The Space Between
The space between the tears we cry is the laughter that keeps us coming back for more. The space between the wicked lies we tell and hope to keep safe from the pain.
Inspired by "The Space Between" by Dave Matthews Band
Part 1 | Part 2
Word Count: 11.8k
Content warnings: childhood trauma, domestic abuse (past), alcoholism (past), smut (not super explicit but it’s there), panic attack, nightmares, terminal illness, death of a parent, grief, hospital scenes, emotional intensity, language. There are references to the WAGs but I used fictional names for them and kept their relationships ambiguous.
*italics indicate flashbacks/dream sequences
a/n: And just like that, the second and final part of this fic that invaded my brain and forced itself out. Thank you to everyone who has supported this fic with their comments and asks and reblogs. You are all the reason I do this and I am so thankful for you all. 🫶🏻
There will be an epilogue. ☺️
Adrienne shouldn’t check her phone as often as she does.
She’s on her third twelve-hour shift in four days, running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the half-sleep of someone who knows she shouldn’t trust the quiet moments. But every time she opens her locker, every time she stops at the nurse’s station, every time she exhales for more than two seconds—there it is.
His name. His messages.
The first one comes the morning after their kiss.
TYLER: You alive? TYLER: Or did I actually kill you?
She snorts, still in bed, hair a mess, body still humming with leftover sparks from his mouth on hers.
ADRIENNE: I lived TYLER: Shame TYLER: Thought I had a chance to go down in history
She blushes like she’s fifteen again, stomach twisting, chest tight.
The messages keep coming. Not constant. Not clingy. Just… consistent. Steady. Like he’s orbiting her day the same way she orbits his.
When she mentions she’s heading into a night shift, he replies:
TYLER: That sucks TYLER: Want me to bring you coffee? TYLER: I can sneak in the back like a raccoon
She laughs into her elbow.
ADRIENNE: You’re not sneaking anywhere in that giant body. People would scream. TYLER: Fair TYLER: But I’d do it anyway TYLER: For you
Her heart does that dangerous drop. The one she’s not ready to name.
He’s gone on a mini road trip, two games in three days, and she only sees him in pictures online arriving with his teammates, jaw sharp, hair messy, that stupid smirk he doesn’t even know he’s doing. The media calls him cocky.
He texts her after warmups.
TYLER: Thinking about you TYLER: (not in a weird way) TYLER: (okay maybe a little)
She wants to be annoyed. She wants to roll her eyes.
Instead, she saves the message.
When she sends him a picture of her running on four hours of sleep, hair in a messy bun, scrubs wrinkled, he responds in three seconds:
TYLER: Jesus TYLER: How am I supposed to concentrate on this game now?? TYLER: You’re fucking beautiful Drie
Her breath catches.
She reads it three times before she forces herself to tuck her phone away.
The days pass like that, him on buses, in hotels, on planes; her in hallways, trauma bays, cramped break rooms. The distance is a hum, not a hollow. A slow pull, steady and certain, like gravity.
On a random Tuesday afternoon, he texts her again.
TYLER: You free Thursday? ADRIENNE: Possibly TYLER: Come to the game
Her stomach flips.
ADRIENNE: With who? TYLER: The girls TYLER: They’ll take care of you TYLER: And I want to see you after TYLER: Figure out our date
Our date. Her pulse stutters.
She types and erases her answer three times.
ADRIENNE: Okay. I’ll come.
Twenty seconds later:
TYLER: Fuck yes
She smiles the whole drive home.
It feels reckless to be this excited over it. It’s just a game, a maybe date that hasn’t been named yet. But the thought of seeing him again, of being in the same space instead of through a screen, settles low in her chest and stays there.
Adrienne hasn’t been to an NHL game in years, not since she left Canada. The sounds feel familiar: the crowd humming like a living thing, the ice cutter smoothing the rink, the faint smell of beer and popcorn and cold air.
She’s early, following the directions Tyler sent her. VIP entrance. Special pass. Someone meets her, checks her name, and escorts her upstairs.
The wives and girlfriends section is nicer than she expected. Wide seats. Soft lighting. A buffet tucked off to the side. Women chatting easily, laughing, wearing Stars green like it’s second skin.
But before warmups, they don’t stay there.
Madison smiles when Adrienne approaches, already shrugging into her coat. “You must be Adrienne, right?” she says warmly, like they’ve met before instead of just heard stories.
“Yeah,” Adrienne answers. “Hi.”
“I’m Madison,” she says, then gestures down the row. “Kelly, Jenna — we’re heading down to the glass for warmups if you want to come.”
Kelly gives her an easy grin. “No pressure. But it’s kind of a tradition.”
Adrienne hesitates for half a second, then nods. “Okay. Yeah.”
They move together through the concourse and down toward ice level, the air getting colder with every step. The smell of ice hits her all at once, sharp and familiar, tugging something loose in her chest.
