Chapter 11 Tanner #2
That night, I spread my capstone materials across the coffee table and tried to focus.
The presentation was in three days. I had the data memorized, the slides polished, the talking points rehearsed until I could recite them in my sleep. But my brain kept drifting—to the Riddell meeting, to the grad program, to the bowl game schedule Seth had pulled up on his phone.
December twenty-sixth. He’d be playing football on December twenty-sixth.
I shoved the thought aside and opened my laptop.
Seth was in the kitchen, doing something complicated with chicken and vegetables.
He’d taken over cooking duties somewhere in the last few weeks, claiming I couldn’t be trusted to feed myself when I was in research mode.
He wasn’t wrong. Left to my own devices, I’d survive on coffee and whatever protein bars were on sale at the campus store.
“You’re overthinking,” he called without turning around.
“I’m preparing.”
“Same thing. Your presentation is flawless. You’ve run through it fifteen times.”
“Sixteen.”
“My point exactly.” He appeared in the doorway, dish towel slung over his shoulder. “Take a break. Eat. Watch something mindless. The work will still be there in an hour.”
I wanted to argue, but he was already crossing to the couch, settling beside me, easing my laptop closed.
“An hour,” he said. “Then you can obsess all you want.”
“I don’t obsess.”
“You absolutely obsess. It’s one of your most charming qualities.”
I let him find something on TV—some cooking competition where everyone was stressed and nothing was on fire yet. His arm draped across my shoulders, pulling me into his side. The weight of him was grounding, familiar in a way that still surprised me.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“This morning. Breakfast. Making me take breaks.” I turned my head and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “All of it.”
“That’s what this is supposed to be, right?” He was quoting me from weeks ago, from that first real conversation in the diner. “Taking care of each other.”
“Yeah. That’s what this is.”
I watched his profile in the blue glow of the television. Something was off—a tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there this morning. His free hand had curled into a loose fist on his thigh, fingers tapping a restless rhythm.
“You’re thinking about Thanksgiving,” I said.
He went still. “What makes you say that?”
“You’ve got that look. The one you get when family comes up.”
A long pause. On screen, someone was crying over an overcooked risotto. Seth stared at it without seeing.
“I haven’t been home since last Christmas,” he said. “They’re expecting me.”
“But you don’t want to go.”
“I never want to go.” He exhaled, long and slow. “But I keep thinking… Maybe this time will be different. Maybe if I just show up and play the part, they’ll…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
The urge to beg him to come home with me so he could be surrounded by people who wouldn’t judge him was strong. But he was warm against my side, and the day had been good—so unexpectedly, impossibly good—and I kept my mouth shut. If I pushed, he’d shut down.
“The offer stands,” I said again. “My mom would love to meet you.”
Something flickered across his face—hope, maybe, or longing. Then it was gone, replaced by that careful blankness he wore like armor.
“I’ll think about it.”
He pressed a kiss to my temple. On screen, someone’s soufflé collapsed and three judges looked devastated.
We watched until the food was ready, then ate on the couch because the table was covered in my research. The chicken was good—better than good, seasoned with something I couldn’t identify that made my mouth water. Seth had talents I was still discovering.
“What’s the plan for the Riddell meeting?” he asked between bites.
“Lincoln wants me to walk through the data. Explain the concept, the testing methodology, and the results. Then see if they’re interested in developing it further.”
“And if they are?”
“Then we talk about licensing. Compensation.” I shook my head. “I still can’t believe this is happening. Three months ago, I was just trying to finish my capstone without falling apart.”
“You were falling apart a little.”
“Okay, yes. I was falling apart a lot.” I set down my plate. “But then you showed up with hot chocolate and sat with me while I cried about force distribution data, and somehow that turned into this.”
“The hot chocolate was key.”
“It really was.”
Seth’s expression softened. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear—a gesture that had become habit, something he did without thinking. I leaned into his palm.
“I’m proud of you,” he said. “Not just the acceptance or the meeting. All of it. The way you’ve kept going even when everything felt impossible.”
The words hit me somewhere vulnerable, somewhere I usually kept protected.
I thought about all the mornings I’d barely been able to get out of bed.
All the nights I’d spent staring at the ceiling, convinced I was wasting my time on research that would never matter. All the times I’d almost given up.
“I didn’t do it alone,” I said.
“You did most of it alone. Long before I showed up.”
“Maybe. But it’s better with you here.”
He was quiet for a moment, jaw working like he was chewing on something he didn’t want to say. The earlier tension—the Thanksgiving conversation, the family he was dreading—hadn’t gone anywhere.
“Seth,” I started.
He shook his head and reached for me, pulling me closer. His mouth found mine before I could form the question.
The kiss tasted like avoidance. Like something he didn’t want to talk about, couldn’t talk about, not yet.
I kissed him back anyway.
Later, in the dark of his bedroom, I listened to him breathe and tried to quiet my mind.
Everything I’d wanted was falling into place.
The grad program. The research opportunity.
The man lying beside me, his arm heavy across my waist, his face slack with sleep.
This was the life I’d been afraid to imagine.
The one where things actually worked out, where the universe stopped taking and started giving back.
It felt fragile. Like if I looked at it too directly, it might shatter.
Seth made a soft sound in his sleep and pulled me closer. His breath was warm against the back of my neck. Outside, the wind had picked up, and I could hear it rattling the window frames.
Three more games. Then the bowl. Then he’d be done, and we’d figure out the rest together.
His family would still be there in a few weeks, waiting to make him feel small. For now, I let myself have this. The warmth of him. The quiet of the apartment. The improbable reality of being happy.
I fell asleep counting the days until the season ended, and for once, the numbers felt like a promise instead of a threat.