16. Chapter 16
Quinn
Cade's footsteps on the porch stairs have a particular weight I've learned to recognize. Not heavy, exactly, but deliberate, like he's thinking about something he hasn't figured out how to say yet.
I keep my fingers on the guitar strings, letting the last chord fade into the Montana dark. Seven weeks down. Five to go. The countdown runs like a second heartbeat under everything else now.
"You're up late." He settles onto the step below me, his usual spot. Close enough that I can smell Noah's soap and the cold night air and something underneath that's just him.
"Couldn't sleep."
"That makes two of us."
The porch light catches the compression sleeve still fitted over his elbow. He wears it constantly now, even when I haven't asked him to. Compliance that goes beyond protocol. I've stopped writing it in my notes because it started feeling too personal to document.
"Your playing's different tonight," he says.
I look down at my hands. Same guitar. Same chords I've been cycling through since I was sixteen. "Different how?"
"Sadder."
He's not wrong. The melody I've been working through is something I started writing two years ago and never finished. The one I keep almost letting myself complete, and don't.
"Just old stuff." I shift to something brighter. A Phoebe Bridgers progression that doesn't require me to think about what I'm feeling.
Cade doesn't push. He never does. Instead, he leans back against the porch post and watches the dark pasture, giving me whatever space I need.
This is what these past weeks have taught me about him. He knows when to stay quiet. When to let silence do the work. It's the same instinct that makes him good behind the plate, I think. Reading situations. Knowing when to call a fastball and when to let the pitcher figure it out himself.
"Graham called today," I say.
"Yeah?"
"Wanted to know how your numbers are looking. I told him you're ahead of schedule."
"And?"
"And he asked if you were behaving yourself."
Cade's laugh is low and warm in the darkness. "What'd you tell him?"
"That you were the most compliant patient I've ever worked with."
"That sounds like a compliment."
"It is." I set the guitar across my knees. "Though he didn't believe me. Said you've never been compliant about anything in your life."
"Graham talks too much."
"Graham's worried about you."
The humor fades from his face. In the dim light, something heavier settles into it.
"He tell you why?"
"No." I wait. The wind moves through the grass somewhere beyond the fence line. Cattle settling for the night. All the sounds I've come to associate with this place, with these weeks, with him. "But I'm asking."
Cade is quiet for a long time. I've learned this about him too. The silences that mean he's deciding how much to give. How much of himself to hand over.
"I've been playing since I was six," he finally says. "Started because my dad needed something to do with me on weekends. Turned into the only thing I was ever really good at."
I don't interrupt. This is more than he's given me before. More than the injury history in his file or the stats I researched before our first session.
"When I tore my shoulder at twenty-six, the doctors gave me fifty-fifty odds.
Six months of rehab, alone in an apartment in Arizona because I couldn't stand to be around the team.
Couldn't watch them play without me." He rolls his wrist, a habit I've noticed when he's working through something difficult.
"I came back. But Graham was there for that. He knows what it cost me."
"And now?"
"Now he's worried I'm doing it again. Isolating. Running away to Montana instead of dealing with what happens if I don't come back the same."
I know about running. About hiding in the place that feels safest when everything else is falling apart.
"Is that what you're doing?" I ask. "Running?"
He turns his head to look at me. In the low light, his eyes are dark and steady. "I thought so at first. When Reyes suggested it and Graham agreed. I figured I was just looking for somewhere quiet to fall apart."
"And now?"
"Now I think I came here to figure out who I am if I'm not the guy behind the plate."
The honesty of it hits harder than I expected it to. I've spent weeks watching him work through protocols and ranch chores and late-night guitar sessions. I've documented his progress in clinical terms. Range of motion. Pain thresholds. Grip strength.
I haven't documented this. Quietly, he's been rebuilding something besides his elbow.
"For what it's worth," I say, "you're more than a catcher."
"You have to say that. You're my therapist."
"I don't have to say anything." I hold his gaze. "You're smart. You're patient. You pay attention to people in a way most athletes don't. And you're kind. Even when you're scared."
