Chapter 12 #3
“He's sick.” Not physically. I don't know how else to explain it.
She nods anyway. “I figured.”
“If he wakes up while I'm here, I'll let you know.”
“Thanks.” She smiles sadly. “I'm glad he has someone today.”
The words linger long after she disappears back onto her own patio. I look toward Kai's bedroom.
Then back at the half-clean kitchen. I'm not going anywhere. Not today.
I don't realize I've fallen asleep until something shifts in the hallway. Not a loud noise, but the faint creak of old hardwood beneath careful footsteps.
My eyes open automatically.
The Raiders game is still playing on the television, though I couldn't tell you what's happened during the last quarter. At some point, Cleveland decided my chest made an acceptable bed, and the oversized orange cat is currently snoring loud enough to rival the commentators.
I look toward the hallway. Kai is standing there. For one awful second, he looks completely lost.
His blond hair sticks up in every direction from sleep. My T-shirt hangs almost to his thighs, swallowing his lean frame. His eyes are still swollen from crying, and there are deep purple shadows beneath them that no amount of sleep could erase.
He looks like he spent the afternoon trying to survive instead of resting.
The sight twists something painful inside my chest. “Kai.”
His eyes finally find mine. The uncertainty on his face disappears almost immediately. Not because he suddenly feels better because he found what he was looking for.
Cleveland grumbles as I carefully lift him off my chest. “You've officially been replaced, buddy.”
The cat blinks at me once, deeply offended, before curling into the warm spot I'd left behind.
I barely notice. I'm already crossing the room.
Kai doesn't move. The second I reach him, my hands settle carefully against his hips. I gently pull him closer. He comes without hesitation.
My forehead brushes his temple as I bury my face briefly against his messy hair. “Hey, how are you feeling?”
His shoulders tremble.
The question hangs between us. Kai doesn't answer. Instead, both of his hands bunch in the front of my shirt. His fingers curl into the fabric so tightly that my T-shirt wrinkles beneath them.
Then he starts crying. Not the desperate, panicked sobbing from yesterday.
This is quieter. The kind of crying that comes after you've spent so many hours holding yourself together that your body simply gives up.
I don't tell him to stop.
I don't tell him everything will be okay.
I don't know if it will.
Instead, I wrap both arms around him and let him lean as much weight into me as he wants.
His forehead presses against my shoulder.
“I know,” I murmur quietly. “It's alright.”
He shakes his head against me. His voice is broken “I'm sorry.”
“There is nothing to apologize for.”
“I keep...” His breathing catches. “I keep falling apart.”
The words land harder than I expect. I tighten my arms around him just enough for him to feel it.
“Everybody falls apart sometimes.”
“Not like this.”
I don't argue. Instead, I guide him gently backward until the backs of his knees bump the couch.
“Come here.”
He lets me.
I sit first, then carefully pull him into my lap.
Normally I'd make a joke. Tell him he's secretly a lap dog. Today doesn't feel like the day for jokes.
Kai curls instinctively against me.
He's tall enough that it should be awkward; instead, he somehow fits. His head settles beneath my chin. One arm wraps loosely around my waist while the other still clutches my shirt.
I run a slow hand up and down his back. The movement isn't calculated. It just feels right.
His breathing gradually begins matching mine. The crying slows. His body finally realizing it doesn't have to fight alone for a few minutes.
“I'm here.” The words come quietly. “I'm not going anywhere today.”
Kai doesn't answer. He simply nods once against my chest. A few minutes pass like that. The hockey game continues in the background. Someone scores. The commentators erupt. Neither of us looks toward the television.
Eventually Kai shifts just enough to look up at me. His eyes are red and exhausted. There are faint tear tracks drying across his cheeks. He hesitates. Then he leans upward.
Our faces end up only inches apart. For a brief second, I think I know what he's asking. He closes the distance.
I gently stop him before our lips meet.
His expression immediately falls.
I rest my forehead lightly against his. “Not tonight.”
His eyebrows knit together. “You don't...”
I kiss his nose. “It's not that.” I smile softly. “I just think you need something different tonight.”
He searches my face.
“I'm not going anywhere.” My thumb brushes gently across his cheek. “Let me take care of you for a little while.”
The tension in his shoulders loosens.
Just a fraction.
Then he nods. “Okay.”
I stand, keeping one arm around him until we're both balanced. Then I stretch out along the couch and pat the space above me.
“Come here.”
Kai gives me a sleepy, confused look. “You want me to…?”
“Mhm.”
Without another word, he carefully settles on top of me. His head comes to rest over my chest while one of my arms naturally circles his back.
He exhales.
The sound almost resembles relief.
I reach for the remote and turn the volume up a little.
A few minutes pass like that. The television continues playing in the background, the broadcast shifting from commercials back to a replay of an old Raiders game.
The familiar sound of skates carving into fresh ice fills the apartment before the commentators begin breaking down a defensive breakdown that led to a goal against.
Neither of us says anything for a while.
Kai's breathing gradually evens out against my chest. Every now and then I feel him sniff quietly into my shirt. I pretend not to notice.
On the screen, a Raiders defenseman pinches too aggressively along the boards. The puck squirts free into the neutral zone, and within seconds the opposing team has an odd-man rush.
The color commentator sighs. “That's just a terrible read. You can't give away the middle of the ice like that.”
Kai watches in silence until the puck ends up in the back of the net.
Then, with perfect seriousness, he mutters, “Jameson is getting walked out there.”
I blink. “What?”
He gestures weakly toward the television without lifting his head from my chest. “He got caught flat-footed three shifts in a row.”
Another replay rolls.
The winger blows past Jameson wide before slipping the puck across the slot.
Kai lets out an exhausted sigh. “He keeps chasing the puck instead of taking away the passing lane.”
I stare down at him. “You've been crying for six hours and you're still critiquing gap control?”
He shrugs one shoulder against me. “Bad defense annoys me.”
I can't help it. A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
His attention drifts back to the television as though he hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud.
I look back at the game, but I'm not really watching hockey anymore. I'm thinking about the man lying on my chest. Something is very wrong. Far worse than I'd understood.
I don't know how deep it goes yet.
I don't know how long he's been carrying it by himself.
But I do know one thing.
I'm not letting him carry it alone anymore.
The thought settles quietly inside me, less like a decision and more like a promise I didn't realize I'd already made.
Kai continues quietly criticizing the Raiders' defensive pairings through intermittent sniffles, explaining why Jameson keeps losing inside positioning and why their penalty kill has looked terrible since the All-Star break.
I argue with him just enough to keep the conversation alive. He insists Jameson has no business playing the top pairing. I tell him he's being dramatic.
By the time the intermission starts, he's sitting a little easier against me. The tears haven't disappeared. Neither has the grief.
But for the first time since I'd found him asleep in that dark bedroom, he's talking about something other than the weight he's been carrying.
For tonight, that's enough.