Page 133 of Across the Boards

“You,” I manage between bursts of laughter that feel dangerously close to sobs. “This. Everything. It’s absurd. I move to Seattle to escape hockey drama, to protect your career from Jason, to avoid complications. And what happens? You follow me here, sign with the local team, essentially bringing all of it right back to my doorstep.”

His smile widens. “When you put it that way, it does sound a bit stalkerish.”

“A bit?” I wipe tears of laughter from my eyes. “Brody, this is beyond stalking. This is... I don’t even know what this is.”

“Love, I think,” he says softly. “Messy, inconvenient, completely irrational love.”

And just like that, the laughter dies in my throat, replaced by something warm and overwhelming that rises up, crashing through every carefully constructed defense.

“You really love me.” It’s not a question but a revelation, as though I’m finally grasping the magnitude of what he’s been telling me all along. “Not just saying it. Not manipulating. You actually, genuinely love me.”

“Yes.” So simple, so certain. “I do.”

“Even after I walked away? Even knowing all my issues, my fears, my inability to trust my own judgment after Jason?”

“Especially because of those things,” he says, reaching across the table to take my hand.

The dam breaks then, tears spilling over, not the controlled weeping of someone maintaining dignity but the messy, overwhelming sobs of release—of six weeks of loneliness, of years of careful self-protection, of a lifetime of believing love was conditional upon perfect performance.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, mortified at falling apart in a public coffee shop. “I don’t know why I’m?—”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, moving around the table to sit beside me, arm coming around my shoulders in that protective gesture I’ve missed so desperately. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”

And he does. He holds me while I cry, unconcerned with curious onlookers, focused entirely on providing comfort while I process emotions too complex to name.

When the storm finally passes, when embarrassment begins to creep in at my public display, I pull back slightly to look at him.

“I can’t believe you moved to Seattle for me,” I whisper, still processing the enormity of it.

“Technically, I haven’t moved yet,” he points out with a hint of his characteristic humor. “Just signed the contract. Still need to find an apartment, pack my stuff, learn to carry an umbrella everywhere...”

I laugh weakly, the sound watery but genuine. “You hate rain.”

“I’ll adjust.” His eyes never leave mine, searching for something. “The question is, can you adjust to having me here? In your city? In your life? Even just as a friend, if that’s all you’re comfortable with?”

And suddenly I know exactly what I want. What I’ve wanted all along but been too afraid to admit.

“I don’t want to be friends,” I say firmly.

His face falls, a flash of genuine pain crossing his features before he controls it. “I understand. I’ll respect that boundary?—”

“No,” I interrupt, placing my hand on his chest to stop his retreat. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want to bejustfriends. I want... everything. What we started in Phoenix. What I ran away from because I was too afraid to believe it could be real.”

“Elliot, don’t say that unless you mean it. I can handle just about anything except getting my hopes up only to?—”

I silence him the only way that makes sense in this moment—by leaning forward and pressing my lips to his.

The kiss is gentle, tentative, a question rather than a demand. His uninjured hand comes up to cradle my face with a tenderness that makes my heart ache, responding to the kiss without deepening it, letting me set the pace.

When we break apart, his eyes are wide with wonder and cautious hope. “Does this mean?—”

“It means I’m done running,” I say, the words coming easily now that I’ve stopped fighting them. “Done overthinking. Done letting fear make my decisions for me.”

“And us?” he asks, still careful, still giving me space to retreat if needed.

“Us is... something I want to explore,” I say honestly. “Day by day. No pressure, no expectations. Just... possibility.” I take a deep breath, forcing myself to complete the admission. “Because I love you too, Brody. Have for longer than I was brave enough to admit. Even to myself.”

The smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise after endless night—brilliant, warming, illuminating everything it touches. “Well, that’s convenient,” he says, voice slightly hoarse with emotion, “since I’ve already gone to the trouble of moving to your city and all.”

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