Her throat works as she swallows. The arena lights throw gold into her eyes. She looks like she’s trying not to blink too fast.
I step closer, lowering my voice. "I want you. I want all of it. I just need you to know that."
I brush my thumb across her knuckles like it’s the only way I can keep myself steady.
"I’m sure I could manage both," she says, but I can see it in her eyes that the idea of two manager life changes at once is daunting.
I smirk down at her. "I know you can. You can manage me, which means you can manage anything." She lets out a chuckle that feels earned. "But I’m giving you space to do this first. And then…"
Her lips part. "And then what?"
I lean in just enough that my mouth is close to her ear, close enough to make her shiver.
"Then you’re all mine, Nattie," I murmur. "Mine to love. Mine to protect."
She lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh. "Possessive."
"With you?... Always," I admit. "But I’m patient."
"You don’t have to be for long," she says.
"I know."
We started walking again.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel the urge to run.
I feel the urge to stay.
Epilogue
TWO MONTHS LATER
NATALIA
The woman on screen is crying into a rose she didn't get, and I feel nothing but vindicated.
"I told you," I say, pointing at the TV. "Week one. I told you she wasn't there for the right reasons."
My mom adjusts her green tea face mask without looking away from the screen. "You say that about everyone."
"And I'm right about everyone."
She hums in a way that means she partially agrees but won't give me the satisfaction. We're eight episodes into our standing Tuesday tradition—face masks, the dating show we've been binging since I moved back to Seattle, and whatever snacks she had in the cabinet. Tonight it's microwave popcorn and the lastof a bag of peanut butter pretzels we've been rationing for two weeks.
My phone lights up on the cushion between us.
The Hawkeyes are only a few more games away from the playoffs, and Luka is training harder than ever before, coming home from practice with even more bruises than usual, but a smile on his face. He loves hockey, and I love seeing him crawling into bed next to me every night, hopeful about making the playoffs. They’re so close now.
Headed home after my run with Scottie. He says hi. Katerina wants to do dinner tomorrow night before the team leaves for our next away game. Do we have other plans?
I smile before I can help it. I still feel that pull in my chest every time he reaches out—like he's just checking that I'm still there. Which I am. Except for Tuesday nights when I stay here in my childhood bedroom, on this couch, with my mom and her terrible taste in reality television and her face mask that smells like a cucumber spa.
I tell people it’s a balance. That's true. But it's also this: her. I spent a lot of years in this house waiting for a phone call from a man who was never going to call, not understanding that the person who actually showed up every single day was sitting right next to me on this couch, passing me the pretzels without being asked.
I'm not in a hurry to give up Tuesday nights, and Luka uses the time to run with Scottie.
"Is that Luka?" my mom asks, eyes still on the screen.
