Hayden
It had been six weeks since the first time Daisy and Hayden met in the library.
The stadium lights blazed down on a crisp November afternoon, the crowd's roar reaching fever pitch as Hayden made another bone-crushing tackle, stopping the running back at the goal line. It was his best game of the season. Three sacks, two forced fumbles, perfect coverage on every deep route. Scouts from three different NFL teams sat in the press box, scribbling notes. But Hayden barely noticed. His eyes kept drifting to the stands where Daisy sat in her usual spot, third row up, wrapped in his team hoodie that was two sizes too big for her, cheering louder than anyone around her.
They'd been inseparable for a month now. Thursday tutoring sessions had expanded to daily coffee runs, late-night study dates that ended in cozy futon kisses, weekend mornings where he'd wait outside her dorm with breakfast because he knew she skipped it when she was deep in anatomy flashcards. Daisy had become his constant, his safe harbor. And he'd started to believe he could have this: Normalcy, happiness, a future that wasn't just football or failure.
--
Hayden pushed through the locker room doors, gym bag slung over his shoulder, exhaustion settling deep into his muscles. Best game of his career. Three sacks, a forced fumble, scouts in the stands taking notes. He was feeling invincible.
He scanned the tunnel out of habit, looking for Daisy's familiar face in the crowd of families and girlfriends waiting for players. And he found her, leaning against the far wall in his hoodie, that warm smile already forming when their eyes met.
But then his gaze snagged on someone else.
A figure standing off to the side, arms crossed, wearing a worn Carhartt jacket that Hayden would recognize anywhere. Older than he remembered, graying at the temples, but unmistakable.
His father.
Hayden's steps faltered. His entire body went rigid, the gym bag suddenly weighing a thousand pounds. The noise of the tunnel, teammates laughing, families chattering, the distant echo of the stadium, faded to white noise.
Two and a half years. Two and a half years of silence, of unreturned calls, of learning to live with the certainty that his father had given up on him. And now he was just... here. Standing in the tunnel like he had every right to be.
Their eyes met across the crowd, and Hayden watched his father straighten, uncross his arms. Watched him take a step forward.
Don't come over here. Please don't come over here.
But he did.
"Hayden." His father's voice was gruff, familiar in a way that made Hayden's chest ache. "Hell of a game."
Hayden just stared at him, every muscle in his body coiled tight. He could feel Daisy's eyes on him from across the tunnel, could sense her starting to move toward him, but he couldn't look away from his father.
"What are you doing here?" The words came out flat, carefully controlled.
"Came to watch you play." His father said it like it was obvious, like he hadn't disappeared for over two years. "Heard scouts were coming. Wanted to see how you were doing."
Heard scouts were coming. Of course. Of course that's why he showed up.
"How I'm doing," Hayden repeated, voice tight. "Right."
His father's jaw clenched slightly, that familiar tell that meant Hayden had said something that irritated him. "You've improved. That play in the second quarter was solid. Overcommitted on the fake a bit, but solid."
And just like that, Hayden was twelve years old again. Desperate for approval, getting corrections instead. Never quite good enough. He felt the familiar pang in his chest.
"Thanks for the feedback," Hayden said, bitterness seeping into his tone. "I'll work on it."
"Don't get defensive. I'm just trying to help." His father shifted his weight, glancing around the tunnel. "Your forty time still too slow for the combine?"
Hayden's hands clenched around the strap of his gym bag. "I'm working on it."
"Work harder. You've got talent, but talent doesn't mean anything if you waste it." His father's eyes flicked over Hayden's shoulder, and his expression shifted slightly. "That your girlfriend?"
Hayden turned slightly and saw Daisy hovering a few feet away, concern written all over her face. The sight of her, patient, steady, waiting for him to give her some signal about whether he needed her, was the only thing keeping him grounded.
"Yeah," Hayden said, voice rough. "That's Daisy."
His father nodded slowly. "Pretty girl. Hope she's not the kind of distraction that costs you your future."
Something inside Hayden snapped. Not explosively, but with a quiet, final certainty.
