“Okay. You can stand there awkwardly while I finish setting up.”
“I’m not being awkward.”
“You absolutely are.” I pick up the foil packets again, start organizing them by size. “You’re radiating discomfort like it’s your job. Which, to be fair, might actually be part of your job at this point.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh if it came from anyone else. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little bit.” I flash him a smile over my shoulder. “But mostly I’m just impressed you showed up at all. I had a backup plan involving Shep and a kidnapping van.”
“He would’ve loved that.”
“Oh, he was practically vibrating when I mentioned it. I think he’s already ordered personalized rope.”
I finish with the foil, check the appointment book even though I already know what it says, and turn to face him fully.
“Come on. Back room.”
“For what?”
“Your check-in.” I start walking without waiting to see if he follows. “Same as yesterday. Post-it, conversation, possibly some light emotional torture.”
“Can’t wait.”
The back room looks the same as yesterday—Post-it wall intact, laminated bingo card on the table, that worn couch that’s seen better days but refuses to die. Bennett stops just inside the doorway, scanning the space like he’s mapping exits again.
“Greeting first,” I say. “Your choice.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Hug.”
That surprises me. Yesterday’s hug had felt forced, a compliance exercise rather than a genuine choice. But he says it without hesitation this time, and when I step toward him, he meets me halfway.
His arms wrap around me differently today. Less rigid. More present. He’s actually letting himself feel the contact instead of just enduring it. His hand settles at the small of my back, thumbbrushing against my spine through my sweater. It’s barely contact, probably unconscious, but my entire nervous system lights up like he pressed a button I didn’t know existed.
I let myself hold on for a moment longer than I should. When I step back, his hand lingers for half a second before dropping. Neither of us mentions it.
“Okay.” I step back, smooth my hands over my sweater. “Post-it. Pick one.”
He moves to the wall, scans the options with that analytical focus I’ve seen him bring to game tape. Finally, he pulls a note from the green section.
“Exposed,” he reads. “That’s the word. Exposed.”
“Because of being here?”
“Because of—” He stops, runs his hand through his hair. “Everything. The meeting with Franklin. The team watching me lose it at practice. The fact that half the town probably has that Main Street video saved on their phone.”
“And how does exposed feel?”
“Bad.” His jaw tightens. “It feels bad, Gisele.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I don’t know how to be more specific. It just—” He breathes out hard through his nose. “Like everyone can see things I didn’t want them to see. Like I’m walking around without armor and waiting for someone to take a shot.”
His eyes meet mine when he says it, and there’s a question in them I’m not sure I’m ready to answer.Are you going to take a shot?
The metaphor hits me harder than he probably intended. Because that’s exactly what he’s doing—standing in my space, letting me see behind his carefully constructed walls, waiting for me to use it against him.
“I’m not going to take a shot,” I say quietly.
