Page 111 of Gap Control

She reached out to rub my forearm. “I’ve never seen you like this. Not even when you were trying to convince yourself you were happy.”

I looked down at my mug.

“I keep waiting for it to fall apart.”

She turned to face me. "Relax into it, TJ. Stop testing the floor for weakness."

“What if it gives out?”

“Then you fall together. That’s what this is.”

She reached for my hand and squeezed it once.

“I’m proud of you, and I like him. You don’t need to keep auditioning for love—it’s already yours.”

A lump grew in my throat.

“I didn’t know I needed to hear that."

Peggy excused herself to go to her bedroom.

Mason was already in the guest room when I got back inside, sitting cross-legged on the bed in borrowed flannel pants and one of my old Forge T-shirts that Peggy must’ve dug out from some closet where she stored nostalgia like wine.

The room was small—books stacked on the nightstand, a faded Red Sox pennant above the dresser, and a photo of Peggy and me at a middle school science fair.

The overhead light was off. The warm glow from a little bedside lamp lit Mason’s face, softening the lines.

He was sketching.

I paused in the doorway. “That me?”

“It was supposed to be. Started out that way, but it turned into something else.”

I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me. “Can I see?”

He turned the sketchbook toward me.

It wasn’t a portrait. Not exactly. It was a collection of motion—lines that suggested someone in the middle of a laugh, a hand caught brushing hair away, and the outline of a hoodie sleeve pushed up at the wrist. It was a study in presence.

“I love it,” I said.

Somewhere outside, the city kept breathing. Somewhere up the road, the Forge locker room was still draped in string lights and chaos. And somewhere deep inside me, a familiar ache finally loosened its grip.

We didn’t fall asleep all at once. But we didn’t let go of each other, either.

Mason shifted beside me, and I felt him smile against my hair. "What are you thinking about?"

"Everything," I said. "The season. Playoffs. Whether Mercier's going to figure out that protein powder situation. Whether you're going to keep drawing me when I'm asleep."

"I wasn't—"

"You were. You were memorizing me."

He laughed. "Guilty."

I turned in his arms until we were face to face in the dark. "What happens when the season ends?"

"We figure it out," he said simply. "Together."

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