"She's not a distraction," he said, voice low but firm. "She's the reason I'm even eligible to play. She tutored me in calculus when I was failing. She shows up to every game. She actually gives a damn about me as a person, not just as a draft prospect."
His father's expression hardened. "Watch your tone."
"Or what?" Hayden took a step closer, standing his ground for maybe the first time in his life. "You'll kick me out again? You'll disappear for another two and a half years? I'm already living with that."
"I came all this way-"
"You came because scouts showed up," Hayden cut him off. "You didn't come when I was struggling freshman year. You didn't come when I needed help. You came when I became valuable again. When I might actually be worth your time."
His father's face flushed. "That's not fair. You told me I was a failure as a father. What did you expect-"
"I expected you to act like a parent!" Hayden's voice rose despite his best efforts to stay calm. "I was eighteen and angry and grieving Mom, and instead of helping me, you gave up. You threw me out and moved on like I never existed."
The tunnel had gone noticeably quieter. Hayden could feel people staring, could see his father's embarrassment morphing into anger. Daisy stepped forward, putting a hand on Hayden's arm. He barely felt it.
"I gave you a wake-up call," his father said coldly. "And it worked. You got your act together. You're playing well. So maybe instead of throwing my mistakes in my face, you should be thanking me."
Hayden laughed; A bitter, broken sound. "Thank you?! You want me to thank you for abandoning me?" Daisy dropped her hand from his arm, watching his father with disdain.
"I didn't abandon-"
"Yeah, you did." Hayden's voice cracked, and he hated himself for it. "You did, and I've spent two years trying to convince myself I didn't need you. That I could do this alone. And I was finally starting to believe it."
He took a breath, steadying himself. "So thanks for showing up and reminding me exactly why I'm better off without you."
His father's expression went cold, that familiar shutdown that Hayden recognized because he'd inherited it. "If that's how you feel, then I won't waste any more of your time."
"Good," Hayden said, even though everything in him was screaming to take it back, to apologize, to beg his father to stay. But he didn't. He just stood there and watched his father turn and walk away, disappearing into the crowd.
And then he was gone.
Hayden stood frozen in the tunnel, chest heaving, the gym bag slipping from his numb fingers to the ground. The sounds of the tunnel rushed back. Too loud, too overwhelming. He could feel the stares, hear the whispered conversations starting up around him.
Adrenaline rushed through him, violent like waves during a hurricane. He turned and crashed his fist against the concrete wall. White-hot pain shot up his arm and he grunted, scraping his fist off the wall, which was now smeared with his blood.
He turned his head to the side, looking at the equipment manager, who looked like he was ready to run for the hills. He tried to flex his fingers but the movement shot pain up his hand and arm, sending white across his vision.
A hand touched his uninjured one, and he glanced down.
Daisy.
Oh no. She'd seen everything. Realization drained the blood from his face, and bile threatened to come up from his stomach. He couldn't bring himself to look at her.
He'd never meant for her to see this side of him. The side that was broken. The side that didn't care. The angry Hayden. She deserved better than that.
But Daisy was there, moving in front of him, concern and something fiercer in her eyes. Something that told Hayden she wasn't going to let this go.
"Hayden," she said softly, and just his name in her voice was almost enough to undo him completely.
He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw none of the judgment or disappointment he expected. Just steady, unwavering support.
"I need to go," he said, voice flat. Because he was about to fall apart in the middle of this tunnel, and he couldn't do that here. Couldn't let everyone see him crack.
"Okay," Daisy said simply. "Then let's go."
And that's when the walls started going back up.
--
The drive to Hayden's apartment was quiet.
Daisy's car smelled like coffee and the lemon hand sanitizer she kept in the console.
Hayden stared at the raindrops sliding sideways across the passenger window, blurring the parking lot lights into streaks of white and orange. The engine hummed under his feet. Wipers scraped a slow, steady rhythm. Left, right. Left, right. Too loud. Not loud enough.
His pads were gone. Helmet gone. Cleats somewhere in the back. Jeans, hoodie, his game undershirt still clinging damp to his skin beneath it. The seat belt cut across his chest and he could feel his pulse in the strip of fabric. Too fast. Or maybe not fast at all. He couldn't tell. Everything inside him felt like it was moving and frozen at the same time.
