We split a pair of scones and a pot of coffee at a table too small for my legs, both of us shivering in our damp gym clothes, the book sitting between us like a third party neither of us can look at directly.
The place is mostly empty, just a couple of hungover college kids and a woman in a running jacket typing at a laptop like she’s launching missiles, but I still feel like everyone’s watching us, like the universe has assigned a camera crew to document every microexpression, every word.
Ash thumbs through the Borges, not really reading, just flipping the pages and scanning the marginalia like he’s looking for a code, a clue, anything to tell him how to be in this moment.When he catches me staring, he raises an eyebrow, mouth full of scone.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say, and it comes out softer than I meant.
He sets the book down, drums his fingers on the cover, and looks out the window. “You think it’s gonna rain again?”
“It’s Seattle,” I say. “That’s not a prediction, it’s a diagnosis.”
He snorts, and for a second the air between us is less loaded, almost easy.
After we finish the coffee, we hit the street again, legs stiff but bodies loose, running down the hill toward Pike Place before the tourists can clog it up.
The city is still in that liminal hour, not quite day, not quite night, just the weird blue of early morning and the sound of delivery vans rattling over the bricks.
We run in the bike lane, ignoring the dirty looks from the few cyclists who actually obey the laws of physics this early.
Ash is silent, but his breathing is steady, even after the hill.
We cut through the alley behind the market, dodge a trio of smokers in hoodies, then drop onto the main drag where the vendors are just starting to set up.
There’s a guy unloading boxes of apples, hands raw and red from the cold, and another hosing down the slick concrete in front of the fish stall.
The air smells like wet newspaper and salt, and the only sound is the distant squall of gulls and the occasional crash of a crate hitting the ground.
We hit the waterfront, running along the curve of the bay.
The air here is sharp, biting, but we’re warmed from the effort and neither of us slows.
The fog is still clinging to the water, but above it the sky is lightening, just the barest sliver of pink cutting through the monotony.
We run until the sidewalk ends, then walk it off, steam peeling off our bodies like we’re about to disappear.
Ash is clutching the book, thumb pressed flat to the cover, and I wonder if he’s even aware of it or if it’s just a reflex, something to keep his hands from shaking.
My own hands are buzzing, adrenaline and something else, a nervous electricity that won’t burn off no matter how many miles I put between me and the rest of my life.
We lean against the railing, both of us staring out at the gray chop of Elliott Bay.
The ferries look like toys from here, impossible and small, and the city behind us is starting to flicker with light. I know I need to say something, that there’s a script I’m supposed to follow, but the words have always failed me.
In the end, I just blurt it out, the same way I once dove for a loose puck in front of a freight train defenseman, knowing I’d get broken for it but doing it anyway.
“Ash.”
He looks over, hair matted to his forehead, sweat tracing down his cheek. “Yeah?”
"I like you," I say. It's not smooth, it's not even on the right frequency, but it's the only honest thing left in me. "Not as a teammate. Not as a gym partner. I like you, Ash. More than I've liked anyone."
My voice cracks on the last word, and I want to die, but I don't take it back.
He’s just staring at me, mouth open, book held so tight his knuckles are white.
For a second I think he’s going to laugh, or bolt, or say something cutting enough to finish me off, but instead he just stands there, looking like someone hit him with a puck to the chest and he hasn’t started breathing again yet.
