She hesitates. "As far as I know. But we weren't exactly careful. That night in my car? We were in the facility parking lot, Nate. Anyone could have seen us."
The memory of that night—her skin under my hands, her breath against my neck—sends heat through my body even now, in the middle of this crisis. I force it down.
"So what's your plan then?" I ask.
"We hope it blows over.” She takes a deep breath. "And we stop... whatever this is between us. Completely."
The words hang in the air, sharp and final. I should have expected them—it's the only logical solution—but they cut deeper than I anticipated.
"Is that what you want?" I can't help asking.
Something flashes in her eyes—regret, longing, I can't tell which. "What I want doesn't matter. This is what has to happen."
"Elena—"
"I'm serious, Nate." She straightens papers on her desk that don't need straightening. "It's the only way forward. I'm requesting reassignment from your case. You'll work with Dr. Mendez from now on."
"So that's it? We just pretend none of this ever happened?" I stand, frustration rising in me.
"Yes." She won't look at me now. "That's exactly what we do."
I move closer to her desk, willing her to meet my eyes. "I don't believe you want to do that."
"It doesn't matter what I want!" The words burst from her, the first crack in her careful composure. "This isn't about what either of us wants. It's about what has to happen."
She stands too, arms wrapped around herself like she's holding something in—or keeping something out. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air between us charged with everything we can't say, can't do.
The alarm on her phone chimes, startling us both.
"I have a session in five minutes," she says, her professional mask sliding back into place. "You need to go."
"Elena, please?—"
"Now, Nate." Her voice is firm but there's a slight tremor in it. "Please go. I can't do this right now."
I want to argue, to make her see that what we have is worth fighting for. That we can make it work somehow. But the set of her body, the tension in her jaw—tells me now is not the time.
"Fine." I step back, hands raised in surrender.
She turns away to gather her notes. I walk to the door, pausing with my hand on the knob.
"For what it's worth," I say quietly, "I would never deliberately do anything to hurt you or your career."
She doesn't turn around, but she stiffens slightly. "I know," she whispers, so softly I almost miss it.
I slip out of her office, and close the door behind me. In the empty hallway, I lean against the wall, eyes closed, heart racing. I meant what I said—I'd gladly take the fall for her. I'd do anything to protect her.
The text from Coach comes during my afternoon workout a few hours later: "My office. Now."
I set down the weights I've been curling, a cold sweat breaking out across my back that has nothing to do with physical exertion. He knows. And now I have to face him not just as my coach, but as Elena's father.
I head down the hall and knock once on his door, the sound pathetically timid even to my own ears.
"Enter." His voice is sharp enough to cut glass.
I push the door open and step inside. He stands behind his desk, hands braced on the surface, leaning forward like he's barely restraining himself from vaulting over it. His face is set in hard lines, eyes boring into me with an intensity that makes mewant to turn around and walk back out. I don't. Instead, I close the door behind me and meet his gaze.
"You wanted to see me, Coach?"