He watched his breath fog the window when he exhaled. Tried again. Fog. Wiped it away with the side of his thumb, then watched it cloud back over.
Daisy's hands were tight on the steering wheel. He could see the tendons in them, the way her fingers whitened where they gripped. She checked her mirrors, shoulder glancing, careful and exact like she always did. The tiny green dashboard lights made the inside of the car look underwater.
"How's your wrist?" she asked finally, voice low, cautiously neutral.
He flexed his taped wrist once, twice. It barely hurt now. Or he barely felt it.
"Fine," he said.
Just that. The word dropped between them and then lay there, dead. No follow-up. He didn't give it one.
Silence came back. Filled the car immediately, pressing into the corners, crawling up the windows.
He shifted his gaze to his reflection in the glass. The faint outline of his jaw, the smudge of his eye black still smeared along his cheekbone. He looked…blank. Hollowed out. Like someone had taken the insides of his chest and scraped them clean with something sharp.
His throat burned. He swallowed it down.
The stadium had been loud. Deafening. People screaming his name. Hands slapping his helmet. Coach hugging him so hard his ribs had creaked. The rush of it had been a roar in his head, electric and bright.
Then the tunnel.
His father's face. Older, more lines, the same eyes.
Hey, kid.
Two and a half years of nothing, then that.
His fingers curled against his thigh, nails biting through denim. He'd left a little crescent-shaped imprint in the skin there, he was sure. He dug harder.
You played good out there. Got the scouts' attention, huh?
Like he'd just…shown up for a practice. Like the gap of his absence didn't exist.
The scene replayed on a loop in his mind, gray and colorless except for the flash of his father's smile, the way it had faded when Hayden said the words.
I'm better off without you.
His own voice sounded wrong in his memory. Too flat. Too even. Like he was reading lines off a page.
He pressed the back of his head against the seat. The ceiling fabric brushed his hair. He stared at the faint stain above the windshield, shaped like a map of some country he didn't know.
Daisy turned into his apartment complex. The tires thudded over a speed bump. His stomach jumped with the motion and settled again, heavy.
"You should ice your shoulder when we get in," she said after a while. "Just in case."
"I said I'm fine."
This time it came out clipped. Sharper than he meant. Sharp enough that he saw her shoulders go a fraction tighter.
She didn't say anything else.
He focused on the numbers of the buildings as they rolled past. 8B. 9C. 10D. It grounded him for half a second. Pattern. Order. Something that wasn't that tunnel.
His phone buzzed in his pocket for the maybe tenth time. He ignored it like he had the others. Didn't need to see the notifications. He knew what they were. Teammates. Group chat blowing up. Coach. Maybe his uncle.
He also knew what wouldn't be there.
No unknown number calling to apologize for leaving with no warning. No text from Dad saying he was still in town, wanted to talk.
Of course not.
His chest tightened again, hot and spreading, and he shoved his tongue against the back of his teeth, focusing on the ache there instead.
Daisy pulled into his usual spot. The headlights washed over the cracked concrete and the metal staircase that led up to his unit. The building looked as tired as he felt—peeling paint, rust spots, a couple of dead plants sitting in pots by the door.
She put the car in park. The gear shift clicked loudly. Or maybe everything sounded louder now.
Neither of them moved for a second. Wipers still scraped once more across the windshield before she turned them off. Grind, then silence.
Rain ticked on the roof. Softer than the stadium noise. Harsher than the quiet sucker-punched his chest.
He forced his fingers to unclench from his thigh. Left stale warmth behind in his palm when he lifted it.
"I can walk from here," he said, already reaching for the door handle.
"I know," she answered.
Her voice was gentle. That made something ugly in him twitch.
He pushed the door open. The cold air hit his overheated face, and little needles of rain brushed his cheeks. He stepped out, slammed the door maybe a little too hard, and stood there for a second, sucking in the wet night air like it could rinse out his lungs.
The car light went off behind him. He could hear her door open, then close. Her footsteps came around the front.
He started walking toward the stairs without waiting for her. He knew she'd follow. She always followed. Reliable. Steady.
