Chapter 18 #2
Roxie wrapped her arms around herself, like she’d suddenly remembered where her body ended and mine began. Her gaze darted everywhere except my face.
“We just—” She exhaled sharply. “We crossed a line.”
I nodded, even though every part of me resisted it. “Yeah.”
Another beat passed. Then another.
She took a step toward the counter, then stopped, fingers flexing at her sides. “This is exactly what we said wouldn’t happen.”
“I know.”
“Which means,” she continued, voice too controlled, “we need to be smarter. More careful.”
Careful.
Right.
The word scraped against something inside me that was already frayed.
“So, that’s it?” I asked before I could stop myself. “We just … pretend it didn’t happen?”
She finally looked at me then, eyes wide with something that felt dangerously close to panic. “I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what you mean,” I said, sharper than I intended. I reined it in, forcing my tone back to neutral. “Isn’t it?”
Her mouth opened, then closed again. “I mean … we can’t keep doing this.”
Doing this.
She gestured vaguely between us, like she couldn’t quite bring herself to define it.
Something cold settled in my bones.
“Right.” I gave a short laugh that held no humor. “Because the marriage is about to expire. Can’t muddy the waters.”
“That’s not what I—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in, the old reflex kicking in before she could finish. Distance. Control. “You’re right. We knew this was temporary.”
Her jaw tightened. “Ledger—”
“I get it.” I stepped back now, creating space where a moment ago there had been none. “You’re just keeping things clean. Simple.”
The words tasted bitter.
I didn’t know why I was reacting like this. Why the tightness in my chest felt so sharp, or why her pulling back felt like a rejection instead of a reminder. This was always the plan. A necessary evil. A makeshift arrangement to get us both what we needed, nothing more.
I’d gone into it fully aware of the rules. Fully prepared to endure her presence, to tolerate her, at best.
I hadn’t accounted for how that initial irritation—her questions, her teasing, the way she took up space in my life—had quietly shifted into something else entirely. Something heavier. Warmer. A like so strong it had snuck up on me and made itself at home before I’d realized what was happening.
And now that she was the one drawing the line, suddenly it felt like I was the one losing something.
She stared at me, like she wanted to argue. Like she wanted to say something else entirely. But whatever it was stayed locked behind her teeth.
“Good,” she said finally, lifting her chin. “Then we’re on the same page.”
Same page.
“Guess so,” I replied.
Another silence followed, heavier now. Weighted with everything we weren’t saying.
Eventually, she reached for her mug again, fingers curling around it like she needed something solid. “You should probably call your coach.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, though my eyes stayed on her. “I should.”
“And Talon and Ridge will murder you if they find out they weren’t first,” she added, trying for lightness.
I snorted. “Fair.”
She hesitated, then looked back at me. “I am really proud of you. Just so you know. No matter what.”
That might’ve been the hardest part of all.
Because she wasn’t saying it as my wife.
Or as part of the arrangement. She was saying it like someone who genuinely cared, like my success mattered to her even if I wasn’t useful to the plan anymore.
Like she’d still be standing there, coffee in hand, proud of me, even when this whole thing was over.
It made my chest ache in a way I didn’t know how to fix.
I wanted to tell her how much it meant. How her belief hit differently than anyone else’s. How hearing it from her made the years of doubt and debt and scraped-together hope feel almost worth it.
Instead, I swallowed it down.
Because saying any of that would crack something open I wasn’t ready to face. And because if I let myself lean into the comfort of her pride, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to step back again when the clock ran out.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
“I should—” She gestured toward the living room. “I have a call soon.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”
She hesitated, like she might say something more. Then she turned and walked away, leaving the air between us buzzing and unfinished.
I stood there in the kitchen after she disappeared, heart still pounding, body still remembering her like it didn’t know how to let go yet.
Eventually I headed toward the bedroom, heart still racing, thoughts tangled and loud.
Victory had felt so clear this morning. I’d qualified for Trials. The thing I’d been chasing for most of my life.
And somehow, that victory felt tangled up with fear in a way I hadn’t expected.
Because now there was more on the line than just my career.
There was her.
And as I shut the bedroom door behind me and turned on the shower, steam already creeping into the air, one truth settled in deep and unshakable.
I still wanted Worlds. I wanted it with the same hunger, the same focus, the same refusal to quit that had carried me through every brutal morning and lonely night. I was closer than I’d ever been—one step from the dream I’d built my entire life around.
But somewhere along the way, without asking permission, I’d started wanting something else too.
Someone else.
And wanting more than one thing meant the risk had multiplied. It meant that no matter how hard I swam, no matter how far I pushed myself, there was now more I could lose.
I stood under the spray, letting the water beat against my skin, finally understanding just how dangerous hope could be.
Because I was closer than ever to everything I’d ever wanted.
And more afraid of losing it than I’d ever been.