Chapter 34 Silas #2
“I figured this is where you’d run off to,” Luke says, his voice low but unmistakably Luke—smooth, teasing, full of something unspoken.
My head jerks up before I can stop it.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, casual as if he didn’t just upend my entire universe by standing right there.
“You’re not supposed to be back here,” I manage. My voice is steady, but barely. I scrub a hand through my hair and sit up straighter. “Health code violations.”
He smirks and shrugs one shoulder. “Guess I’ve always been a bit of a rule-breaker.”
I huff out a dry laugh. “Since when?”
“Since a hot coach turned bartender broke my heart and disappeared before I could even punch him for it.”
That stings.
He steps inside, closer, and I notice the faint flush in his cheeks and the looseness in his posture. Loose-limbed and glowing like the world doesn’t weigh on him anymore.
“Luke,” I start, but he holds up a hand.
“No speeches,” he says, gently. “Don’t want ‘em.”
“I was just gonna say... I’m sorry.”
He smiles again—small, not smug or bitter. “I know,” he says simply. “And I’m okay. You don’t have to carry it anymore.”
The silence that follows is thick, but not uncomfortable.
I nod slowly. “Still...I am sorry. For everything. For the way I left. For not being strong enough to stay.”
Luke’s gaze drops for a second, then flicks back up to mine. “Yeah, well...I am strong enough now. So maybe next time, I get to decide when I walk away.”
Something about that makes my throat go tight. But he grins to take the edge off.
I watch the way his grin lingers—easy, unguarded, the kind that used to light up locker rooms and late-night talks on my couch.
It’s the same smile, but it doesn’t carry the same weight anymore.
He’s not asking for anything. Not apologies, not answers, not even me.
He’s just…here. And that alone is enough to make the air feel thinner.
I swallow, trying to keep my voice even. “You look good, Luke. Really good.”
He ducks his head for a second, almost shy, then meets my eyes again. “Thanks. Feels good to feel good, you know?”
There’s a beat where neither of us speaks. The hum of the walk-in cooler behind me fills the quiet, steady and low like a heartbeat.
He shifts his weight, glances around the cramped break room as though he’s seeing it for the first time. “So… this is where you disappeared to? Bartending in random bars?”
I let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Something like that. Pays the bills. Gives me time to think. Or not think. Depends on the night.”
He nods, as if that makes perfect sense. Then his expression softens further, something brighter flickering behind it.
“I got into med school,” he says quietly, almost like he’s testing the words out loud for the first time tonight. “Just found out last week. That’s why the guys dragged me out. Celebrating. Or trying to, anyway. Didn’t feel like going to Riot.”
The words hit me square in the chest—warm, bright, unexpected.
“Luke…” My voice cracks on his name, just a little. I can’t help the smile that pulls at my mouth, genuine and wide enough that it almost hurts. “That’s—Jesus. That’s incredible. I mean it. You’re gonna be amazing.”
He laughs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when praise made him squirm. “Yeah, well. Still gotta survive four years of hell and residency after that, but… yeah. Feels like the first real step toward something that’s mine.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, studying him. “You always had that fire. I never doubted you’d get there.”
His gaze holds mine a second longer than necessary. “I know you didn’t.”
The words land soft, but they carry everything we’re not saying. I believed in him. I still do. And maybe he knows I never stopped.
He exhales, slowly. “I get it now, Silas. Why you did what you did. Back then, I was… angry. Hurt. Thought you just didn’t want me enough.
Or maybe I was just too much.” He pauses, voice dropping.
“But I see it now. You were trying to keep me from burning up in the fallout. You thought walking away was the only way I’d get to keep my shot. ”
I can’t look away. My throat is too tight to answer right away.
He shrugs, small and almost gentle. “I needed time to understand that. And I have. So… thank you. For loving me enough to let me go.”
The words steal the air from the room.
I open my mouth, close it again. Finally I manage, “I never wanted to leave you alone in that hospital. Never wanted to send that text. I just—”
“I know,” he cuts in softly. No anger. No edge. Just quiet certainty. “I know.”
Another silence settles, warmer this time. As though the space between us is remembering how to breathe.
I clear my throat. “I, uh… I finished a sports psych certification. A couple days ago. Got the email confirmation today actually. It’s official.”
His eyebrows lift, surprise giving way to something softer—pride, maybe. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I rub my palms on my thighs, suddenly self-conscious. “Took longer than I thought. A lot of late nights. A lot of… figuring out who I am when I’m not coaching. Or screwing things up for other people.”
He smiles again, smaller this time, but real. “That’s huge, Silas. Really huge.”
I shrug, but the warmth in his voice makes it hard to play it off. “Feels like maybe I’m not completely broken anymore.”
“You were never broken,” he says. “Just…bent for a while.”
Our eyes lock, and the silence doesn’t feel like punishment. It feels like possibility.
He takes one small step closer, closing the distance enough that I can smell the faint trace of whatever cologne he’s wearing, mixed with the night air and celebration. “I should get back out there before the guys send a search party.”
I nod, even though every part of me wants to ask him to stay.
“Yeah. Don’t let them finish without you.”
He hesitates at the door, hand on the frame. Looks back over his shoulder.
“Hey, Silas?”
I lift my chin. “Yeah?”
“If you ever want to… I don’t know. Grab coffee. Talk about nothing important. Or everything.” He lifts one shoulder. “I’m around.”
My heart kicks hard against my ribs.
“I’d like that,” I say. “More than you know.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. No urgency in it or silent plea.
Just quiet warmth, the same steady look he used to give me after a tough practice when he knew I was beating myself up over something I couldn’t fix.
As though he’s saying, I see you. I’m not angry. And I’m here if you want to chat.
Then he gives a small nod—almost to himself—and turns toward the door. The soft click of it closing behind him echoes in the cramped space.
I sit there in the dim light of the break room, chest full of something I haven’t let myself name since the night I sent the text, deleted Prism, and turned off my phone.
Not quite hope.
But close.
It’s only been a year. A brutal, hollow year where I convinced myself letting him go was the last good thing I could do for him.
And tonight he walked in here, not to demand answers or punish me, but to tell me he’s okay.
That he understands. That he’s building something bright and real on the other side of what I broke.
I exhale slowly, the air tasting different now—less like regret and more like the faint possibility that maybe I don’t have to stay on this side of the door forever. For the first time since I walked away, I don’t feel like the idea of reaching out is impossible.