They take their places along the glass just as the players spill onto the ice.
And Tyler looks right at her.
Not by accident. Not scanning. Not coincidence.
Direct. Blatant. Deliberate.
A slow grin pulls at his mouth, the same one that used to get him in trouble in junior leagues and probably still does. He taps his stick against the ice once as he skates by, eyes never leaving her.
Madison leans closer, voice low and amused. “Oh yeah,” she murmurs. “That man is gone.”
Adrienne’s face heats instantly.
He circles back during warmups and skates past the glass again, tapping it twice with the toe of his stick.
Her signal.
Something he started doing when they were eight years old, when he wanted her attention at the community rink.
She bites her lip hard enough to taste metal.
When warmups end, they head back upstairs together, the buzz following them all the way to their seats. Adrienne tells herself to breathe. To settle. To remember this is just a hockey game.
Then puck drop happens.
And all that resolve evaporates.
Every time Tyler steps onto the ice, she feels it anyway — a low, steady pull she can’t ignore. Not sharp. Not overwhelming. Just constant. Like gravity.
The game moves fast, the crowd rising and falling around her, and she really does try to focus. On the passing lanes. The line changes. The rhythm of play.
But Tyler is everywhere.
By the third period, the score is tied and the building is humming. Tyler takes the puck through the neutral zone with infuriating ease, slips past a defender, and threads a pass that turns into a goal seconds later.
The arena explodes.
Adrienne freezes as he looks up toward her section, a smirk tugging at his mouth like he knows exactly who was watching.
“Jesus,” she mutters under her breath.
Kelly laughs, soft and amused. “Okay. That one might’ve been for you.”
Adrienne shoots her a look. “I doubt that.”
Madison lifts a brow. “Sweetheart… we’ve all seen him play. That was showing off.”
Adrienne tries to hide her face in her hands, and both of them laugh like they’re on her side, not at her.
After the game, a staff member appears and taps Adrienne lightly on the shoulder.
“Adrienne? Tyler asked for you.”
Madison’s expression turns instantly encouraging. Kelly’s grin goes bright.
“Oh my god,” Kelly whispers, delighted. “Have fun.”
“Be safe,” Madison adds, dramatic only for Adrienne’s benefit, like she’s trying to make her smile. “And don’t let him talk you out of a real date.”
Adrienne groans, but it doesn’t feel like pressure. It feels like a push in the direction she secretly wants to go.
“You guys are awful,” she mutters, standing.
Kelly waves her off. “We’re supportive.”
Madison bumps her shoulder lightly. “Go. We’ll see you next game.”
They escort her toward the tunnel and her heart beats too fast. Her palms are sweaty. Her brain is useless.
Then he walks out of the locker room, damp hair pushed back, suit half-done, grin so bright it’s almost disarming.
“Drie.”
Just one word, but it hits everywhere.
“Hi,” she says, breathless.
He takes her hand without thinking. His thumb rubs slow circles like he’s relearning her skin.
“You came,” he says, softer than before.
“You invited me.”
He smirks. “I was half convinced you’d change your mind.”
She shrugs. “You had a good game.”
He steps closer. “I always play better when you’re watching.”
Her breath catches.
He leans in, not kissing her, just close enough that she can feel the warmth of his mouth near her cheek.
“So,” he murmurs, voice low, careful, “about that date we said we’d figure out.”
Her heart stutters, but she manages a small smile. “The one we keep talking around?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That one.”
She glances down at their joined hands, his thumb tracing slow, familiar circles against her skin. “I was starting to think we were just going to keep texting about it forever.”
A soft laugh leaves him. “I thought about that.”
She looks back up at him. “I don’t want it to just stay there.”
Neither does he — it’s written all over his face.
“Sunday night,” he says. “I kept it open. Just in case.”
The words settle gently between them. Not pressure. Not a rush. Just an offer.
She takes a breath, then nods. “Okay. Sunday.”
His shoulders drop in visible relief.
“Yeah?” he asks, softer than before.
“Yeah,” she says, squeezing his hand once. “I’ll stop pretending screenshots count as quality time.”
He laughs under his breath, forehead tipping forward until it rests against hers.
“Fuck,” he murmurs. “I’m really glad you said yes.”
Not a kiss. But close enough that her breath catches anyway.
“Sunday,” he whispers.
“Sunday,” she repeats.
And the space between them feels fuller — not uncertain, not empty — just waiting.
~
The lake behind Tyler’s house was glass that night, perfectly still except for the occasional ripple of a duck cutting across the surface. The two of them sat on the old wooden dock with their legs dangling over the edge, sneakers kicked off and forgotten. It was late, later than either of them should have been out, but summer always bent the rules for them.
Adrienne nudged his shoulder with hers. “You’re gonna fall in if you keep leaning like that.”
“I’m not gonna fall in,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re the one who’s clumsy.”
