Chapter 6 Client Confidential
He starts calling that night.
I let the phone buzz until it stops. Over and over. I watch his name light up my screen like it's on fire and I just let it burn.
The next morning, the knocking starts. At first soft. Then louder.
"December, please."
I curl tighter into my blanket on the couch. I haven't moved from it since last night. My eyes are swollen, my head heavy.
"Please let me in. Just talk to me."
His voice cracks through the door like a splinter. I hate that I still recognize every bend in it.
I stand, legs shaky. Against my better judgment, I open the door.
He's standing there, hoodie pulled low, hands shoved into his pockets. He looks like hell. Good. So do I.
"I didn't save her number," he blurts, like that's the magic fix. "I just took it because... I panicked. It was for show. I swear."
I laugh—sharp and humorless. "For show?"
"She came up to me in front of my friends, and I didn't want to make a scene."
"You did make a scene," I snap. "You made me the scene. Your client, right? Just a science teacher with a crush on her coach."
He winces. "December, please. Just give me a few more months. I'm asking you to trust me. Please."
"Trust you?" I shake my head, tears biting my eyes. "You won't even tell people we're together. You won't hold my hand in public. You won't let me into your life unless it's behind closed doors. If this is what it takes to be known as your girlfriend, then I don't want to be your client anymore."
He flinches. "I didn't mean that word the way it sounded."
"How else was I supposed to take it?"
He runs a hand down his face. "I didn't want to lie. But if the wrong person finds out about us, I could lose everything."
I cross my arms, tired. "What does that even mean?"
He swallows hard. "The gym's owner—she's my ex.
And not like an old high school thing. We lived together.
She's bitter. Controlling. She still signs my checks, and if she finds out I'm dating someone—especially a client—she will fire me.
She'll blacklist me from every major gym in the city.
She's moving to New York in four months.
I just need time. I swear to you, December, it's not about you. It's about survival."
I stare at him, stunned.
"You should've told me."
"I didn't want to scare you off. I didn't think I'd fall for you like this." He steps closer, eyes soft. "But I did."
Something inside me breaks at that. Not in the good way.
I'm crying now. Angry, humiliated tears. "I don't want to be your secret anymore, Ryder. I want to be someone you're proud to be with. I want to walk into a room and not have you flinch when someone sees us."
"I am proud," he whispers, stepping closer. "You're smart. You're kind. You teach literal children to love science. Do you know how rare that is?"
"Then why can't I exist in your life?"
He exhales hard. "Because I'm scared. But not of you. Of what I could lose. I know that's selfish. But I want both. I want you. I just need a little more time."
I look at him. The way his shoulders are slumped. The way he's pleading with his eyes.
And I want to scream. Because I know I'm going to say yes.
Not because I believe it'll magically get better.
But because a part of me is still convinced that this—this messy, halfway version of love—is the best I'm ever going to get.
Because deep down, I don't believe someone like me gets chosen in the daylight.
He reaches out and pulls me into his chest like it's the only way he knows how to explain himself anymore.
I should pull away. I should shove him back and slam the door and never speak to him again. But I don't.
Instead, I let myself fold against him. My arms stay stiff at my sides, but my body leans into the warmth of his hoodie, into the rhythm of his breath against my temple. He smells like cinnamon gum and gym sweat and every stupid memory I wish I didn't have.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he whispers into my hair. "I swear. I never wanted this to happen like that." But it did. And he let it.
My throat tightens. I can't stop the tears. They're hot and humiliating, sliding down my cheeks like they've been waiting all day to escape. My face is wet, my heart feels like it's cracked into pieces too small to ever glue back together.
"I hate how easy this is for you," I whisper, voice shaking. "You get to walk away from a lie and call it survival. I have to sit here and pretend I'm okay being the one you hide."
He pulls back just enough to cup my face in both hands, his thumbs brushing my tears away like they don't cost me something. "That's not what this is. You're not something I'm hiding. You're something I'm trying to protect."
I want to scream. "Don't you dare twist this like it's a favor."
"I'm just asking for time."
"That's all I ever give you," I say bitterly. "Time. Patience. Silence."
He doesn't argue. He just stares at me like I'm the one thing in the room still worth praying for.
"Please, December. Just four more months.
And then I'll tell the world. I'll hold your hand in every damn coffee shop in the city.
I'll tell anyone who looks at you sideways that you're mine. I promise."
I let out a shaky laugh. "You think I believe in promises?"
"No," he says quietly. "But I'm hoping you believe in me."
And that's the worst part—I do.
Even after everything, I believe in this broken version of him more than I've ever believed in myself. Because somewhere along the way, I started thinking that love wasn't about being seen or chosen or claimed. I started thinking it was about staying quiet enough to keep someone from leaving.
And maybe that's my fault. Maybe it is because I was taught to find shelter in half-closed doors and call it home.
So I nod.
Not because I forgive him. Not because I'm okay. But because I'm tired of fighting for more when I don't even believe I deserve it.