Naomi exhaled first, whispering, “Holy hell, he actually did it.”
I couldn’t look away from the screen. He stood there, unmoving, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere past the crowd—like he was daring them to try to twist what he’d said. And for once, they didn’t.
He looked untouchable. Strong. Everything I’d always known he was, even when the world refused to see it.
I felt my chest ache with something between pride and heartbreak.
Naomi turned to me, wide-eyed. “El… are you okay?”
I swallowed hard. “He didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “He did.”
The reporters started moving again, questions overlapping, but the feed stayed focused on him. Beckett’s hands braced the podium, knuckles white, waiting for more questions.
I blinked hard, forcing my voice to steady. “He just handed them a new headline.”
“Yeah,” Naomi said. “One where you finally come out clean.”
I stared at the dark screen. The reflection of my face looked tired, but alive in a way it hadn’t been in days.
He didn’t just take the blame. He gave me back my name.
And somehow, that hurt even more.
I couldn’t move.
My hand flew to my mouth as if that could hold everything in—the shock, the ache, the sheer disbelief of watching him up there, calm and unflinching, while the world dissected our lives in real time.
He looked composed, yes—steady posture, voice like gravel smoothed by restraint—but I could see it, the exhaustion in the slope of his shoulders, the faint tremor in his jaw. I’d memorized that face too well not to recognize the cracks.
He’s being benched for this. Maybe suspended. Maybe worse.
And still, he stood there, facing every camera, every accusation—protecting me.
The reporters weren’t finished. They never were.
One of them shouted over the rest, sharp and insistent, “Do you regret it?”
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink.
“No,” he said. His voice was quiet, but it carried. “I regret the noise. Not the truth.”
The air left my lungs.
Naomi, beside me, made a sound between a gasp and a laugh. “That man’s in love with you.”
I couldn’t answer. My throat had locked tight, the kind of tight that came right before tears, right before everything inside you gave up pretending to be fine.
The camera stayed on him—his face, his composure, the small twitch of his hand gripping the edge of the podium like it was the only thing holding him upright. He’d always carried himself like he could shoulder the world, and right now, it looked like he actually was.
The anchor started to talk over the clip, but I barely heard her. The screen blurred.
He didn’t owe me this.
That thought hit first. Then another, heavier one followed.
He did it anyway.
