He poured his coffee and carried it to the dining table—the same table where he'd laid her down and lost himself completely, where they'd eaten breakfast together on lazy mornings, where her sketches had spread across the surface like beautiful chaos.
The surface was bare now. Spotless.
This is what I wanted,he told himself.Order. Control. Your space back.
The lie tasted worse than the coffee.
He drank it anyway, eyes fixed on the window, watching the grey winter light creep across Greenwood Hollow. His morning routine stretched before him like a prison sentence: coffee, protein shake, foam rolling, drive to the arena, practice.
The same routine he'd followed for years.
The same routine that had felt like security before Edie Anderson had crashed into his life with her glitter pens and tangled cables and smile that made his chest ache.
Now it just felt empty.
He finished his coffee and rinsed the mug, placing it precisely in the dishwasher. The kitchen was immaculate—counters wiped, appliances aligned, spice rack alphabetized. Everything exactly where it should be.
He hated it.
The protein shake went down without taste. The foam rolling happened on autopilot. He moved through each step of his routine like a machine, hitting every mark, maintaining the discipline that had defined his career.
This is what control looks like.
But control had never felt this hollow before.
He foundthe first trace of her while reaching for his car keys.
A hair tie.
It was tangled around the base of the key hook, one of those fabric-covered ones she favored, the color of old copper. He'd watched her use it a hundred times, pulling her wild red curls back while she worked, twisting and tucking with practiced efficiency.
Tarmek stared at it for too long.
He should throw it away. She was gone—not gone, but gone from here—and keeping her hair tie was pathetic. Sentimental. Exactly the kind of emotional weakness he'd spent his whole life avoiding.
He pocketed it instead.
Weak.
The drive to the arena took twelve minutes, same as always. He pulled into his usual spot, cut the engine, and sat in the cab of his truck while the heater ticked and cooled.
Through the windshield, he could see the edge of the parking structure where her camper was parked. The lights were off—too early for her to be awake, probably. She'd always been a night owl, working late and sleeping later, her schedule the exact opposite of his regimented existence.
Is she warm enough? Did the heater hold through the night? Is she?—
He cut off the thought with brutal efficiency.
Not his concern anymore.
She'd made that clear.
He grabbed his gear bag and headed inside, shoulders hunched against the cold, refusing to look at the camper again.
Practice was brutal.
Coach Morrison ran them through defensive drills until Tarmek's legs burned, then shifted to offensive plays that required the kind of split-second decision-making he usually excelled at. Today, his timing was off. His passes went wide. His shots hit posts instead of nets.
"Stonefist! You sleeping out there?"