The thought should have made something in him ease.
Instead, panic clawed at his ribs.
Because this—this right now—was when people left. When things got messy. When he was too much. Not fun, not easy, not the guy who cracked stupid jokes during tutoring and stole her highlighters and let her draw plays on his forearm.
This was the version people bailed on.
He climbed the stairs two at a time. The metal rattled beneath his weight. His knee twinged. Old injury, familiar ache. A reminder that bodies broke as easily as anything else that was supposed to hold.
At his door, he fumbled his key once before getting it into the lock. His hand was shaking. Stupid. He cursed under his breath when the key scraped the metal.
Daisy came up beside him but stayed half a step back, not crowding. Close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body at his elbow.
"Here," she said quietly. "You want me to—"
"I've got it," he snapped, too fast.
The words hung there, sharp as glass.
He managed to twist the key this time. The lock clicked. The door opened with its usual soft whine.
His apartment greeted him like it always did: with nothing.
No smell of food. No clutter. No evidence of a life being lived there, other than his shoes by the mat and a duffel bag slumped next to the couch. The overhead light in the kitchen flicked on when he hit the switch, washing the white walls in a harsh yellow. The living room lamp stayed off; he didn't bother with it.
The gray couch. The cheap TV on the plain black stand. The single framed print he'd bought off Amazon because the wall had looked too bare even for him. Some abstract black and white thing that meant nothing.
Everything exactly where he'd left it. Immaculate. Empty.
He stepped inside, the familiar emptiness wrapping around him like an old, thin blanket. Too cold to be comforting, but known. Predictable.
His safe space.
He heard Daisy's footsteps behind him on the threshold. Light. Hesitant.
He should tell her she could go. Should do it now. Rip it off before he got pulled into whatever it was about her that made his chest feel cracked open when he looked at her too long.
He dropped his keys in the little dish on the counter. The sound of them hitting ceramic echoed too loud in the small space.
"I'm fine," he said, not turning around. "You don't have to stay."
There. Easy. Simple.
The words tasted like ash.
There was a pause. He could feel it in the air more than hear it.
"I know I don't have to," she said.
Her voice was closer now. She'd stepped inside. The door clicked softly when she nudged it shut behind her.
He could feel his shoulders tensing up. Everything in him pulling inward, bracing.
"You had a rough night," she went on. "I want to make sure—"
"I said I'm fine." He cut her off harder this time. The edge in his tone made him wince internally. "Seriously, Daisy. You can go."
He heard her take a breath. He imagined her—the way she pressed her lips together when she was thinking, the small line that appeared between her brows when she was worried. He'd seen it enough times over textbooks and his grades.
"I don't think you're fine," she said.
He laughed once. No humor in it. It scraped his throat on the way out.
"Well, good thing you're not a psych major."
He finally turned. She was standing a few feet away, hair damp from the rain, sweatshirt sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. Her eyes looked…wide. Brighter in his too-harsh kitchen light.
She took him in—his posture, his face, he didn't know what exactly—but her gaze did a quick up-and-down sweep that made him want to fold in on himself.
"Do you want water?" she asked. "Food? You didn't eat after the game."
His stomach rolled at the mention. He felt hollow, but not hungry. Like there was a pit where hunger should be.
"I'm not hungry."
"You should at least—"
"I don't want anything."
He knew he was being an ass. Every syllable came out clipped, each one a little shove.
Her jaw tightened, just barely. She stepped farther inside anyway, slipping off her shoes next to his. Like she was digging in.
He looked away before he could register more of her face. The living room was easier. Neutral. Blank.
He walked to the couch and dropped down heavily. The cushions dipped and then sprang back. Too firm. Cheap rental furniture he'd never bothered to replace. No point. He wasn't going to be here forever.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the muted TV screen. His reflection stared back at him faintly in the black glass.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight. His palm came away slightly damp with rain and sweat.
Behind him, he heard the soft sounds of her moving in his kitchen. Cabinet door. Fridge opening. Glass on counter.
He clenched his teeth.
