Every day that week, we meet somewhere public, somewhere safe.
Green Lake again, then the running trail by the locks, then the ancient, splintery benches outside the Ballard bakery where Ash’s mom used to take him on the weekends.
It's always early or late, never when anyone from the team might see. We pretend it's just more therapy, just two guys grinding their way through grief and guilt and whatever else the world dropped on their heads.
The rules hold for a week. No physical stuff. No risk.
But the rules are bullshit, and we both know it.
On Thursday morning, it’s pouring, the kind of rain that soaks you through in three steps.
I show up to the park in a jacket that might as well be made of Kleenex, hair dripping into my eyes.
Ash is already there, hood up, water beading on his lashes, book tucked under one arm.
We run, because that's what we do, but the path is half-flooded and my shoes fill up with mud in the first five minutes.
After a mile, we stop under a footbridge to breathe, and Ash’s face is red from cold and the effort, his chest heaving like he just sprinted the length of the rink.
“Nice weather,” he says, voice shredded.
“You love it,” I say, and I mean it.
He grins, teeth bright in the gray. “Yeah. I really do.”
We stand under the bridge, shoulders brushing, rain coming down like a curtain on either side of us. It’s the safest place in the world. For a minute, neither of us says anything.
Then, slow, like he’s daring the universe to stop him, Ash lifts his hand and cups my cheek. The fingers are freezing, but the shock of it is pure heat.
He looks me dead in the eye, voice low. “You good?”
I nod, barely breathing.
He leans in, soft, careful, and kisses me. It’s not like the first time, not scared or accidental. It’s deliberate, like he’s staking a claim.
I kiss back, hands on his shoulders, and for a second the rest of the world is a rumor, the rain, the cars, the sound of our own pulse in our ears.
We pull apart, but only by an inch.
“This is going to fuck us up,” he says, and he’s smiling.
“Already has,” I say. “Not sure I care.”
The next day we meet at his place, because the city can drown in itself for all we care.
We order takeout and pretend to watch hockey highlights, but mostly we end up on the floor, tangled up in each other, laughing at every dumb thing either of us says.
He reads me a paragraph from Borges, something about infinite libraries, and I swear I almost tear up at the sound of his voice.
It’s so easy. It’s so dangerous. I can’t get enough.
———
There’s a freedom to it, but there’s a pressure too, a tightness in my chest every time we step outside the bubble.
The first real test is at the gym.
It’s a Saturday, and I’m late, because the city is a parking lot and Ash said “don’t worry about it,” but I worry about everything, always.
