Ellery #2
For a second, neither of us spoke. The air between us stretched, something steady and unspoken pulling tight. His gaze lingered, not sharp this time—just warm and a little too knowing. I looked away first.
“Thank you,” I said finally, quieter than I meant to. “For getting us home. Seriously.”
He shrugged, like it was nothing. “You’re welcome. Next time, less tequila.”
“Next time, mind your business.”
He chuckled, that low, rumbling sound that somehow got under my skin. “You made it my business when you called me ten times.”
I groaned, covering my face with one hand. “You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
I peeked at him through my fingers. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he said easily, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “But you like impossible.”
The bell above the door jingled, and I didn’t even have to look up because I was so focused on–
“Good morning!”
Kyle.
He walked in all golden energy and confidence, holding a takeout bag like it was a peace offering enough to erase the last few canceled plans. “Hey, you,” he said brightly. “Brought lunch. Can’t do dinner tonight — meeting will probably run late.”
Before I could even respond, I felt the air shift. Beckett, leaning against the counter near the supply shelf, went still — the kind of still that felt dangerous. Then, without a word, he grabbed a clipboard, muttered something about checking inventory, and disappeared down the hall.
I tried not to follow him with my eyes. Tried not to feel the strange hollow his absence left.
“Lunch sounds great,” I said, forcing a smile.
Kyle grinned, oblivious as always, setting the bag on the table like we were starring in a commercial for healthy relationships. “Your favorite,” he said, pulling out the containers. “I figured I owed you one.”
“Thanks.” I busied myself with the lids, pretending the smell of curry didn’t make my stomach twist with guilt.
We sat in the break room, the buzz of the old refrigerator filling the silence between his stories.
He talked about training — how Coach Lawson said his precision was improving, how the national scouts were watching his next match.
Then about brand deals, sponsorship talks, a potential interview with a local station.
His voice had that rhythm I used to love, that fire I once found intoxicating.
I smiled in all the right places, nodded when he glanced at me for approval.
But somewhere along the way, that rhythm had changed.
He was here, but he wasn’t really with me. His words filled the room, but they didn’t reach me. It was like trying to listen through glass — I could see the shape of it, but not the warmth.
He reached across the table, brushing my hand. “You okay? You seem tired.”
“Just a long week,” I said, swallowing the truth. I’m tired of being the only one still reaching.
He nodded, already checking his watch. “You’re working too hard. You should relax more. Go out with your friends or something.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Maybe I will.”
Maybe I did.
Kyle watched me for a moment between bites, his brow creasing. “You okay? You’ve been quiet lately.”
I forced a small smile. “Just tired.”
He frowned — the kind of half-sympathetic look people give when they’re already thinking about something else. “You’re always tired. Maybe you should take a break from the foundation stuff.”
I blinked at him. “That’s not really an option.”
“I mean,” he said lightly, shrugging, “you don’t have to fix everything yourself.”
Something inside me bristled — not anger, exactly, just the ache of being misunderstood. “I’m not fixing everything,” I said softly. “I’m building something.”
He nodded, but I could tell it didn’t quite land. He didn’t see the difference. Or maybe he didn’t care to.
“Anyway,” he said, leaning back, the shift in his tone so seamless it almost made me dizzy, “Coach thinks the scouts might show up next week. If I play it right, it could be huge.”
“Yeah,” I murmured. “That’s great, Kyle.”
He smiled, all bright ambition again, and I smiled back because that’s what I’d always done — support, encourage, stay steady while he chased the next summit.
But something about it felt different now. The warmth wasn’t there.
He used to make me feel seen. Now I feel like I’m interrupting his schedule.
He stood a few minutes later, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”
“Sure.”
The door closed behind him, and the silence that followed didn’t ache like heartbreak. It just… echoed.
I sat at my desk, staring at the takeout container still warm from his hands, the meal we were supposed to share. The smell turned my stomach.
My heart didn’t hurt the way it should. It just felt quiet — like the part of me that used to reach for him had finally gone still.
The clock ticked somewhere above me, steady and indifferent. I didn’t move for a long time. Then, before I could stop myself, I whispered into the empty room, “What’s happening to me?”
A voice answered from the doorway.
“You mean besides me dying from caffeine withdrawal?”
I looked up. Naomi stood there, hair a wild halo, empty coffee cup in hand, her expression softer than usual.
I managed a small, crooked smile. “I think I’m falling out of love with him.”
She didn’t even blink — no shock, no judgment. Just walked over and perched on the edge of my desk, setting the cup down.
“Maybe that’s not the worst thing,” she said quietly.
And for the first time, I didn’t argue. Because deep down, I already knew she was right.
That night, I sat at my desk long after the building should’ve gone dark, pretending to work and mostly just rearranging the same three emails like they were a puzzle I could solve if I stared hard enough.
The office hummed with after-hours quiet—heater kicking on, the distant clink of pipes settling, the field lights outside throwing soft stripes across the carpet.
My cursor blinked on a blank reply I didn’t have the energy to write.
My phone lit up face down beside my planner, a small square of brightness nudging my attention.
Hydrated yet?
I felt it before I could stop it—the lift at the corner of my mouth, the lightness that slipped in where the ache had sat all day. I typed back, elbows on the desk, chin in my palm.
Barely.
The bubbles appeared almost immediately.
Lightweight.
A laugh slipped out of me, soft enough that it surprised the room. The sound didn’t bounce off the walls like usual; it settled warm in my chest, a private joke between me and the glow of the screen.
You try managing a gala and Naomi in the same week.
I pulled your martyr card last night when you threw up on me. We’re even.
I winced. I didn't remember that.
Thank you. For… all of it.
The dots paused. When his reply came, it was shorter, steady.
Anytime.
Outside, a whistle blew on the far field and then cut out, the kind of sound you only noticed when everything else is quiet.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the silence stretch.
For once it didn’t feel like a void to fill or a clock counting down.
It felt—strangely—like company. Like the space you make at a table when someone you trust sits beside you.
Eat something.
I glanced at the untouched takeout on the credenza and made a face he couldn’t see.
Bossy.
Nice-bossy.
Heat crept up my throat—the echo of something I’d said I shouldn’t have. I pressed my lips together, then typed anyway.
You’re impossible.
You’re fine.
I let the phone rest in my hand, the screen dimming, light fading to a soft gray. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I was bracing for anything. The knots in my shoulders loosened. My breath went deeper.
I swiveled toward the window, watched the last players drift off the turf, tiny figures under tall lights. Somewhere in that quiet, my phone buzzed once more.
Sleep. I’ll be around tomorrow.
I didn’t overthink the answer.
Okay.
The office settled around me like a blanket. The silence didn’t feel empty. It felt warm. And for tonight, that was enough.