Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Her hand trembled slightly. Exhaustion or emotion—she couldn't tell the difference anymore.
The arena was silent at this hour, nothing but the hum of emergency lighting and the distant rattle of the heating system Tarmek had secretly upgraded.
She'd discovered that particular act of service three days ago, when she found the work order tucked into a maintenance log while she was looking for something else entirely.
He never said anything.
Of course he hadn't. That was Tarmek's way—actions instead of words, care expressed through fixed heaters and upgraded insulation and better lighting that appeared without explanation.
She loaded more paint onto her brush and attacked the next section with unnecessary force.
She'd been working for six hours straight.
Not because the deadline demanded it, but because being here—surrounded by paint fumes and half-finished images—was easier than being in his condo.
Easier than lying in his bed, feeling his arm around her waist, knowing that every moment of comfort was borrowed time.
Temporary, she reminded herself. This was always temporary.
The word had become her mantra over the last few days. She repeated it while brushing her teeth in his bathroom. While using his coffee maker. While watching him move through his morning routines with that precise, controlled grace that made her chest ache.
Temporary. Finite. Ending.
The mural spread across the wall in front of her, a visual history of the Emerald Enforcers that would outlast her presence by decades.
Future fans would walk through this lobby and admire the colors, the movement, and the careful attention to detail.
They'd have no idea that the artist who created it had been falling apart while she worked.
Stop being dramatic.
But it wasn't dramatic, was it? This was the part she'd been avoiding, the moment she'd been dreading since the first time Tarmek kissed her in his kitchen. The reckoning.
She'd let herself get attached.
No—that was a lie, the comfortable kind she'd been telling herself for weeks. She hadn't let herself get attached. She'd thrown herself headfirst into attachment, wallowed in it, built a life around a man who organized his spice rack alphabetically and growled when she stole food from his plate.
Idiot.
The brush moved mechanically now, filling in shadows and highlights while her mind spiraled elsewhere.
She thought about his hands—large, scarred, and impossibly gentle when they touched her.
Thought about the way he watched her when he thought she wasn't looking, like she was something precious and fragile and worth protecting.
No one had ever looked at her like that before.
No one had ever made her want to stay.
And that's exactly why I have to go.
The logic was sound. She'd learned this lesson a hundred times in a hundred different towns—attachment was a trap.
People who stayed got hurt. Roots meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant pain.
Better to leave while she still could. Better to rip off the bandage before it became a second skin.
The brush slipped, leaving a streak of blue where green should have been.
"Shit."
Edie grabbed a rag, dabbing at the mistake with shaking fingers. The paint smeared instead of lifting, and she swore again, louder this time.
Focus. Just finish this section and go back to the condo and—
And what? Pack her bags? Load up the camper with no heat? Drive away from the first place that had ever felt like home?
Her throat tightened.
Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.
She hadn't cried in years. She hadn't allowed herself that particular weakness, not since she'd learned that tears didn't change anything. You could sob your heart out, and the world would keep spinning and people would keep leaving. Nothing would be different when you finished.
Crying was useless.
But the pressure behind her eyes didn't care about logic. It built anyway, a storm she couldn't outrun no matter how many brushstrokes she put between herself and the truth.
I’m going to miss him.
She was going to miss everything—his ridiculous organization systems, his midnight snacks that he pretended were about nutrition, the way his whole face transformed when he smiled.
She was going to miss the team dinners and the inside jokes and the feeling of being part of something bigger than herself.
She was going to miss belonging.
God, when did I start feeling like I belonged?
Somewhere between the chaos and the arguments and the spectacular sex, she'd stopped being a visitor. She'd become part of the fabric of this place—the arena, the team, the community that gathered around the Emerald Enforcers like a quirky, dysfunctional family.
Kids knew her name now. Sam asked her opinion on marketing decisions. Brogan had started calling her "little chaos," which was somehow both insulting and affectionate. She'd woven herself into Greenwood Hollow's tapestry, and cutting herself free was going to hurt.
