“They love you.” His hand tightened around mine. “They're not going to stop loving you because you're struggling. If anything, they've been angry at themselves for not seeing how bad things were.”
“That's not their fault?—”
“And it's not yours either.” He said it firmly enough that I almost believed him. “Depression isn't a moral failing, Soren. It's an illness. And you've been fighting it alone for too long.”
We sat in silence for a while, his hand in mine and the weight of everything we'd just said settling over us like a blanket. I was exhausted in ways that went beyond physical, emotionally wrung out from finally telling the truth I'd been carrying for years.
“Montreal,” I said, when the silence had gone long enough that I could trust my voice again. “I owe you an apology for that.”
He started to shake his head, but I kept going.
“No, listen.” My throat was still raw but the words needed out. “I knew. I knew you were still figuring things out. I knew what I was asking you to sit with wasn't small, and when you pulled back I didn't give you a single inch of room to do it. I just — came at you. Said things I shouldn't have said.” I looked at our joined hands because looking at his face was still too much. “You were allowed to be scared. You were allowed to need time. And I made you feel like shit for it because I was terrified you were confirming every story I'd ever told myself about not being worth staying for.”
“Soren—”
“I'm not done.” I managed to look at him then. “What I said — that you were just like everyone else — that wasn't fair. You're not. You never were. I just wanted to hurt you before you could finish hurting me, and that's not something I'm proud of.”
Rook was quiet for a moment.
“I panicked,” he said finally. “That's the honest version. Not you being too much, not the chaos — just me hitting the wall of how real it had gotten and not knowing what to do with myself.” His thumb moved across my knuckles. “I've been with women my whole life and told myself that was just how I was built. And then there was you, and every piece of that story stopped making sense, and instead of talking to you about it I just — shut down.”
“It scared you.”
“Terrified me.” He said it without flinching. “Still does, if I'm being straight with you. I don't have the language figured out yet. Don't know exactly what I am or what to call it. But I know what I want.” His eyes held mine. “That part's not complicated. That part's been clear since the second I saw you again.”
I felt something loosen in my chest that had been wound tight since Montreal. Not fixed — nothing was fixed, we were sitting in a hospital room with an IV in my arm and more hard conversations ahead of us than I could count. But loosened. Enough to breathe around.
“We're both disasters,” I said.
“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth moved. “But I'd rather be a disaster with you than have it together without you.”
I laughed, and it hurt my chest and I didn't care. “That's genuinely the most romantic thing you've ever said to me.”
“Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation.”
“Controlled. Observant. Emotionally devastating.” I let my eyes close because the exhaustion was winning again. “Your secret's safe with me, Kincaid.”
His hand tightened around mine, and I felt him settle back into the chair without letting go.
“I'm going to fall asleep again,” I said, already feeling my eyes getting heavy. “The meds they've got me on are making everything fuzzy.”
“That's okay. Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up.” He leaned forward to kiss my forehead again. “I'm not going anywhere, Soren. Not this time.”
I wanted to tell him he didn't have to stay, that he had playoffs and responsibilities and a life that didn't revolve around sitting in a hospital room watching me recover. But the selfish part of me that had been terrified of losing him won out.
“Promise?” The word came out small, vulnerable.
“I promise.” He settled back into the chair without letting go of my hand. “Sleep. I've got you.”
I let my eyes close and felt myself start to drift, the beeping of the machines and the warmth of Rook's hand the only things anchoring me to the present. The shame of what I'd done was still there, sitting heavy on my chest alongside the fear of what came next.
But so was Rook. Still here, still holding on, still choosing to stay even after seeing the worst parts of me.
And for the first time in days I let myself believe that might actually be enough to keep trying.
Just for today. Just for this moment.
I'd stay.
