"We row," he said.
"What?"
"Fuck this guy. We row."
Then I knew what he meant.
"We row," I said back.
Liam stepped back towards Riverside. "I'll see you in the morning."
"See you then," I said.
No kiss. Not fixed, but not quite broken either.
Liam turned and walked down the bridge, then stopped and turned.
"I didn't not kiss you because I hate you or anything."
"It's okay—"
"I just need time. But I care about you more than you know."
Something warm bloomed in my chest and then the fear rushed in, but this time I held it at bay.
"I care about you too Liam," I said.
From what I could see he smiled and then kept walking.
Tomorrow at five-thirty, we'd meet at the boathouse. And get in the boat. And find out if the thing we'd broken could be rebuilt—not with words or apologies or promises, but with the only language that had never lied.
Catch. Drive. Finish. Recovery.
The rhythm that started everything.
Chapter 22: Liam
Friday. 5:22 AM. I was early.
The Riverside boathouse was dark except for the bay lights—the overhead fluorescents that hummed and flickered and cast everything in that flat, industrial glow that made dawn feel like midnight. The shells hung in their racks like sleeping animals. The bay smelled the way it always did—boat wax, river damp, the ghost of a thousand practices soaked into the concrete.
I stood by our double. Hand on the hull. The fiberglass cold under my palm.
Eight days since Hale told me to fix it. Six since the bridge. Two since Alex and I started rowing together again—if you could call it that. The sessions had been better. Not good. Better. The boat no longer dead. Just... quiet. Careful. Two people relearning how to breathe in the same space.
But today was the deadline. Full Charles simulation. Three miles. Hale would be timing from the launch with Eldridge beside him. And whatever number showed up on that stopwatch would decide everything—whether we kept the entry, whether Marcus or Braden got our seats, whether the last monthof training and fighting and breaking and rebuilding meant anything at all.
Footsteps on the concrete.
I turned.
Alex was coming through the bay door. Gym bag on his shoulder, hair still damp at the edges, coffee in hand. He was wearing the Kingswell quarter-zip over a white t-shirt, and even running on no sleep, even with shadows under his eyes, he looked good. The kind of good that made my chest tight if I let myself look too long.
I looked too long.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