She scoffed. “I’m not clumsy. I just had a growth spurt.”
“Yeah, a year ago.”
He flashed that cocky half-smile, teenage Tyler’s default expression, the one that always made her insides feel weird. He was still lanky then, still growing into the body that would one day slice across NHL ice like it was nothing. All cheekbones, summer-tousled hair, and sunburnt shoulders.
One of the dock lights flickered, casting a warm glow across his face. He looked older for a moment. Or maybe she just realized she’d never stopped staring.
Tyler caught her watching. “What?” he whispered.
The air shifted. Thickened. Charged with something neither of them knew how to name.
He tilted his head toward her, slow and intentional, like he’d done it before, like he’d thought about doing it before.
“Ty…” Her voice cracked.
He nearly kissed her. He leaned in close enough that she felt his breath, warm and sweet from the cherry soda they’d split earlier. Her heart pounded so hard it almost hurt. Her fingers curled against the wooden planks, nails scraping softly as every part of her leaned toward him like gravity wasn’t optional.
He was right there.
But the universe never cared.
A door slammed from the house behind them, followed by his mom calling his name. The spell snapped. Tyler jerked back, blinking fast.
“We should… we should go,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” Adrienne said, even though her chest felt tight and her cheeks burned. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
~
They never talked about it. They didn’t need to. That almost-kiss lingered between them for years, haunting every glance and every joke and every moment that felt a little too loaded.
And now, standing in front of the bathroom mirror all these years later, Adrienne wonders if he ever thinks about that night the way she does. Because she’s getting ready for a date with him. A real date. Not teenage-stupid crush territory. Not what-if territory. A real, adult, holy-shit-what-am-I-doing date.
She stares at her reflection, trying to decide if she looks like someone who’s about to go out with her childhood best friend, someone whose face is printed on banners outside the American Airlines Center.
Probably not. She looks like someone who worked three twelve-hour shifts and then stress-curled her hair five times.
Her phone vibrates on the counter.
TYLER: On my way. Don’t freak out.
She scoffs at herself. Too late.
When she steps outside, he’s leaning against his matte black truck with his arms folded, biceps stretching the sleeves of a fitted shirt that should be illegal. His eyes widen when he sees her, a slow smile tugging up like his face can’t help it.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You clean up nice.”
“You just saw me a few days ago.”
“Yeah,” His voice drops, warm and rough, and she feels it in her stomach. “but not like this.”
He opens the passenger door for her, easy and natural, like he’s done it a thousand times in another universe where they were never apart after high school. The truck smells faintly of cedar and his cologne, and she tries not to think too hard about how many times she’s imagined being this close again.
The ride is warm and quiet, but not awkward. Just full. His hand rests on the console and every bump in the road makes her pinky brush the back of his fingers.
He notices. He always notices.
“You nervous?” he asks.
“No,” she lies.
He shoots her a knowing look. “You’re a shit liar, Drie.”
The nickname lands differently tonight.
Not surprising. Not nostalgic. Just intimate, a quiet reminder that this isn’t casual, that he’s already holding her in a place most people don’t get access to. Her chest tightens around the feeling, warm and unsettling all at once.
The restaurant he takes her to is one she’s only ever driven past. White tablecloths. Low lighting. The kind of place that expects reservations and doesn’t rush anyone through dinner. It makes the word date feel suddenly real in a way she can’t sidestep.
He parks and turns off the engine but doesn’t open the door right away. Instead, he looks at her.
It’s the same look he had on the dock when they were sixteen, careful, almost reverent, like he’s standing on the edge of something he doesn’t want to mishandle.
“You know,” he murmurs, “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”
Her heartbeat stutters. “The date?”
He nods. “Yeah. The date.”
The tension coils low and steady inside her, the same slow-burn pull they’ve carried half their lives.
He leans in, not close enough to kiss her, but close enough that she feels that same gravitational tug from years ago. This time, nothing interrupts.
He clears his throat, voice rough. “Dinner. Before I do something stupid in my truck.”
She laughs, bright and nervous. “Dinner sounds good.”
Inside, the host greets him by name out of habit, not fanfare, and leads them to a corner booth where the lighting is warm and intimate. Tyler sits across from her but leans in enough that his knees brush hers under the table.
It shouldn’t feel electric, but it does.
Conversation flows easily. Childhood memories. Old neighbors. Inside jokes they didn’t realize they still shared. He laughs so hard at one point that he runs a hand through his hair, and the memory hits her, him leaning in at the lake, about to kiss her with that exact look in his eyes.
At some point, without even thinking, he reaches across the table and takes her hand. His thumb grazes her knuckles.
“I missed this,” he says quietly.
Her voice barely works. “Yeah. Me too.”
After dinner, neither suggests ending the night. They both know they aren’t done.
He drives her back to his place, a modern home tucked behind trees with a wide backyard that makes nostalgia twist in her chest.