Why was she doing this? Why wasn't she just…leaving? Anyone else would have driven him home, dropped him off, said "call me if you need anything" and then not expected him to.
He swallowed. His throat hurt. Like every word he hadn't said in that tunnel was lodged there, jagged.
He could still see his father's shoulders as he walked away. The set of them. The casual shrug that had gutted him more than the actual words.
His knee started bouncing. He forced it still. His hands found each other, fingers interlocking so tight his knuckles ached.
He felt rather than saw Daisy come around the couch. A glass of water materialized on the scratched coffee table in front of him.
"You're dehydrated," she said quietly. "You barely drank on the sidelines."
"Daisy." His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You don't have to fix me, okay?"
She stopped then, just to his side. "That's not—"
"I don't need a babysitter," he added, cutting her off again, sharper. He latched onto the frustration because it was easier than the other thing building in his chest. "I'm going to shower, watch stupid reality TV shows, then crash on the couch. That's it."
Her silence hit him like a physical thing. He stared hard at the water. The surface trembled slightly from the small shake in his leg he couldn't fully control.
"That's not what this is," she said after a beat.
"Yeah? What is it then?" He leaned back, finally looking up at her again. The words tumbled out faster now, fueled by something hot and mean he didn't want to examine. "You feel bad for the poor, messed-up jock? Want to make sure I don't, what, cry myself to sleep because Daddy didn't clap loud enough?"
Her face flinched at the word "Daddy." Barely, but he caught it and hated himself instantly.
He hadn't used that word with his father in years. It felt foreign in his mouth now. Bitter.
"That's not fair," she said, her voice quieter now but steady. She sank down to sit on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a careful gap between them.
The space felt like a canyon.
The part of him that wasn't currently on fire with shame wanted to slide into it. Into the distance. Into being alone. Safer there.
He latched onto the mean thing anyway.
"Life's not fair," he muttered. Cliché. Stupid. He heard it as he said it and despised the sound of his own voice.
She didn't bite back. Didn't say any of the things he almost wanted her to say. To spark an argument. To give him an excuse to twist the knife.
Instead, she just looked at him. Too directly. He could feel her gaze on the side of his face like heat. He stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.
"You don't have to talk about it," she said eventually. "But I'm not going to just drop you off and pretend I didn't see what I saw."
His chest squeezed. He laughed again, hollow.
"What did you see, exactly?" he asked. "Me playing the best game of my life?"
Her breath hitched, almost imperceptible. "In the tunnel."
He swallowed. The concrete of that tunnel rose up in his mind: the echo, the smell of sweat and old rubber, the stadium roar muffled but still there. His father's cologne cutting through it, sharp and familiar and unwelcome.
He dug his nails into his palms again, welcoming the sting. Grounding.
"It was nothing," he said.
"You called it 'nothing' with your fist against the wall," she said, still soft but not backing down. "You scared the crap out of that equipment manager."
He hadn't even registered the kid. Just the brief flash of someone's startled face, then his own knuckles throbbing. They ached now, swollen and scraped. He flexed them, the skin stretching tight.
"I'm fine," he repeated, like if he said it enough it would become true. It had worked before. Sometimes.
Daisy shifted slightly, turning more toward him. He felt the cushion move with her weight.
"Hayden."
Just his name. No lecture. No questions.
It was worse. So much worse.
His eyes burned suddenly. Panic flared. He blinked hard, focusing on the ceiling. The light fixture had a tiny dead moth trapped inside it. He'd meant to take it down, clean it out. Never did.
He could feel the words trying to surge up—everything he wanted to spit out about that tunnel, about the last two and a half years. About all the other times someone had decided he was too hard to deal with and walked.
But the second he felt them, instinct slammed down like a lid.
Don't.
Don't open that.
Every time he'd cracked even a little, it had cost him. Mom leaving. Dad leaving. Uncle trying and then pulling back when it got complicated. Girlfriends who liked the football player but not the mess underneath.
If he let it out now, if he showed it to Daisy, she'd see exactly how broken the wiring was in his head. She'd realize she deserved better. She'd walk too.
Better to push her before she could do it on her own terms. Before he had to watch the back of her head moving away.
