I like it.”
My chest did that stupid thing it had been doing since the first night he'd shown up at my door. “Don't get used to it. The second we're back in Toronto, I go back to being a pain in the ass.”
“Looking forward to it.”
We walked in comfortable silence for a while, and I let myself get lost in the rhythm. Step, breathe, step, breathe. The leg was holding up better than I'd expected, and the shoulder was manageable as long as I didn't try to use it for anything stupid. I felt almost normal. Almost whole.
“How's the leg?” Grant asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Fine. Stop asking.”
“Not possible.”
I rolled my eyes but didn't argue.
We rounded a bend in the trail and came to a small clearing with a fallen log positioned perfectly for sitting. Grant gestured toward it. “Break.”
“We've only been walking for twenty minutes.”
“And we're taking a break.” His voice had that tone—coach voice, no negotiation. “Sit.”
I sat. He handed me the water bottle and I drank, trying not to think about how fucking domestic this felt. Two guys on a hike, sharing water, taking care of each other. Normal. Easy. Everything I'd convinced myself I couldn't have.
Grant sat down beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I'm good.” I paused, then added quieter, “I miss them.”
“The team?”
“Yeah.” I stared out at the trees, feeling the admission settle heavy in my chest.
