The sun had begun its descent toward the tree line when we finally stopped, surveying our handiwork. The stack was impressive—neat rows of split logs that would fuel the fireplace through weeks of winter yet to come. We'd created something essential together, transforming raw material into sustenance and warmth.
Noah looked across at me, sweat dampening his hairline despite the cold. He stepped closer, brushing snow from my shoulder.
His fingertips lingered a fraction longer than necessary, the pressure light but unmistakable through my jacket. "We should head in. Light's fading."
I nodded, suddenly aware of how the forest had deepened toward evening, shadows stretching between the trees like ink spreading through water. The temperature dropped with the sun, the day's brief warmth receding into memory.
The walk back to the cabin was short. Our footprints left parallel tracks in the snow—separate but aligned, never touching but never straying far from each other.
At the threshold, Noah paused, glancing back at the woodpile we'd created. "Not bad for a day's work."
"No. Not bad at all."
We stepped inside together, leaving the cold behind. The wolf carving watched from the windowsill as we moved through the familiar space, no longer strangers navigating separate orbits but something closer to partners finding their way in shared darkness.
I peeled off my damp outer layers and hung them near the fire, flexing my shoulder carefully to test the damage. The ache had dulled for now, but I knew better than to believe it was over.
Noah moved through the kitchen with easy confidence, spooning cocoa into mugs like he'd been doing it for years. The scents of chocolate and woodsmoke filled the air, warm and grounding. I mumbled something about grabbing dry socks and crossed to the storage trunk by the window.
The lid creaked as I opened it. Inside, a tangle of winter gear sat layered with things I hadn't looked at in months—some of it years. I dug deeper past wool hats and mismatched gloves until my fingers caught on something soft. Familiar.
I pulled it out before I knew what it was.
An old jersey.
Navy and silver, number 71. The fabric was faded and sweat-stained at the collar. It had a crooked patch on the left sleeve from where a trainer had sewn it back on after a late-season fight. The name stitched across the back—KELLER—had begun to fray at the edges.
I stared at it, frozen. My thumb brushed over the lettering. A breath caught in my throat.
Some part of me had expected it to still feel like mine. But in the firelight, it looked like it belonged to someone else. A younger man. Stronger. Invincible. Before the hits started to hurt more than they used to. Before the suspension. Before Noah.
I didn't hear him come up behind me.
"You wore that like armor."
I didn't turn. I held the jersey in both hands like it might vanish if I let go.
"I kept it because I didn't know how to be anyone else."
He stepped closer. "Do you still think you have to be that guy?"
My throat tightened. "Some days. I still wake up thinking I've got a game to play. Then I sit up and remember… the pain doesn't comeafterthe hit anymore. It's already there. Waiting."
My fingers curled tighter around the fabric. I didn't want to look at him. Couldn't.
"I used to think it meant I'd done something right, you know? That hurting meant I was still in the fight." My voice dropped. "Now it just means the fight's over, and my body didn't notice when it ended."
The jersey sagged in my hands. I didn't fold it. Didn't hang it. I carefully set it down in the trunk, like I was laying something to rest.
Noah didn't rush to speak. When he did, his voice was steady and certain.
"You don't need armor with me."
He placed his hand on my shoulder—not to reassure me, just to let me know he was there. Solid. Real.
I didn't say anything.
But I didn't move away either.
