Page 112 of Gap Control

It wasn't a detailed plan or a promise, but it was the first time either of us had said out loud that there would be a future beyond playoffs and beyond the Forge.

"Together," I repeated, testing the word.

"Unless you're sick of me by then."

"Not possible."

This was what came after the fake dating. After the viral photos and the hashtags and the carefully choreographed moments for the cameras.

This was what came after pretending: Everything real.

Epilogue - TJ

Six months later, Mason’s apartment still smelled like linseed oil, dryer sheets, and my shampoo. I woke up to the sound of a spoon clinking against a mug and the soft thud of the fridge door closing.

No dramatic sunrise. No birdsong. Just the quiet, lived-in sounds of someone making coffee in the next room—someone who hadn’t left.

I stretched, blinked at the ceiling, and rolled into the space where Mason had been a minute ago. His pillow was still warm. I stole it.

By the time I wandered to the kitchen, he’d already hijacked the counter with his elaborate coffee ritual, sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed like he was performing surgery instead of brewing beans.

That’s when I noticed it.

On the wall above his bookcase—hung slightly off-kilter, because Mason believed levels were “a suggestion, not a law”—was a framed print of the sketch fromForging Ahead. The one he pretended wasn’t about me.

It was quiet, that sketch. Not showy. Just soft lines and honest shadows and a… pause. Like the world had stopped moving for a second, and we’d both decided to stay still.

And right below it, taped up like it deserved equal billing, was a stick-figure comic. Two scribbled guys in helmets, one shouting, “That’s boarding, babe.”

I started laughing before I even reached for the mug he handed me.

“Don’t say anything,” Mason warned.

“I’m not saying anything,” I said, blowing on the coffee. “Just wondering how long before the gallery realizes they shipped you a love confession.”

He shrugged, sipping from his mug. “Framing was free.”

Later that week, back at my place, I spent a full five minutes staring at the fridge before taping up a new comic. Top-center. Prime real estate.

I’d started drawing again in January—quietly, half out of habit, half because my brain got weird when my hands weren’t moving. Now, the fridge looked like a Forge yearbook had exploded across it. Little comics everywhere: road trip disasters, pre-game rituals, one-liner arguments I hadn’t known I was saving.

The newest one was simple.

Single panel.

Two blocky figures in Forge jerseys, skating side by side.

One of them had Mason’s eyebrows. The other had stars instead of pupils.

Above them, in wobbly lettering:“Happily playoffed after.”

We hadn’t won the championship, but we made the playoffs. All the way through round one, and deep into round two before the wheels came off. And still, that run? That team? I wouldn't give it up for anything.

Mason and I didn’t magically fix each other. We weren’t less stubborn or more graceful. He still made that annoyed face when I talked during game recaps, and I still forgot to screw the cap back on the toothpaste, which he claimed was “a choice, not an accident.”

But we kept showing up. Even when it was hard. Especially then.

One night, driving back from a bonfire at Monroe’s place, Mason reached over and rested a hand on my knee. Not dramatic. Not careful. Just… there.

I didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a joke. I watched the dark trees roll by and let the quiet settle. It didn’t feel heavy. It felt like knowing the road was safe.

Some things are worth fighting for. And some things?

You don’t fight.

You just hold on, and thank the universe they hold back.

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