23. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
Celeste
I wake up before him.
The room is still gray with early light; the kind that makes everything feel suspended, not quite night, not quite morning.
Tate’s arm is heavy across my waist.
His breath fans softly against the back of my neck, slow and steady. Every exhale brushes my skin like a reminder that he’s here. That last night was real. That if I turned over right now and kissed him awake, we could pretend everything was fine.
I don’t move.
Because this, this right here, is the last moment I get to have before I ruin it.
My chest feels like it’s caving in from the inside.
I stare at the ceiling and let myself memorize it.
The faint crack in the corner. The hum of the radiator. The distant rumble of a garbage truck outside.
This is what normal sounds like.
This is what love sounds like.
And I am about to walk away from it.
Slowly, carefully, I lift his arm and slide out from under it.
He stirs.
“I love you,” he murmurs, half asleep.
The words shatter something in me.
He trusts me.
He trusts that I’m not going anywhere.He loves me, and I love him.
I swallow the sob that climbs up my throat and whisper, “I know.”
I go to the kitchen, because if I stay in that bed, I won’t be strong enough to do this.
The tile is cold under my bare feet. The apartment feels different in the morning light, smaller somehow. Quieter.
I make coffee I won’t drink.
My hands shake when I pick up my phone.
There’s still the browser tab open from last night.
Massachusetts custody rights biological father.
I don’t open it again.
I don’t need to.
I can still hear Brett’s voice in my head.
You think a judge is going to side with a college hockey player over a biological father?
He wouldn’t even have to win completely.
Even partial custody would rip Rowen’s life in half.
Two houses.Two schedules. Two sets of rules.Two people fighting over him like he’s something to claim instead of protect.
Rowen needs stability.
Not a war.
And Tate…
Tate would burn the world down.
That’s what terrifies me most.
He wouldn’t think about draft boards or contracts or public image. He’d think about us. About protecting us.
And that’s exactly why I can’t let him.
Footsteps sound behind me.
I don’t turn around.
He comes up quietly, wraps his arms around my waist, presses his face into my shoulder.
“You’re up early,” he says, voice thick with sleep.
His skin is warm. Familiar. My body leans into him before my brain can stop it.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I manage.
He hums softly, kissing the side of my neck.
“I leave today,” he says. “But I’ll be back tomorrow evening.”
I nod.
He releases me and moves around the kitchen like he fits into my space too well already. Pulls out his duffel bag. Starts folding clothes with the casual rhythm of someone who thinks he’s coming back to exactly what he’s leaving.
“I’ll FaceTime Ro before the game,” he says. “And I’m bringing him something from the arena shop. Maybe a mini stick.”
The words are casual, tossed out like he’s already picturing it; Rowen in the living room, sliding across the floor in socks, swinging a tiny plastic stick like it’s Game 7 of the Stanley Cup.
I grip the edge of the counter so hard that my knuckles go white.
The laminate digs into my palms, grounding me in the moment while my chest tightens.
He’s planning.
Not just next week or next month.
He’s building a future that includes us.
Rowen.
Me.
Little pieces of a life that suddenly feel terrifyingly real.
He zips his bag halfway, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen, and glances up at me.
“You’re really quiet.”
Now.
The word echoes in my head like a warning.
If I don’t do it now, I won’t.
If I wait one more minute, if he smiles at me again, if he says Rowen’s name again, I’ll lose whatever fragile courage I managed to scrape together.
My heart is pounding so hard I feel it in my throat, each beat sharp and heavy.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
The words fall between us.
Too loud.
Too final.
Too permanent.
For a second, the room feels like it tilts.
He freezes completely, his hand still resting on the zipper of his bag.
“What?”
“I can’t…” My voice trembles, the sound thin and fragile. I swallow hard and force it to steady. “I can’t do this.”
He lets out a short laugh, confused more than anything. “Do what?”
“This.” My fingers curl tighter around the mug in my hands. “Us.”
Silence follows.
Not angry.
Not explosive.
Just stunned.
The kind of quiet that feels heavy enough to crush something.
“Where is this coming from?” he asks.
And his voice is still calm.
Still patient.
Still Tate.
Which somehow makes it worse.
I stare down at the coffee mug in my hand, focusing on the faint swirl in the ceramic, because if I look at him, if I see his face, I know I will crumble.
“It’s too much.”
“What is?”
“You’re about to get drafted, Tate.” My breath is shallow now, each inhale too small to fill my lungs. “Your life is about to change. Travel. Media. Pressure.”
“So?”
The single word lands between us.
“So, Rowen doesn’t need that.”
