Every now and then, he’d hum under his breath—some song I didn’t recognize—and the sound somehow made the chaos feel manageable. Comfortable, even.
He broke the quiet first. “You talk to Kyle today?”
The question landed like a pebble in a still pond, rippling through the fragile calm I’d built for myself.
I didn’t look up. “He called between drills.” I slid another name tag into the correct pile. “Promised he’ll be there Saturday.”
“Hmm.” Beckett’s tone was neutral, but not empty. Just enough sound to tell me he was listening. He adjusted a corner of the banner that didn’t need adjusting.
A few seconds passed before he asked, quietly, “You believe him?”
The hesitation stretched between us. I stared at the tag in my hand like it had the answer written on it.
“I want to,” I said finally, my voice softer than I meant it to be.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod once, slow and deliberate. He didn’t turn to look at me. “That’s fair,” he said.
The gentleness in his voice shouldn’t have hurt. But it did.
Because he didn’t say I hope he shows up. He didn’t try to reassure me or offer hollow comfort. He just understood. And that understanding—the quiet kind that doesn’t demand words—cut deeper than anything else could have.
I pressed my lips together, focusing too hard on the alphabetized rows in front of me. “He’s just… under a lot of pressure,” I added, mostly to fill the silence. “The scouts are watching him. He can’t afford to miss opportunities.”
Beckett didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low. “He’s not the only one under pressure.”
My head snapped up before I could stop myself. He was standing by the window now, light slanting across his face, hands in his pockets like he needed somewhere to hide them.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
He gave a small shrug, still not looking at me. “You carry more than anyone I’ve ever met. And I get it—you love what you’re doing. But it’s okay to expect someone to show up for you once in a while.”
I didn’t have an answer to that.
Instead, I watched him finish hanging the last banner, his movements unhurried, precise. The kind of care he gave to everything—even things that weren’t his responsibility.
When he stepped down from the chair, his gaze brushed mine for the briefest moment. It was gone almost instantly, but I felt it all the same—steady, warm, and unbearably kind.
I forced a smile, the kind that was more reflex than real. “Thanks for the help,” I murmured.
He smiled back, small and tired. “Anytime.”
He turned back to what he was doing—hee was trying to hang a sign that was clearly too high for him to reach without risking his life. I watched from my desk, pretending to type while really just waiting for the inevitable moment he gave up.
“Give me the tape,” he said, his voice slightly strained as he stretched on his toes, one arm braced against the wall.
I held up the roll between two fingers. “You mean this tape?”
He looked down at me, one brow arched. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” I said sweetly, “you’re still here.”
His smirk was small but immediate. “For now.”
When he reached for the tape, I lifted it higher, teasing just a little. He reached again, this time closer, his hand brushing against mine. The contact was brief, accidental—but the air shifted, anyway.
For one heartbeat, everything stopped.
The hum of the lights. The tapping of my pulse. The ache in my shoulders.