The second he opens the door, there’s barking. Loud, chaotic, joyful. Three Labs bolt toward her with tail-wagging enthusiasm.
“Jesus,” she laughs as one practically climbs her. “Hi! Oh my god, hi!”
“These are my idiots,” Tyler chuckles, watching with a softness that borders on dangerous. “They like you.”
“They’re literally mauling me.”
“Yeah. They still like you.”
They eventually settle on the couch, the dogs sprawled around them. Adrienne strokes soft fur while Tyler’s presence next to her sends her pulse skittering.
He’s watching her again, not subtly.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low and almost helpless. “I know.”
Her cheeks warm. “What are you thinking about?”
He considers dodging the question. She sees the temptation. But he doesn’t take it.
“I’m thinking about how you look in my house,” he says softly. “And how a part of me never thought I’d see that again.”
Her breath catches. The honesty in his voice hits harder than flirtation ever could.
She shifts closer, her knees brushing his thigh. His breath stutters.
The memory of their first kiss hangs between them, the one on her couch after she told him the parts of her past she’d kept locked away. The one he stopped, not because he didn’t want her but because he wanted her too much to risk doing it wrong. Since then, he’s been careful. Too careful.
He looks at her for a long moment, long enough that she feels it all the way down her spine.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.
She leans in before she even thinks about it. His hand slides into her hair, slow and careful, giving her every chance to pull away.
She doesn’t. She can’t.
The kiss starts soft. Familiar.
But when he deepens it, when he lets out that quiet sound in the back of his throat, everything shifts. It feels like he has been wanting this for a long time and finally gets to stop pretending otherwise.
Her hands land on his shoulders, fingers tracing the ink peeking from beneath his collar. He shivers at the touch. Actually shivers.
“Fuck,” he whispers against her mouth. “You drive me insane.”
He kisses her again, slower this time, deliberate, his thumb brushing her cheek like he is memorizing her.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against hers.
“You sure?” he asks gently. “I don’t want this to be because you feel like you owe me anything after last time.”
She cups his jaw, breath unsteady.
“Tyler, I want this. I want you.”
That is all it takes.
He kisses her again, deeper and completely unrestrained this time. His hands slide down her sides, warm through her clothes, touching her like he is discovering and remembering her at the same time. He lifts her effortlessly into his lap, her knees bracketing his hips. His breath hitches when she settles against him.
“Jesus, Drie.”
Her nickname sounds reverent from his mouth.
She traces the tattoos on his bicep, following the curve of the ink.
“I am obsessed with these,” she whispers.
His lips curve against her throat.
“Yeah? Keep looking at me like that and I am gonna get a big head.”
She laughs until he drags his mouth along her jaw, slow and teasing. Her fingers tighten in his shirt.
He stands in one fluid motion, lifting her with him. She gasps, arms looping around his neck.
“Don’t drop me,” she mutters, breathless.
“Never,” he says with complete certainty.
He carries her down the hall and kisses her again just inside his bedroom. The room smells like him, clean sheets, warm skin, something faintly woodsy. He lays her on the bed gently, like she is something precious he refuses to mishandle.
The air between them hums, warm and charged. Adrienne feels her pulse everywhere. Tyler hovers over her, breathing hard, eyes locked on hers with a heat that makes her thighs press together instinctively.
He notices.
“Drie,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked, “you look at me like that and I can’t think straight.”
She brushes her fingers along his jaw, feeling how tight he is holding himself.
“You don’t have to think,” she whispers. “Just feel.”
Something inside him gives.
He kisses her again, deeper and more certain. His mouth moves with slow, consuming hunger, his tongue brushing hers in a way that makes heat coil tight in her stomach. His hands roam her body with new confidence, sliding beneath her clothes to memorize every curve, every shiver, every sound she makes.
Tyler kisses her like every second he isn’t touching her hurts. When she pulls him down over her, he follows instantly, his body fitting against hers perfectly, heat meeting heat.
His hand slides under her shirt again, this time moving higher. He gives her every chance to stop him. She doesn’t. She arches into his touch instead, a soft, desperate sound slipping from her lips.
“Fuck… you feel…”
He cuts himself off with a groan.
Adrienne pulls him closer, fingers curling in his hair as she kisses him hard enough to steal his breath. He responds instantly, urgent and needy. His thumb strokes slow circles over her skin, teasing and deliberate.
He feels her reaction. Of course he does.
“Drie…” His voice drops, lower and rougher. “Let me see you.”
She nods, breathless. He lifts her shirt slowly, watching her face like he is searching for any flicker of doubt. He finds none. The shirt is gone in a moment, followed quickly by her bra, and the way he looks at her, hungry and awed and undone, sends heat rushing through her.
“God,” he whispers, kissing the newly exposed skin. “I have thought about this. So many times.”
