"But there has to be more. I won't be with someone who's just looking for the next thrill."
"Elena." He reaches across the table, his fingers hovering just short of mine. "That's never what this was for me."
I believe him but that feels so scary for me.
"I know I have issues," I say quietly. "Things I need to work on too."
"Like what?" His question is gentle, inviting rather than demanding.
I look off to the side, gathering courage. "My relationship with my dad is... complicated. After my mom died, he became everything to me—father, protector, coach, cheerleader. He set impossibly high standards, and I killed myself trying to meet them."
Nate listens, silent but attentive.
"When I realized I'd never be the perfect daughter he wanted, I swung the other way for a while. Rebelled. Made some stupid choices." I glance up. "But eventually I circled back to trying to earn his approval."
"Like becoming a sports psychologist."
"Like becoming the best damn sports psychologist I could be," I correct with a small smile. "But the pattern stuck with me. In relationships, I sabotage things the moment they get real."
"That sounds familiar." Nate's voice is soft. "Different trigger, same response."
"Exactly." I look at him directly now. "And I see how I've been doing it with you. When things got intense, I hid behind professional standards."
"Because it meant actually risking something real."
"Yes." The simple admission feels like jumping off a cliff. "And I'm terrified of that. Terrified of wanting something I can't control."
Nate finally bridges the gap between our hands, his fingers brushing mine. "I get that. Better than you might think."
"I know you do." I turn my hand over, palm up, and he slides his hand into mine. "That's part of why this feels so... possible. You understand that part of me."
He brushes his thumb against my palm, sending tiny sparks up my arm. "I've been working on my stuff too. The therapy is helping. So is the journaling."
"Tell me about it."
"I'm learning why I push people away before they can leave me. Why I sabotage good things because I don't believe I deserve them."
I nod and wait for him to continue.
"My parents made it clear I wasn't worth their time or attention until I was bringing home NHL paychecks." His jawtightens. "I internalized that pretty young. Figured if my own parents couldn't love me, why would anyone else?"
My chest aches for the little boy who carried that burden. And for the man still carrying it.
He continues. "But I'm tired of living that way, Elena. Tired of being alone even when I'm surrounded by people. Tired of keeping everyone at arm's length."
"I know that feeling." I squeeze his hand. "So what do we do about it?"
"We try again," he says simply. "But this time, we do it right. We go slow. We talk about the hard stuff instead of running from it. We see each other as we really are, not who we're afraid to be."
"That sounds terrifying," I admit.
"It is. But I think it could also be incredible." His eyes hold mine, serious but warm. "I'm willing to take that risk if you are."
I think about everything that's happened between us—the electric connection that first night, the complicated dance of attraction and resistance, the pain of separation. I think about his efforts to change, my own journey toward self-understanding. I think about what we could be to each other if we stopped fighting it.
"I want some ground rules," I say, business-like despite our joined hands.
His lips twitch. "Of course you do."