He reached for the one thing he knew how to do.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, forcing his voice flat, emotionless. "This isn't your problem."
"I care about you," she said.
The words were quiet. Simple. Uncomplicated.
They hit him like a slap.
His immediate reaction was disbelief. It prickled over his skin. Then under that, something greedier. Needier. Something that reached for those words like a starving animal.
He killed it fast.
He shook his head. "No, you pity me." The words tasted like acid on his tongue.
She let out a slow breath through her nose. He could see her chest rise and fall out of the corner of his eye.
"You know better than that," she said.
"Do I?" He turned to her fully this time, riding the spike of anger because it felt safer than the way his heart lurched at her words. "Because if you aren't pitying me, then what are you doing? Huh? What am I? A project? Your next thing to feel responsible for?"
Her eyes stayed on his. Added pressure. He wanted to look away. Didn't.
"That's not at all what you are," she said.
"Yeah?" His voice rose, thin and sharp. "Then what am I? Enlighten me."
A flush crept up his neck. He could feel his pulse pounding there. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick.
She swallowed, and her gaze flicked over his face like she was cataloguing it—all the cracks he'd kept carefully hidden.
"You're…you." She faltered, but kept going. "You're the guy who doodles stupid comics in your notebook during tutoring just to make me laugh. You're the guy who pretends to understand organic chem jokes so I don't feel like a nerd. You're…Hayden."
It was clumsy, not some big poetic speech. That should've made it easier to shrug off.
Instead, his throat closed up completely.
Because he knew, with a sick, sudden certainty, that if he let that idea in—if he believed, even for a second, that someone saw him as more than the stats—he wouldn't be able to go back.
And if she took it away later—
No. No, he couldn't.
He shook his head again, harder this time, like he could rattle the thought loose.
"You don't know me," he said. The words came out harsh. "You know…what I let you see. The easy parts."
Her eyebrows drew together slightly. "I've seen you pissed off at practice. I've seen you after losses. I've seen you when you're so tired you can barely keep your eyes open, and you still refuse to cancel a tutoring session. None of that is 'easy.'"
"You haven't seen this."
His voice cracked on the last word. A hairline fracture, but he heard it. He hoped she didn't.
She did. He could tell by the way her gaze softened, the lines at the corners of her eyes deepening.
"This?" she asked gently. "You mean…being hurt?"
He flinched.
"Stop," he said, low. Stomach twisting. "Don't—"
"Hayden, what happened with your dad—"
"I told you," he snapped, louder, desperate now. "It was nothing."
"It wasn't nothing."
"It was just words." He was almost shouting now, breath coming shorter. "He left, I told him to, end of story. No big deal. Happens all the time."
The room went very still after that.
He heard his own words echo in his ears.
Happens all the time.
He hadn't meant to say that part out loud.
He swallowed, throat burning. Tried to backpedal.
"I mean—"
Her hand moved, like she might reach for him. He jerked back instinctively, the motion automatic, an animalistic response.
Her fingers froze in the air between them, then slowly curled back toward her lap. She dropped her gaze to her hands for a second.
The rejection sat thick in the air. He could feel it like a weight on his chest.
He hated himself.
He wanted to lean forward, close the distance, take her hand himself, and apologize. Tell her that it wasn't about her, that nothing she'd done was wrong, that his skin just felt like it was on inside-out and he didn't know how to let anyone touch it without flinching.
Instead, he doubled down. Because that was what he knew.
"Look," he said, forcing his tone back toward flat, toward bored. "You were there, so you feel bad. I get it. You're nice. But you don't have to stick around and play therapist. I'll be over it by practice Monday."
Over it. As if.
As if he'd ever been "over" anything. He just stacked new hurts on top of old ones until he couldn't see the originals anymore.
Daisy lifted her head. There was something steely in her eyes now, a tiny spark. Not anger. Something quieter. More stubborn.
"I'm not here because I 'feel bad,'" she said. "I'm here because I care, and because you shouldn't have to be alone with…this. Whatever this is."
His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
"I've been alone with 'this' my whole life," he shot back. "I'm used to it."
"I know," she said softly.