His mouth trails lower, slow enough to torture. Her nails dig lightly into his shoulder. He groans like it hits him straight in his bloodstream.
He kisses back up her body, her throat, her jaw, her mouth.
“Tell me if you want me to slow down.”
“Don’t you dare,” she whispers.
His smile is wicked and worshipful at once. Adrienne lifts her hips, helping him slide her pants off, her legs kicking them to the side and leaving her in just her panties.
He shifts, his thigh sliding between hers. She gasps at the pressure. His eyes snap to hers, dark and wide. He moves just enough to let her feel him, hot and hard through his jeans. The sound that leaves her is not soft.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “That is it. Let me feel you.”
She rolls her hips helplessly. He mutters a curse against her neck, rough and vibrating against her skin. His hands grip her hips, guiding her, deepening the friction until she trembles.
“Tyler…”
“I got you,” he murmurs, kissing her hard. “I got you.”
She reaches lower, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt. He stills immediately, breath catching as though the contact hits him too fast to hide.
Her fingertips skim his skin, exploring upward, and he lets out a quiet sound that is part groan, part surrender.
“Take this off,” she whispers, tugging gently.
He pulls away just enough to lift the shirt over his head. The fabric hits the floor softly, forgotten, and the dim light reveals all of him. Muscle and shadow and warmth. Ink she’s only ever imagined, now real and close enough to touch.
Adrienne inhales, slow and unsteady, her eyes taking him in without apology.
The lines of the tattoos curve over his shoulders, sweep across his chest, disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. Seeing him like this feels personal in a way that makes her breath hitch, like she’s been trusted with something private.
“Tyler…” His name slips out softer than she means it to.
A faint flush creeps up his neck. “Yeah?”
She doesn’t answer with words.
Instead, she reaches out. Her fingertips brush his collarbone first, tentative, reverent, tracing the ink there like she’s memorizing it. She follows the line downward, slow and deliberate, feeling the heat of his skin beneath her touch, the way his muscles tighten instinctively under her fingers.
His breath stutters. A quiet sound leaves him before he can stop it.
“Drie…” His voice is rough now, strained. “If you keep touching me like that, I’m not gonna make it long.”
She smiles, barely, and lets her hand drift lower anyway.
His breath catches again, sharp this time, and he stands just enough to undo the button of his jeans, but her hand joins his, brushing his knuckles lightly. The contact pulls a groan from deep in his chest. She pushes the denim down his hips, slow and intentional. He steps out of them and returns to her immediately, sliding her panties off of her and their bodies meeting again with nothing between them but heat.
She runs her hands up his arms, over every tattoo, across his shoulders, down his chest. He trembles beneath her touch.
“Jesus, sweetheart…” He leans down, his voice nearly gone. “You are gonna destroy me.”
She kisses him again, slow and deep, loving the way he melts under her hands.
His control slips another inch.
“You are killing me,” he mutters against her mouth.
“Good.”
He laughs, breathless, then kisses her deeper and needier until she is clinging to him. His hand slides between them, fingers brushing where she aches for him, and her whole body jolts.
“Oh… god… Tyler…”
His jaw clenches.
“Drie… Jesus. Say it again.”
She does. His name becomes a plea, and he groans, fingers teasing her with slow, devastating precision.
“That is it,” he whispers, his forehead touching hers. “Let me hear you.”
She does. Again and again.
Her hands roam his bare back, tracing every tense line until he feels like he might snap. He kisses her harder, his control slipping fast.
“Tell me you want me,” he breathes.
“I want you. I want…” Her breath breaks. “Tyler, I want all of you.”
Something in him cracks open.
He kisses her like he has been waiting years for those words. His body presses her deeper into the mattress, heat rolling off him.
He pulls back just enough to look at her, hair messy, lips swollen, chest rising fast. He swears softly.
“Say it again,” he murmurs. “Please.”
“I want you.”
He exhales a shaky breath and reaches for her, pulling her closer, positioning her beneath him with a gentleness that contrasts with the hunger in his eyes.
“Look at me,” he whispers.
She does.
And he finally stops holding back.
He settles between her thighs, running his hands slowly up her hips, her waist, her ribs, so slow she feels every inch.
“Tyler…” She tugs gently at his hair.
“I know, baby,” he murmurs against her jaw. “I just want to remember this.”
He kisses her again, long and deep.
Then he lines their bodies up with careful precision. The brush of him steals her breath. His groan is low and strained.
“Tell me if it is too much,” he whispers.
“It won’t be.”
He holds her hips, grounding himself, and pushes into her, slow and steady.
Her breath catches. His does too.
“Jesus… Drie…” His voice cracks. “You feel unbelievable.”
She pulls him down and kisses him hard as he sinks deeper. He breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead falling against hers.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Ty… you can move.”
