His gaze snagged on it.
So did mine.
There it was. My real life. Not hidden. Not cruel. Just present.
I filled a glass of water and slid it toward him.
He drank because I watched him.
I put three crackers and a piece of cheese on a plate. He stared at it like I’d asked him to solve advanced math.
“Two bites,” I said.
He ate one cracker slowly, then half the cheese. “I feel like shit.”
“You’re going to.”
“Great bedside manner, Coach.”
“Would lying help?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
His shoulders sagged. He looked so tired it made my chest hurt.
I stepped closer and brushed my fingers over the back of his hand. “You’re done performing tonight.”
The words hit him harder than I expected. His face tightened. He nodded once.
I took him upstairs.
My bedroom was dark except for the lamp I turned on low. Tiny barged in ahead of us, circled twice on the rug, then stared at Jace as if waiting for him to make better choices.
Jace stood by the bed and looked lost.
“Arms up,” I said.
He obeyed without the usual comment, which told me enough. I pulled his hoodie over his head, then the T-shirt beneath it. His skin was warm under my hands, muscles tense from holding himself together too long. I undid his jeans.
His breath caught.
“Not that,” I said quietly. “Not unless you ask with a clear head.”
He nodded, jaw working.
I pushed his jeans down and helped him step out, leaving him in black boxer briefs. There were bruises on his thigh from the last game, yellow at the edges. A thin scar near his ribs. His hands fidgeted at his sides until I caught one and squeezed.
“Bed.”
He climbed in, stiff at first, like he didn’t know where to put his limbs in my space. I stripped down to my briefs, turned off the lamp, and got in behind him. Tiny let out a huff from the rug, then flopped down with enough force to shake the floor.
Jace made a small sound when I slid an arm around his waist and pulled his back to my chest.
“You okay with this?”
“Yeah,” he whispered.
