Page 53 of Second Sin

I kick off the blanket. Drag it back up. Flip the pillow. Stare at the ceiling like it might blink first.

My body’s tired—shoulders sore, legs heavy—but my brain’s still moving. Still stuck in the game. In the locker room. In the grief.And under it all—her.

No idea what room Olivia's staying in, probably a separate floor. Doesn’t matter. She’s close enough to feel.

Like gravity.

By 11:30, I give up.

Throw on a hoodie, jeans. Slide my cap low and head down to the bar. Half expecting it to be dead.

It isn’t.

Dim lights, quiet jazz bleeding from the speakers. A few couples at tables. Business guys nursing scotch. I scan the room—and freeze.

Back corner.

Olivia.

Her laptop’s open, screen casting pale light over her face. A half-full glass of wine beside her. She’s got her hair pulled backin that low twist she does when she’s tired. And her eyes—red-rimmed. Like she’s been crying.

My gut clenches.

I move toward her before I can think twice.

"You okay?" I ask, voice low.

She startles, then softens when she sees it’s me. But there’s a wall. Not the kind I can break through. The kind she’s built brick by brick, probably for good reason.

"Just finishing up some notes," she says.

I nod, glance at the laptop. "Want company?"

She hesitates. Then, quietly, "Yeah."

I settle into the chair across from her. The table’s small, tucked into the back corner—just enough distance from the rest of the room to make it feel like we’re in our own bubble.

The lighting’s low, shadows soft around her face. Her laptop screen is the brightest thing between us, casting a pale blue across her features.

I flag the server, order a beer. Nothing fancy. Just something cold to put between my hands.

She finishes her notes in silence. A few last clicks. Her fingers slow, deliberate. When she finally closes the laptop, it’s with a soft snap that feels louder than it should.

She exhales like it took something out of her just to stop working.

“You’ve been at it a while,” I say, nodding toward the laptop. “Long day?”

Her hand curls loosely around her wine glass. “They’re all long lately.”

She doesn’t say it for sympathy. Just fact.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “They are.”

She takes a sip of her wine, then sets the glass down. Her fingers linger on the stem like she needs the anchor.

“How’re you holding up?” she asks, her eyes steady on mine—quiet, knowing, impossible to lie to. “With everything that’s happened.”

I lean back, stretch my legs under the table.

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