He does, carefully at first, hips rolling in a slow rhythm that forces a moan from her throat. Her nails scrape lightly down his back. He reacts instantly, hips jerking, breath stuttering, a guttural sound ripping out of him.
“Oh fuck. Do that again.”
She does.
His restraint disappears.
His pace deepens, not fast or rough, but consuming, each thrust giving her more of him. His mouth traces her throat, her shoulder, her chest, worshipping every inch he can reach.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he breathes. “I can’t stop looking at you.”
Her legs tighten around him. He groans, thrust stuttering.
“That… fuck, baby, that feels so good.”
She kisses him, messy and needy. He thrusts deeper, slower, his hand sliding down to where their bodies meet, touching her with deliberate intensity.
She gasps, loud and helpless. He shudders.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let me hear you. I want all of it.”
Pleasure builds fast, tight and hot. He feels the shift and his breath catches.
“Drie, baby… look at me.”
She does.
Something in him cracks.
“Come for me,” he whispers. “Please. I want to feel you.”
She does. Her body tightens and breaks around him, a sound tearing from her throat. He groans, burying his face in her neck as he feels her shudder, willing himself to keep it together just a little longer.
After a moment, he pushes himself up onto one of his forearms, brushing her hair back with his free hand, watching her face as she takes a few breaths.
“You okay?”
She smiles, dazed.
“I’m perfect.”
He exhales in relief and kisses her, slow and lingering.
He moves again before the kiss fully ends, rolling his hips once, testing. She gasps at the oversensitive drag of him still inside her.
His breath catches.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice dark. “I knew you would still feel like that.”
He kisses along her jaw, down her throat, hands sliding under her hips to pull her closer.
“Ty,” she whispers.
He looks at her with wide pupils and messy hair.
“I know, baby,” he says softly. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
She pulls him into a kiss that answers everything.
He groans, moving slowly at first, then deeper. Her nails scrape down his back. He growls.
“Fuck, baby.” Their foreheads touch. “You’re so warm. You’re gonna kill me.”
She arches to meet his rhythm. His control frays.
“Look at me,” he whispers.
She does.
His breath stutters, his hips falter.
“I want to see your face when you fall apart again. Her body clenches. He groans, thrusting deeper. “Fuck. Do that again.”
She kisses him, swallowing the sound he makes as he moves faster, harder, desperate.
Her breath breaks into gasps. Pleasure coils fast and hot.
“Tyler…”
“I know, baby. I know.” He finds her hand and threads their fingers together. “Come with me. Right now. I got you.”
The last thrust sends her over again, sharp and consuming. He follows immediately, swearing into her mouth, hips stuttering as he spills into her, holding her close.
They collapse together, breathing unevenly.
After a moment, he shifts carefully, slipping out of her and kissing her shoulder.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs, stroking her cheek. “You good?”
She nods breathlessly.
“I’m really good.”
He laughs softly, relieved, and kisses her forehead.
“Stay here.”
He returns with a warm towel and cleans her up gently, checking her face every few seconds. She stops him with a grateful kiss.
When he climbs back into bed, he pulls her against his chest. One hand rubs slow circles on her back. The other settles in her hair.
She melts into him.
“I didn’t know you were such a sweetheart,” she murmurs.
“Don’t tell the guys. Ruins my reputation.”
She smiles against his neck.
“You’re comfortable.”
He kisses her temple.
“So are you.”
He holds her close, tracing slow, lazy patterns on her skin until her breathing evens and her body finally loosens against his. He presses one last kiss to her cheek, unthinking, tender.
The room stays quiet long after they’ve both gone still.
Tyler is half-asleep against her, breath warm at the crown of her head, his arm curved around her waist like it’s instinct instead of choice. The sheets are tangled around their legs. Her cheek rises and falls with his chest, the rhythm steady and grounding, something she could fall into and disappear.
For a while, she floats there. Warm. Safe. Untethered from everything sharp.
Sleep doesn’t come all at once. It drifts in slowly, heavy-lidded and soft, pulling her under inch by inch.
And then the quiet fractures.
At first, it’s subtle. A wrongness she can’t name. The feeling that something doesn’t belong.
Then the door slams.
The sound hits her chest before it reaches her ears, a deep vibration that rattles her ribs the same way it used to when she was a kid. Her breath catches.
Footsteps follow. Heavy. Uneven. Moving down the hall.
Someone is crying.
Her sister.
Small. Terrified.
And then the shouting starts. Words she hasn’t heard in years, sharp and slurred and familiar in the worst way. Words that never really left her, that still live somewhere deep in her spine.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
“You think you’re better than me?”
“Get back here!”
Adrienne is frozen on the dock.
Not the dock.
The living room floor.
The kitchen tile.
Back door.
Snow.
The smell of beer and winter.
Her lungs seize. Her hands tremble. Something crashes in the memory, a picture frame or a plate or maybe her mother’s voice breaking.
And then she’s running.
