He nods like that’s the part he needed to hear.
We stay like that for a minute, staring into each other’s eyes, breathing heavy.
After what feels like an eternity—but is probably only a minute—Shaun grabs a piece of cardboard from the wall, sets it on the table, and dips a paintbrush into a jar. His arm flexes as he starts lettering a sign, slow and careful.
“Drew says I’ve been moody. Dragged me out here to do something useful. Get outside. Touch dirt.”
I smile despite myself. “And you listened?”
“He can be annoyingly persuasive.” He glances at me, his grin crooked. “Plus, it’s not like I had anything else to do now that I’m a washed-up football player.”
The joke lands, but the truth underneath it doesn’t miss. He believes it. Really believes that without the game, he’s nothing.
We fall into a quiet rhythm. I line up paint jars and smooth construction paper flat. He keeps working on the sign, red letters forming with each brushstroke. Sunlight slips through the cracks in the barn wall and catches in his hair, turning him all warm gold and shadow. He may be trying to hide his sadness, but his eyes give him away.
I’m still mad at him. About the library. About the way he walked out without looking back. But sadness gets me every time. I want to fix it. I always have. That’s how I ended up building my life around everyone else.
I should probably see a therapist about that.
I step closer. Lay my hand over his. Stop the brush mid-stroke. He goes still under my palm. His skin is rough. Warm.
He looks up. Surprise flashes across his face.
I wait until his eyes lock on mine. He needs to hear this. Not hide from it.
“Your career didn’t end because you failed,” I say. “It ended because that sport takes more than it gives. You’re allowed to be angry. Most people don’t lose their dream at twenty. Athletes do. The research shows how common that loss is, but that doesn’t make it hurt less.”
Something shifts in his eyes. The tightness eases. The anger loosens its grip.
His other hand comes up to cover mine. Rough callouses brush my skin, earned from years of football. My pulse jumps. My brain locks on to the contact.More, please.
He squeezes, just once.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“You’re welcome.” I pull my hand free and step back, putting space between us before I do something reckless. “Still doesn’t mean I forgive you for being an asshole.”
I turn to the paint jars and line them up, red to violet. Order helps when my chest feels like this.
“You probably don’t even remember the library,” I add, quieter, focusing too hard on the paint lids. “That moment meant more to me than it did to you.”
I keep working. Keep my eyes down. To him, it was probably just another almost-kiss. To me, it was everything. And the silence after hurt worse than rejection.
“I remember that moment very well, Val.”
The way he says my name makes me freeze.
I turn. He’s dropped the brush and fully faces me now. Face serious.
I cross my arms. “Really? Because ignoring me for the rest of senior year kind of sends a different message.”
He steps closer. One step. That’s all it takes. The space between us tightens, charged and impossible to ignore. He isn’t smiling. His eyes hold mine, stable and honest.
“Trust me,” he says. “It wasn’t anything you did.”
My brain stumbles. “That’s incredibly vague and not helpful.”
He nods, like he expected that, then turns back toward the sign. I still catch the grin he’s trying to hide.