The simplicity of that made his vision blur for a second. He blinked hard, but a tear still slipped free, hot and traitorous, tracking down the side of his nose.
He swiped at it angrily with the heel of his hand before it could fall completely. Too slow. He knew she'd seen.
He exhaled through his teeth, heart racing now. His chest felt too small for all of it. Like someone had shoved too much inside and the seams were splitting.
"Don't," he said, voice rough. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" she asked.
"Like I'm…" He floundered for the word. "Breakable."
Her expression shifted, just a fraction. Something sad moved through her eyes, but her voice stayed even.
"You're not breakable," she said. "You're already…you've already been through more than you should have to. That doesn't make you weak."
He pressed his palms into his eyes until little bursts of color exploded behind them. Stars. Static.
All he could see under that was his father's back, retreating.
He couldn't untangle it. All he knew was that his chest hurt so bad it felt like his ribs might crack.
He dropped his hands and sucked in a shaky breath.
"Just go," he said quietly. The words tasted like acid. "Please. I can't…do this. I don't want you to—" He stopped himself before he could say leave. "I don't want you to see this."
"See what?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper now.
He forced himself to say it, the ugliest truth he could think of, hoping it'd be enough to drive her away.
"How pathetic it is," he spat. "Big bad football player losing his shit because his dad finally remembered he exists. It's pathetic, Daisy. I'm pathetic. You don't want any part of that."
His vision swam. He blinked fast, jaw shaking. Nausea rolled through him.
Her eyes shone under the overhead light. He couldn't tell if it was the brightness or—no. He didn't know. He didn't want to know.
"It's not pathetic to want your dad to show up," she said, each word deliberate.
His stomach lurched.
"I don't want him," he lied automatically. The word want lodged in his chest like glass. "I meant what I said. I'm better off without him."
The moment he said it again, his body disagreed violently. His hands curled into fists. His gut twisted. Something in him howled so loud he was sure it would echo off the bare walls.
If he was better off, why did every cell in his body still lean toward the memory of that voice in the tunnel? Why had his heart lifted, traitorous, when he'd heard "Hey, kid," even after everything?
Because he was an idiot. That's why. Because he never learned.
Daisy watched him, her expression unreadable now. Calm on the surface, restrained.
"Even if that's true," she said softly, "it doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."
His laugh broke off halfway. It sounded wrong. He scrubbed his hands over his face again, as if he could wipe her words away.
"Pain's just…information, right?" he muttered, repeating something his trainer had said once. "You can tune it out."
"Until you can't."
He glared at her. "Daisy, you don't want to be here. Just leave."
"No."
The flatness of the word stunned him. No hesitation. No apology.
Something in his chest stuttered.
"Why?" he demanded, the word coming out more ragged than he meant. "Why are you—" He gestured vaguely between them. "Why are you still here? I'm being an asshole. You should be halfway home by now, telling yourself you dodged a bullet."
He waited for her to realize he was right. To stand up, grab her shoes, and leave him in the echo of his own anger like everyone else had.
She sat there instead, spine straight, hands folded in her lap, knuckles slightly pale.
"Because you're doing it on purpose," she said.
His brain stalled. "Doing what?"
She took a breath. "Being an asshole on purpose. Hoping I'll leave. But I told you I'm not going anywhere."
His throat worked. He looked away, staring at the far wall. The abstract print blurred into black and white smears.
"People say that all the time," he said dully. "They leave anyway."
"I'm not 'people.'"
He almost asked, What makes you different?
He didn't. Because if she answered, if she gave him some reason, some anchor, he might reach for it. Might hold on.
And if it snapped—
His chest hurt. His head hurt. His hands hurt. Everything hurt.
He was so tired of hurting.
"I don't want you to see me like this," he whispered, the words slipping out before he could bite them back.
Silence wrapped around them. Not empty, this time. Dense.
She shifted again, just slightly closer. The small dent in the cushion between them shrank.
"What if I…want to?" she said carefully. "What if I want to know all of you, not just the parts you think are acceptable?"
He squeezed his eyes shut. That was worse. That was so much worse.
"Don't say that," he said, voice cracking. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll change your mind."