Outside.
Bare feet on ice.
Alone.
Her heart slams so hard she wakes up.
The room is dark except for the soft glow from the hallway. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her hair sticks damply to her forehead. She can’t breathe.
Not just fast breathing, she can’t breathe.
Her chest won’t expand.
Her throat tightens.
Her fingers go numb.
She presses a hand to her sternum like she can force the air back in.
“Drie?”
Tyler’s voice is rough with sleep but alert in seconds.
She doesn’t answer.
She can’t.
He sits up fast, eyes wide, hair a mess, concern sharpening every line of his face. He moves closer slowly, like she’s a skittish animal he doesn’t want to scare.
“Hey. Hey… look at me.”
She tries. Her eyes won’t focus.
He cups her face gently, tilting her toward him.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “Just breathe. In… slow. Like this.”
He inhales deeply, exaggerated, waiting.
She tries to mimic it.
Nothing works.
Her chest keeps locking.
Tyler’s hand slides down to cover hers where it’s pressed to her sternum. His palm is warm, grounding.
“Drie, you’re safe,” he whispers. “You’re here with me. You’re safe. Nothing’s happening.”
She squeezes her eyes shut.
He shifts closer, pulling her into his lap without hesitation, guiding her legs around his waist, anchoring her as her lungs fight her.
“I’ve got you,” His arms wrap around her lower back, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades, the other stroking her hair away from her face, “I’ve got you, baby. You’re okay.”
It takes a second.
Two.
Five.
But eventually a ragged breath slips in.
Then another.
Her fingers press into his chest and she clings to him like she might fall through the mattress without the weight of him holding her in place.
Tyler presses his forehead to hers, breath trembling with relief.
“There you go,” he whispers. “There you are.”
She’s still shaking when the tears start, silent at first, then harder, like something has finally cracked.
He doesn’t pull back.
He doesn’t look away.
He just holds her, thumb sweeping at the corner of her eye every time a tear falls.
When she finally finds her voice, it sounds far away.
“I had… I had a dream.”
“I figured,” he murmurs. His hand keeps moving through her hair, slow and soothing. “You don’t have to tell me.”
But she wants to.
For the first time, she wants to.
She swallows hard. “It was my dad.”
Tyler’s body goes still, not tense, just attentive. Protective.
She wipes her face with shaking fingers. “When he would drink… it was really bad. I used to hide outside because it was the only place he wouldn’t follow.”
A soft, wounded sound slips from Tyler’s throat, quiet but unmistakable.
“He yelled. Threw things. Broke things. My mom. My sister.” Her breath trembles. “I don’t think I’ve dreamed about it in years. But tonight…”
He smooths a hand down her back. “Tonight you weren’t alone.”
Her throat tightens again, but this time for a different reason.
She rests her forehead against his jaw. “I didn’t plan to tell you about the nightmares. Not like this.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he whispers. “Not ever. But I’m glad you’re telling me. And I’m glad I’m here.”
She lets out a shaky laugh. “I hate that you’re seeing me like this.”
“Like what?”
“Falling apart.”
“Drie…” He pulls back just enough to make her meet his eyes. “You’re not falling apart. You’re surviving. And you’re telling me the truth. And there’s nothing in this world that could make me think less of you.”
Her vision blurs again.
He leans in, brushing the softest kiss to her cheek. Then another to her temple. Then another along her jaw, each one grounding her back into her body.
“You’re safe,” he whispers again. “I swear to god, you’re safe with me.”
She nods, finally letting her body soften against his. Letting herself breathe fully for the first time since she woke up.
He shifts, guiding them both back down beneath the covers, but keeping her tucked against him, chest to chest, his hand rubbing slow circles on her spine.
After several quiet minutes, she whispers, “Ty?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He presses another kiss to her hairline. “For as long as you’ll let me, I’m not going anywhere.”
She closes her eyes, letting the warmth of him pull her back into safety, back into her body. This time, when sleep comes, it’s softer. Careful. It settles around her instead of dragging her under.
She stays in his arms.
Sometime later, the darkness thins.
Light slips through Tyler’s curtains, pale and warm, turning the room gold. Morning hums quietly outside, the muted rhythm of the neighborhood waking up without urgency.
Adrienne stirs before he does.
Her cheek is pressed to his chest again, right over his heartbeat. His arm is tucked around her waist, fingers resting lightly at her hip like his body knows where she is even in sleep. One leg is hooked with hers beneath the blankets. He’s warm. Solid. Real.
She lies there for a moment, blinking sleep from her eyes, letting the calm settle into places that were tight just hours ago.
Everything from the night before drifts back to her in pieces, the dream, the panic, the way he woke instantly, the way he held her without hesitation, without asking her to be anything other than exactly what she was.
And the way he stayed.
