CHAPTER 18 #2
No point pretending it is smaller.
“I thought you might,” I add.
Her face gives away nothing.
But her hand stills.
“And that scared you.”
“Yes.”
The word sounds rough.
Simple.
Ugly.
Emily’s gaze stays on mine. “More than losing me?”
My chest tightens.
There are lies that would sound better.
No. Nothing scared me more than losing you.
That would be romantic.
It would also be dishonest.
“At the time?” I say. “Yes.”
Pain moves through her face.
Not the rib kind.
I hate myself a little.
No.
More than a little.
But she asked for truth, not a version she can frame prettily.
“At the time,” I continue, “choosing you felt like taking something I wanted while everyone at home needed me. Losing you felt like something I could turn into proof that I was doing the right thing.”
Her eyes shine.
She doesn't look away.
I keep going because stopping there would make her hold the worst of it alone.
“I made losing you useful,” I say. “That was cruel.”
Her mouth presses together.
I can see the impact.
I do not reach.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“That I would have understood the hard parts.”
The words are quiet.
No anger.
That makes them worse.
“I know,” I say.
Her eyebrow moves.
I correct faster this time. “I’m learning that. I didn’t understand it then. I thought understanding meant agreement. I thought if I told you everything, you’d either leave because it was too much or stay and make it harder for me to do what I thought I had to do.”
“So you made sure I had no options.”
“Yes.”
The word costs.
It should.
Emily leans back against the chair and closes her eyes.
The heat pack rises and falls slightly with her breathing.
Rain keeps tapping.
“I hate that you can say it now,” she says.
My throat tightens. “Because it’s late?”
“Because it’s right.”
I look down at my hands.
They are open on my knees.
Empty.
Still.
“Late right is still late,” I say.
Her eyes open.
Something passes through her expression.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
Maybe not close.
But recognition.
The kind a defender gives when the pass finally reaches the correct foot after three failed attempts.
“It is,” she says.
We sit with that.
No argument.
No rescue.
No kiss.
Not yet.
The word appears in my mind uninvited.
Not yet.
I do not know if that is hope or danger.
With Emily, likely both.
Her phone buzzes on the table.
She glances at it.
So do I, because apparently I remain a flawed person.
Team group chat.
A preview pops up.
AVA: If anyone sees Captain, tell her Coach said bed means bed, not tactical brooding.
Emily stares at the message.
Then another appears.
COACH RAMIREZ: Ava, stop narrating team instructions in group chat.
Then:
AVA: Sorry Coach.
Then:
AVA: But also Captain, bed.
Emily’s mouth twitches.
I look at her. “You have been captained by your mentee.”
“She’s getting bold.”
“You trained her.”
“Poor supervision.”
“Repeated issue.”
Her smile is still small when she looks at me.
Something in my chest gives way.
Not in a clean romantic way.
In a dangerous, helpless way.
I want to kiss her.
The want lands so hard it nearly moves me forward.
I do not move.
Emily sees the shift anyway.
Her smile fades.
The lounge changes again.
Warm lights. Rain. Heat pack. Half-empty tea. Midnight truths. The distance between two chairs that suddenly feels both respectful and unbearable.
“Nathan,” she says.
My name again.
Soft, but not gentle.
A warning and an invitation sharing the same breath.
“Yeah?”
“If you’re about to look at me like that, make sure you know what you’re asking.”
My heart kicks once.
Hard.
“I’m not asking.”
Her eyes narrow.
“I’m wanting,” I say. “Different thing.”
Her breath catches.
I should have kept that inside.
No.
No, maybe not.
Wanting is not the same as taking.
Wanting can stand still.
Apparently.
Emily’s hand stays over the heat pack. Her other hand rests on the arm of the chair, fingers curled against the fabric.
“What if I ask?” she says.
Everything stops.
The rain.
The hotel.
My ability to form a useful thought.
I make myself answer slowly.
“Then I need to know what you’re asking for.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
Returns to my eyes.
Good grief.
This woman is going to be the end of me, and I will deserve every minute.
“Not forgiveness,” she says.
“I know.”
“Not a promise.”
“I know.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
Right.
Other words.
“Okay,” I say. “Not forgiveness. Not a promise.”
“Not proof that everything is fine.”
“It isn’t.”
“No.”
“But?”
Her fingers tighten on the chair arm.
“But I want to kiss you again.”
The words hit me everywhere.
Everywhere good.
Everywhere dangerous.
I nod once because anything bigger might scare us both.
“I want that too.”
“Obviously.”
A laugh breaks out of me, low and helpless.
Of course.
Of course Emily Smith would make a confession sound like a correction.
