I read the thread twice. Then I put my phone away and look at the empty ice through the locker room doorway.
Four wins.
We’re going to get them.
I know this the way I know the power play sequence and Gisele’s coffee order and the specific look on Shep’s face when he’s about to pull a stunt.
We’re going to get there.
I pocket the phone without responding. Let them have their fun. Let the whole town know. Let everyone see what I should have been brave enough to show years ago.
I’m done hiding.
I’m done controlling.
I’m finally choosing. No qualifiers. No hedging. Just this.
Stay
Gisele
People think the hard part is getting there. The confession. The choice. The moment everything finally lines up. But around here, we know the truth. The hard part is staying. Letting it be real when there’s nothing left to chase. Letting yourself rest in something good without waiting for itto fall apart. And if you can do that, that’s when you know it’s not going anywhere.
Playlist: “Turning Page” by Sleeping At Last
The door to my apartment closes behind us, and I realize I don’t feel the need to protect myself from what comes next.
Bennett stands in my living room—the space he’s occupied so many times before, for so many different reasons. Late-night conversations when we were just friends. The careful distance of early exercises. The desperate collision when we finally stopped pretending.
Tonight feels different from all of it. Settled. That’s the word. Like we’ve finally stopped circling and landed somewhere.
When the evaluation cleared him, Bennett told me about it the way he tells me things now—simply, without performance, standing in my kitchen while I was making coffee. No further action required. Then he poured himself a cup and asked what I wanted for dinner.
That’s the man he’s become. I’m still getting used to how much I love him.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m appreciating.”
“Appreciating what?”
“The view.” I move closer, letting my hands find his chest. “The man who kissed me in front of his entire team today.”
“That man is an idiot who should have done it months ago.”
“Years,” I correct.
He winces. “Years.”
“Thank you.”
“Maybe.” I tilt my head up to meet his eyes. “But he figured it out eventually. That counts for something.”
His hands find my waist—steady, certain. No hesitation in the touch. No calculation about what it means or where it might lead. Just... connection. Pure and simple.
“I love you,” he says.
The words land differently now. Not as revelation or risk, but as fact. As solid and undeniable as the floor beneath our feet.