His jaw works. For a moment, I think he's going to deflect. Make a joke.
Instead, he says, "Quinn."
Just my name. Lower than anyone else says it. More careful. Like he's holding something fragile.
"What?"
"Five more weeks."
"I know."
"I'm not going to be able to wait five more weeks to tell you something."
My pulse spikes, the kind of response I'd flag in a patient. I should remind him about boundaries. About the five-week agreement we made. About all the reasons this is still too soon.
"Then tell me."
He stands. Moves up one step so he's level with me instead of below. This close, I can see the small scar on his left hand that I noticed during his first session. The one I still haven't asked about.
"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since the day I walked into your clinic.
Not when you told me my career wasn't over.
Not when you called me out for being non-compliant.
Not when you packed up your whole life to come here and save my elbow in a barn.
" He pauses. "And not for the last few weeks when I've been sitting on this porch every night watching you play guitar and wondering if you'd let me kiss you if I asked. "
The air between us changes. Charges with something that has nothing to do with the cold.
"You haven't asked."
"Because I made you a promise. Five weeks. Everything by the book. I'm not going to be the thing that makes you rebuild again."
"Cade." I set the guitar aside. Stand so we're face to face with the porch railing at my back and nothing between us but the three inches of space I can't seem to close. "What if I don't want to wait?"
His breath catches. I see it in his chest, his whole body going still with the same stillness he gets behind the plate when everything depends on the next pitch.
"Don't say that unless you mean it."
"I mean it."
He reaches for me. His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheekbone. The touch is gentle. Deliberate. Everything I've documented about his hands and nothing I could have predicted.
"I need you to be sure." His voice is rougher now. Lower. "Because once I start, I don't know how to stop wanting you."
I answer by closing the distance myself.
The kiss starts soft. Questioning. His lips warm against mine, tasting like the coffee he drinks too late and the cold Montana air. I feel his other hand settle at my waist, steadying me without pulling closer. Giving me room to change my mind.
I don't change my mind.
My fingers find his collar. The fabric of his flannel bunched in my fists as the kiss deepens. He makes a sound low in his throat, and I feel it in the space behind my heart that's been empty for so long I forgot it was there.
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, and angles my head so he can kiss me properly. Thoroughly. Like he's been planning this. Like he already knows exactly what this kiss is supposed to mean.
I forget about the protocol. About the weeks still on the calendar. About every reason I've spent five years building walls.
When we finally break apart, both of us work to control our breathing. Then his forehead drops to mine.
"That," he says, "was worth waiting for."
I laugh. It comes out shaky and surprised and nothing like the composed professional I've spent years becoming.
"We still have five weeks."
"I know."
"I can't date a patient."
"I know that too."
"So this was..."
"This was me telling you something I couldn't wait to tell you." He pulls back enough to look at me. His eyes are bright even in the low light. Happy in a way I haven't seen from him before. "The rest of it? The everything else? That waits until you sign my clearance. Just like we agreed."
"You just kissed me."
"You kissed me back."
I did. I really did.
"Five more weeks," I say. Testing the words. Seeing if they still hold weight now that everything has shifted.
"Five more weeks of protocols and session notes and you being my therapist." He takes a step back. The space between us opens again, cold air rushing in where warmth used to be. "And then, Quinn McKenzie, I'm taking you on a real date. Somewhere with tablecloths and wine and no resistance bands."
"I like resistance bands."
"You're going to like dating me more."
The confidence shouldn't make me smile. It does anyway.
He picks up his guitar from where he left it by the door. Settles back on his usual step like the last five minutes didn't just upend everything I thought I knew about us.
"Play me something?"
"Now?"
"The sad one. The one you were working on when I came out."
I hesitate. That melody belongs to a version of me I've spent years trying to leave behind. The one who trusted too easily, and got burned.
But Cade is looking at me like he already knows. Like he's willing to sit in the dark and listen to whatever I need to play.
I pick up my guitar. Find the opening chord.
Two years after I started it, I finally play the whole song.
Cade doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just sits on the step below me in the dark, listening like he already knows this matters, and I let him.