Page 118 of Puck Me Back to Life

My forehead brushes his temple as I bury my face briefly against his messy hair. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

His shoulders tremble.

The question hangs between us. Kai doesn't answer. Instead, both of his hands bunch in the front of my shirt. His fingers curl into the fabric so tightly that my T-shirt wrinkles beneath them.

Then he starts crying. Not the desperate, panicked sobbing from yesterday.

This is quieter. The kind of crying that comes after you've spent so many hours holding yourself together that your body simply gives up.

I don't tell him to stop.

I don't tell him everything will be okay.

I don't know if it will.

Instead, I wrap both arms around him and let him lean as much weight into me as he wants.

His forehead presses against my shoulder.

“I know,” I murmur quietly. “It's alright.”

He shakes his head against me. His voice is broken “I'm sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for.”

“I keep...” His breathing catches. “I keep falling apart.”

The words land harder than I expect. I tighten my arms around him just enough for him to feel it.

“Everybody falls apart sometimes.”

“Not like this.”

I don't argue. Instead, I guide him gently backward until the backs of his knees bump the couch.

“Come here.”

He lets me.

I sit first, then carefully pull him into my lap.

Normally I'd make a joke. Tell him he's secretly a lap dog. Today doesn't feel like the day for jokes.

Kai curls instinctively against me.

He's tall enough that it should be awkward; instead, he somehow fits. His head settles beneath my chin. One arm wraps loosely around my waist while the other still clutches my shirt.

I run a slow hand up and down his back. The movement isn't calculated. It just feels right.

His breathing gradually begins matching mine. The crying slows. His body finally realizing it doesn't have to fight alone for a few minutes.

“I'm here.” The words come quietly. “I'm not going anywhere today.”

Kai doesn't answer. He simply nods once against my chest. A few minutes pass like that. The hockey game continues in the background. Someone scores. The commentators erupt. Neither of us looks toward the television.

Eventually Kai shifts just enough to look up at me. His eyes are red and exhausted. There are faint tear tracks drying across his cheeks. He hesitates. Then he leans upward.

Our faces end up only inches apart. For a brief second, I think I know what he's asking. He closes the distance.