Noah lay on his side, one arm flung across my chest, his leg hooked over mine like he wasn't ready to let go. His breath brushed my collarbone, slow and steady.
I stared at the ceiling. My chest ached—not from the effort, not from the bruises we'd left on each other, but from the words pushing against the back of my throat like teeth waiting to fall out.
I didn't clear my throat. Didn't move. It was time to speak.
"I love you."
His arm didn't tighten or flinch, and he didn't move away either. He stayed cuddled up close. That was enough.
And for some reason, I wasn't finished speaking.
I don't know why I said what came next. Maybe we'd bled all the other truths dry, or maybe there was nothing left to lose. His body still touched mine, and I wanted him to knowpreciselywhat he'd chosen.
"You think it started on the ice?"
Hearing the question, Noah stirred. His hand curled against my chest, palm warm, knuckles bent. I didn't wait for an answer.
"I saw you before that. Before the hit."
Silence reigned in the room.
"It was a hotel hallway. Your team was in town. I was on the way to my room—walking past. I heard voices. Laughter. Yours stood out. You were louder than the rest. Looser."
Noah lifted his head a fraction, his gaze catching mine in the low light. I saw a brief flicker of unease. It wasn't fear. It was the slower process of realization.
"You didn't see me, but I saw you. And I saw you—"
I swallowed hard.
"You kept rubbing your shoulder. It was like it already hurt. You were laughing, but your hand kept going there. Once, twice, and a third time."
Noah didn't speak. He didn't blink, either.
I kept going. Slowly. Like dragging a blade across soft skin.
"And I thought—there. That's the soft spot. That's where I'll hit him."
Noah pulled back slightly. He wasn't trying to get away. He was trying to see me better.
His voice trembled slightly. "You picked me."
I nodded. Nothing to deny. "You looked like you'd survive it."
A pause.
I added, "You looked like me."
He didn't say anything for a long time. Then: "So, now, make it mean something."
He didn't look away. He stared at me like I was something he'd never seen clearly until now—a creature in a natural history museum, finally lit up from the right angle.
I expected him to pull back. I thought he'd climb out of bed and start sorting through his things in silence.
Instead, he lay back down slowly.
His arm slid around my waist again, and he buried his face against my ribs.
I could barely breathe.