Then she winces, just a little, because the laugh pulls her too.
The reminder is immediate.
Her body is still here.
So is the injury.
So is the trust.
So are all the rules we cannot afford to pretend away.
I stand slowly.
She watches every inch.
I do not come closer until she nods.
Then I move around the table and stop beside her chair, leaving enough room for her to stand or stay seated or change her mind completely.
Emily looks up at me.
The warm lobby light catches the curve of her cheek, the tired shadows under her eyes, the stubborn line of her mouth.
“May I?” I ask.
Her eyes soften.
Just slightly.
“Yes.”
I crouch instead of leaning over her.
Better angle. Less pressure. Easier for her to pull back.
She notices that too.
Her hand leaves the heat pack and reaches for my shoulder.
Not my jacket this time.
Me.
Her fingers settle there, light but sure.
I lift one hand to the side of her face, slow enough for her to stop me.
She does not.
Her skin is warm under my palm.
Her eyes close.
Mine do too.
The kiss is softer than the first.
At first.
Because the first kiss in the glass walkway was apology, shock, choice, years of silence cracking under the weight of one brave step.
This one is quieter.
No hallway. No almost. No phone call. No team alert cutting through before either of us knows what we are doing.
This one has time.
Not much.
Enough.
Emily’s mouth moves against mine, careful and sure. My thumb stays against her cheek. My other hand grips the arm of the chair because I need something to hold that is not her waist, not her ribs, not any part of her that might make this care turn careless.
She pulls back a breath.
Not away.
Just enough.
Her forehead nearly touches mine.
“Still a terrible idea,” she whispers.
I smile because my eyes are still closed and I am apparently foolish enough to feel happy inside a disaster.
“Terrible,” I agree.
She kisses me again.
This time, she is the one who deepens it.
Not much.
Enough to make my hand tighten on the chair arm hard enough that the wood complains.
Her fingers slide from my shoulder to the back of my neck.
My whole body goes hot and still.
Careful.
Careful.
Careful.
She is in a chair with a heat pack against her side and a national team sleeping upstairs and a media storm waiting outside tomorrow.
She is also kissing me like she chose every inch of it.
I break the kiss first.
Barely.
Emily opens her eyes.
There is colour in her face now.
A softness she will probably deny under oath.
“Why did you stop?” she asks.
“Because I like being alive.”
Her brows pull together.
“You have Ava,” I explain. “And Coach Ramirez. And Morgan. I assume there is a list.”
Her laugh comes out quiet and breathy.
It brushes over my mouth.
Bad idea.
Wonderful.
Terrible.
She leans back, and I move with her only enough to make sure she doesn't have to twist.
Then I stand.
Because if I do not, I may forget that wanting can stand still.
Emily watches me return to my chair.
Her hand goes back over the heat pack.
The distance between us is back.
Not empty.
Absolutely not empty.
She looks at me for a long second.
Then she picks up her terrible tea and takes one sip.
Her face wrinkles immediately.
“Still awful,” she says.
“Emotionally consistent.”
“Unlike you.”
I look at her.
There is no cruelty in it.
Just truth with a small, dangerous curve.
“I’m working on it,” I say.
“I noticed.”
Those two words land harder than the kiss in some ways.
Not better.
Different.
I sit with them because I do not trust my face.
Emily sets the tea down and glances toward the lobby. “I should go upstairs.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that.”
“Also yes.”
Her mouth curves.
Then fades into something more serious.
“We don’t tell anyone about this.”
“The tea?”
“Nathan.”
“Right. The kissing.”
Her look could discipline a full back line.
I lift both hands. “No one.”
“Not Colton.”
“Especially not Colton.”
“Not Morgan.”
“My sister already knows too much through supernatural means, but I will not provide confirmation.”
“Good.”
“Not Darius.”
“He’ll know from your face.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because your face is not subtle.”
“I’m beginning to understand.”
She stands carefully.
I stand too, but not close.
She notices.
Nods once.
A tiny thank-you she doesn't say out loud.
At the edge of the lounge, she stops and looks back.
The heat pack is still tucked under one arm, wrapped in the towel. Her phone is in her other hand. Her hair slips over one shoulder, and for a second she looks almost like the girl from the rainy camp field, except stronger, sharper, more guarded, and far more dangerous to my health.
“Good night, Bellows.”
“Good night, Captain Smith.”
She turns.
Walks toward the elevators.
I stay where I am until the doors close behind her.
Then I sit down hard in the chair and stare at the abandoned tea cup on the table.
Terrible idea.
Correct.
But for the first time all night, my hands are empty, the room is quiet, and the space she left behind does not feel like punishment.
It feels chosen.
***