Page 97 of The Longest Shot
Mills’s eyes widen. “Morgan, what are you?—”
I don’t let her finish, because if she says one more word, I'll chicken out.
You know this script. You’ve lived this ending. You'll trust him, and he'll hurt you.
My mind's usual warning comes through, loud and clear, as predictable as breathing. But there’s another voice now—small, insistent, terrifying—born on that bench at dawn after running myself half to death. The voice that said yes to Mills tonight instead of choosing isolation, the one that just admitted feelings…
What happens if you don’t run?
My legs feel disconnected from my body as I cross the worn wooden floor. Each step is a conscious choice… a rebellion against every instinct screaming at me to turn around, to run, to rebuild the walls, and to protect myself before it's too late.
But I keep walking toward him.
When I reach the bar, I focus on the bartender and position myself close enough to James to be noticed, but far enough to maintain plausible deniability if I decide to bail out. He hasn't even noticed me yet, so lost in his thoughts and so trapped in his isolation and misery.
“Yeah?” the bartender asks.
I gesture my chin toward James. “Two of whatever he’s drinking.”
The bartender’s gaze slides between us, cataloging drama. “Jameson rocks?”
“Yeah.”
As the bartender reaches for the bottle, James turns, drawn by the transaction.
Our eyes meet, and the air crystallizes between us, heavy with history and unfinished business. I catalog his micro-expressions: pupils dilating to black, lips parting on unformed words, fingers white-knuckling his glass before forcing relaxation.
Then, when the bartender puts the whiskey in front of him, understanding arrives in waves across his face. Confusion, first, because I'm suddenly acknowledging his existence after weeks of silence. Next, recognition of the gesture.
And, finally, understanding.
His mouth curves into something barely qualifying as a smile.
Just one corner lifting, so subtle it could be involuntary.
But I know his entire smile catalog—the performance pieces, the manic versions, the armor. This is none of those. This is private. Real and grateful and wounded and warm enough to fracture something frozen in my chest. It's the smile from the library, from before the wreckage.
It’s devastating.
He nods. Once. Barely perceptible, but enough to kick off our silent conversation.I understand. I’m sorry.
I nod back. Sharp. Definitive.This doesn’t fix us. But it’s something. And I'm sorry, too. I fucked up.
Truce offered.
Truce accepted.
I turn and cross back to my table, each step lighter. My skin feels electric, hyperaware that he's tracking my every movement, hungry for more but content with the fragile truce we've just reached. But, more than anything, knowing that's all I can give him right now.
Mills stares at me, stunned. “Did you just?—”
I nod. "It's a start."
I grab my beer with both hands because one isn’t steady enough. The Ultra tastes worse now, but I drink it anyway, because I need something to do that isn't running away in fear or marching back over there for something catastrophically stupid.
His painted locker room was his first brick in rebuilding whatever we are.
This gesture in a college dive is mine.