A soft sound echoed through the empty arena and she tensed, her brush frozen mid-stroke. Footsteps. Heavy ones, measured and familiar. She didn't turn around. Couldn't. If she looked at him right now, she'd break.
The footsteps stopped at the base of the scaffolding.
"You should be sleeping." His voice was rough, thick with something she didn't want to examine too closely.
"I could say the same about you."
"I woke up. You weren't there."
I wasn't there.
Such simple words for such a complicated truth. She hadn't been there because lying next to him was torture. Because every breath of his familiar scent, every brush of his skin against hers, reminded her of what she was about to lose.
"Couldn't sleep," she said. "Figured I'd be productive instead."
A long pause. She could feel him watching her, that intense orc gaze cataloging every detail—the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand gripped the brush too tightly, the smear of blue paint that still marred the wall.
"You've been up here for hours."
"How do you know that?"
"I checked the security footage."
Of course he had. He noticed everything, tracked everything, monitored everything. It should have felt invasive. Instead, it just felt like care.
Stop making this harder than it has to be.
"I'm almost done with this section," she said, forcing her voice to stay level. "Another hour, maybe. Then I'll come back."
Come back. Like his condo was home. Like she had any right to call it that.
Another pause. She heard him shift, and heard the soft rustle of fabric.
"I brought coffee."
Something in her chest cracked.
Don't be nice to me. Please don't be nice to me.
But niceness was his default, wasn't it? He didn't know how to stop caring, even when caring hurt. He showed up with coffee at 2 a.m. because she needed it, because taking care of her was instinct now, because some part of him would probably keep taking care of her long after she was gone.
"Thanks."
The word came out strangled.
He climbed the first few rungs of the scaffolding, just far enough to set a travel mug on the platform beside her. His hand brushed her ankle as he withdrew—a brief, deliberate touch that said everything his words couldn't.
Stay. Please stay.
She didn't look at him. Couldn't.
"Edie."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"I said I'm fine, Tarmek."
The sharpness in her voice surprised them both. She heard him exhale slowly, that controlled breath he used when he was swallowing something he wanted to say.
"Okay."
Just okay. No argument, no pushback, no attempt to force a conversation she wasn't ready to have. He accepted her lie and let it stand, because that's who he was—a male who respected boundaries even when they were killing him.
She felt him descend the scaffolding. Heard his footsteps retreat across the arena floor. The door opened and closed with a soft click. Only then did she let herself look.
The space where he'd stood was empty. The coffee steamed gently beside her, exactly the way she liked it—strong, slightly sweet, with just a splash of the oat milk he'd started buying specifically for her.
She picked up the mug with trembling hands and took a sip. The warmth spread through her chest, a poor substitute for the warmth she was about to leave behind.
It's better this way.
The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
The condo felt different in the grey light of morning.
Edie stood in the doorway of the guest room—her room, the one she'd been sleeping in less and less as the weeks passed—and surveyed the chaos she'd created. Sketches pinned to walls. Paint supplies scattered across the dresser. Three different scarves draped over the chair in the corner.
Her mark was everywhere.
She'd spread herself through his space like water, seeping into every crack and corner until it was impossible to tell where she ended and he began.
No wonder this is so hard.
She started with the scarves, folding them methodically, trying to impose order on the emotional tornado raging in her chest. One was emerald green—she'd bought it after the first home game, when the team had won in overtime and the whole arena had erupted in celebration.
The second was deep purple, found at a thrift store downtown while exploring with Korvash's wife.
The third was hand-knitted, a gift from one of the kids in the community art program, wonky stitches and all.
Souvenirs, she thought. Evidence of a life I almost had.
The sketches came down next. Concept art for the mural.
Random doodles inspired by team members.
A portrait of Tarmek she'd done from memory one night while he was at an away game—his face in that rare unguarded moment right before he smiled, all the intensity softened by something that looked like tenderness.
She stared at the portrait for too long.
Throw it away. Leave it behind. Don't carry evidence of your own stupidity.