There it was. Laid bare. The rot at the center.
His chest rose and fell too fast now. Like he'd sprinted the length of the field. There was a buzzing sound in his ears, like static.
"You'll wake up one day and realize I'm…too much. Too angry. Too needy. Too—" He broke off, swallowing hard. The word pathetic echoed again in his head.
Too everything.
He forced the next part out, low and bitter. "Then you'll leave. They always do. And I don't think I can pick up the pieces. Not again."
He hadn't meant to say that either. The admission hung in the air, raw and shaking.
He waited for her to flinch away from it. From him.
Instead, she inhaled slowly, let it out even slower.
"I'm still here," she said.
His eyes burned. He opened them, met her gaze. It was steady. Grounding.
"Right now," he said. "For now."
"For now," she agreed. "And…later. And I can't prove that to you tonight, Hayden. I get that. I can't undo what other people did."
The way she said other people made his chest twist.
"But I can…sit here," she went on. "I can be here. Tonight. Even if you're mad at me. Even if you don't say anything. Even if you tell me to go a hundred times. Because I know you don't mean it."
He stared at her. Really looked.
The rain had dried in frizz around her hairline. There was a faint smudge of mascara under one eye she hadn't noticed. Her sweatshirt had a tiny bleach spot near the cuff.
She looked tired. Determined. Real.
Not some perfect savior who could fix twenty years of damage with a hug and a few kind words.
Just Daisy. In his ugly rental apartment, taking up space on his ugly rental couch, refusing to move.
Something in him lurched toward her and away from her at the same time. His chest hurt with it.
"You're gonna regret staying," he muttered, last-ditch effort. "I'm…I'm not worth this. Any of this."
Her expression flickered. For a second, it looked like he'd actually hurt her. A quick shadow across her features.
Good, he told himself savagely. Maybe that'll make it easier for her to go.
But she didn't stand. Didn't reach for her shoes.
"Let me decide what you're worth to me," she said quietly. "You don't get to make that call for me."
His heart slammed against his ribs. His palms went clammy.
He wanted to scream at her to stop. To stop saying things like that. To stop making space where there shouldn't be any.
He wanted to lean over and bury his face in her shoulder. Let go. Let it all out. Finally. Just once.
Both urges clawed at him, tearing him in opposite directions.
He stayed where he was. Muscles locked, body a tense line.
"Fine," he said eventually, though nothing felt fine. His voice sounded unfamiliar. Small. "Sit, then. Whatever. I'm still not talking."
"Okay," she said.
He blinked. "Okay?"
"Okay," she repeated. "We don't have to talk."
She settled back against the couch, folding one leg underneath her, eyes flicking briefly to the muted TV, then back to the blank black screen.
Silence wrapped around them again. Less sharp now. Still tight.
His head buzzed with all the things he wasn't saying. His chest ached with them.
He stared straight ahead, vision unfocused, fighting the urge to fill the quiet with anything, everything. History. Pain. Jokes. Noise.
He didn't. He held himself still.
After a few minutes, his breathing slowed a little. The adrenaline ebbing left a hollow shakiness in its wake. His shoulders throbbed. His knuckles ached dully.
He became gradually aware of warmth seeping through the air between them. Not touching. Just…there.
His eyes drifted to the side. She was watching the reflection in the TV too, not him, hands clasped loosely in her lap now. Her shoulders had relaxed a notch. Her presence took up space, but not in a smothering way. More like a weight on the other end of a seesaw, keeping him from tipping over completely.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It trembled on the way out.
He didn't reach for her hand. He didn't apologize for every sharp word, every shove.
He just sat there.
She sat too.
The distance between them remained. The tension stayed, taut and humming, thick with all the things unfinished.
He didn't tell her to leave again.
He didn't ask her to stay.
The rain kept ticking against the window, steady, indifferent, while inside the small, sparse apartment, the two of them sat in the quiet, his walls still up, her promise still hanging between them, fragile and unproven and terrifying.
He watched their faint shapes reflected together in the dark TV screen and felt the war raging inside him: One side screaming to push her away, the other, softer and more dangerous, wondering what might happen if, just once, he didn't.