His brows pull together, confusion turning into something sharper.
“Rowen doesn’t need what?” he asks slowly. “Someone who shows up?”
The words hit me like a punch to the ribs.
Shows up.
Because he does.
He always has.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what do you mean?”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly tight.
“I can’t let him get attached to something that might not last.”
Something in Tate’s expression shifts.
Not anger.
Something quieter.
More wounded.
“I’m not temporary.”
You don’t know that.
None of us do.
“You can’t promise that,” I say quietly.
His jaw flexes, but his voice stays steady.
“I can try.”
“That’s not enough.”
The words feel like glass in my mouth.
His jaw tightens just a little more.
“This isn’t about hockey,” he says softly. “You’re scared of something.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
The word barely makes it past my lips.
He steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s approaching something fragile that might shatter if he moves too fast.
“Then let me help.”
That’s it.
That’s the exact moment my heart actually breaks.
Because that’s the one thing I can’t allow.
If he helps, he gets involved.
If he gets involved, Brett escalates.
If Brett escalates, Rowen gets caught in the middle.
And I will not let my son grow up in courtrooms and custody hearings and slammed doors.
“I don’t need help,” I say.
The lie burns the second it leaves my mouth.
“You don’t get to shut me out like this,” he says.
“I’m not shutting you out.”
“It feels like you are.”
My hands are shaking now.
I press them flat against my thighs, trying to hide it, trying to hold myself together.
“Maybe this was just… what I needed for a while.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I hate myself for them.
I hate the way they sound.
Cold.
Selfish.
Untrue.
Tate’s face goes completely still.
“What does that mean?”
“It means maybe I needed someone stable,” I continue, forcing the words out even as my chest tightens. “Someone steady. And now—”
“And now what?” His voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard it.
So quiet it almost hurts.
“And now it’s different.”
He stares at me like I’ve suddenly started speaking another language.
Like none of this makes sense.
“So I was a phase?” he asks.
The words are flat.
Careful.
Like he’s testing them before deciding whether they hurt.
“No.”
“Then what the hell was this?”
Everything.
It was laughter in my kitchen.
It was Rowen falling asleep on his shoulder during movies.
It was late nights and quiet mornings, and the way my life somehow felt steadier with him in it.
It was everything.
But I can’t say that.
Because if I say that, I won’t let him walk out that door.
“You deserve someone uncomplicated,” I say instead. “Someone who can follow you wherever you go. I can’t.”
“I never asked you to.”
“You don’t have to.”
Silence stretches between us.
Thick.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Finally, he reaches down and picks up his duffel bag.
The sound of the strap sliding over his shoulder feels louder than it should.
“I won’t beg,” he says quietly.
That hurts more than if he had yelled.
“I thought we were building something,” he adds.
My throat tightens.
“We were.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re tearing it down?”
Because I love my son more than I love you.
Because protecting him means losing you.
Because if I choose you and I lose Rowen, even part-time, I will never forgive myself.
But I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I stand there in the middle of the kitchen and let him believe I’m just scared of change.
He walks toward the door.
Each step sounds too loud against the floor.
Too final.
He pauses with his hand on the knob.
For a split second, hope sparks painfully in my chest.
I think he’s going to say it.
I think he’s going to say I love you.
And if he does…
If those words leave his mouth…
I will run to him.
I will ruin everything I just did.
He swallows instead.
“Tell Ro I’ll text him after the game.”
His voice is steady.
Controlled.
It’s the control that kills me.
The door opens.
Cold air slips into the apartment.
And then he’s gone.
The click of the door shutting is soft.
But it echoes.
I stand there for a full thirty seconds.
Maybe more.
Waiting for him to come back in and say this is a joke.
Waiting for him to fight harder.
Waiting for myself to chase him.
I don’t.
My knees give out first.
I slide down against the cabinet and press my fist to my mouth to keep the sound inside.
Because Rowen is asleep down the hall.
And I don’t get to fall apart loudly.
I cry silently.
The kind of cry that feels like something is being ripped out of you slowly.
I let myself feel it.
Every bit of it.
Because this is the cost.
This is what loving a child means.
Choosing them.
Even when it destroys you.
After a while, I wipe my face and stand.
I walk to Rowen’s room and open the door quietly.
He’s tangled in his blankets, hair messy, mouth slightly open.
Peaceful.
Safe.
I kneel beside his bed and brush my fingers through his hair.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper.
Even if it means losing him.
And in the quiet of that small bedroom, I let myself break completely, just for a minute, before I stand back up and become strong again.