Tyler murmurs something in his sleep and tightens his hold on her, nuzzling his face into her hair. His nose brushes her temple. A soft exhale, a content little sound she’s not sure she’s ever heard from him.
He looks younger like this. Softer. Peaceful in a way he rarely gets to be.
She traces a fingertip along one of the tattoos on his chest, following the curve of ink without thinking.
He stirs.
“Hm…” His voice is rough from sleep. “You’re awake?”
“Yeah,” she whispers.
He opens his eyes slowly, blinking like he’s orienting himself. When he sees her, really sees her, something warm spreads across his face.
“Morning,” he murmurs, brushing a piece of hair from her cheek.
She feels the heat rise under her skin. “Morning.”
“You okay?” His thumb lingers at her jaw. Gentle. Careful. “After last night, I mean.”
She nods. “Yeah. Better. I… I slept better once you were holding me.”
His chest rises with a slow, relieved breath. “Good. You scared the hell out of me.”
“I scared myself,” she admits quietly.
He dips his head, kissing her forehead. “You can always wake me. For anything. I mean that.”
The sincerity makes her throat tighten.
She pushes up a little, looking around. “What time is it?”
“No idea.” He stretches, muscles shifting beneath her as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand. “Eight-ish.”
“Oh god, your day…” She winces. “I didn’t mean to mess anything up for you.”
“Drie.” He gives her a look. “You didn’t mess anything up. And I’m not going anywhere.”
She swallows at the double meaning.
He sits up against the headboard, tugging her with him until she’s tucked against his side again.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
She hesitates, chewing her bottom lip. “Everything. Us. Last night. How different this feels.”
His expression softens, his hand slipping beneath the blanket to rest warm on her thigh. “Different good or different bad?”
“Good,” she says immediately. “Good in a way that scares me a little.”
He smiles at that, small, crooked, real. “Same.”
He pulls her closer until her head rests against his shoulder. For a while they stay like that, breathing the same air, the morning quiet settling around them.
Then he speaks, voice quieter than before.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Always.”
“I knew something was wrong when we were kids,” he admits, eyes fixed on the window like he’s remembering years at once. “With your dad. I didn’t know what exactly, but… I knew. I just didn’t know how to help back then.”
She takes a small breath, her fingers sliding along the inside of his arm. “You were a kid too.”
“Yeah,” he huffs, a little frustrated with his younger self. “But I still should’ve done something.”
“You did,” she says softly. “You were my safe place. You just didn’t know it.”
His chest loosens, like that was all he needed to hear.
He turns toward her, cupping her cheek. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re carrying any of this alone anymore.”
Her eyes sting again. “I don’t want to, either.”
His thumb strokes her jaw again, slow and tender.
Then he says the thing that’s been hovering between them since the moment she showed up at his game.
“We can do this, you know.”
She searches his face. “Do what?”
“Us,” he says simply. “For real. Not the almost thing we’ve been doing our whole lives. I want this. I want you. And not just for tonight or a few weeks or whatever the hell this is turning into. I’m all in.”
She sucks in a soft breath.
The room feels too bright suddenly. Too real.
“Tyler…”
He shakes his head gently, brushing his forehead against hers. “I’m not rushing you. I’m not asking for more than you’re ready for. But I need you to know that I’m here. I’m choosing you. I’ve been choosing you since we were fifteen, I just didn’t know how to say it.”
She looks down at where their hands are tangled under the blanket. His thumb is brushing slow circles against her skin.
“How do we do this?” she whispers.
“Together,” he answers immediately. “However it makes sense. However it feels right. No pressure. No rules. Just us.”
Her chest tightens with something warm and unbearably hopeful.
She shifts into his lap without thinking, knees bracketing his thighs. His hands slide automatically to her waist, steadying her like it’s instinct now. Like it’s always been.
“Okay,” she whispers.
He stills. “Yeah?”
She nods, leaning in. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
The breath he lets out sounds like relief he’s been holding onto for years. Then he’s kissing her — slow, deep, grateful. Not urgent like last night. Not hungry. Just full of something steady and grounding.
His hands hold her like she’s something precious. Like she’s a yes he’s been waiting half a lifetime to hear.
When they finally break apart, he rests his forehead against hers, smiling like he can’t help it.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”
She laughs softly, brushing her nose against his. “You’re stuck with me now, Segs.”
“Good,” he repeats, lips brushing hers. “That’s exactly what I want.”
And for the first time since the night on the dock, there is no almost between them.
No hesitation. No waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Only yes.
Only now.
Only each other.
The days that follow don’t magically slow down. If anything, life keeps moving at its usual, chaotic pace. But they start finding each other in the margins.
A late-night dinner after her shift, eaten cross-legged on his couch.
An early-morning coffee before practice, shared in the quiet before the city wakes up.
Falling asleep tangled together with a movie playing they never actually watch.
Small moments. Ordinary ones. The soft, sweet kind of beginning that doesn’t announce itself, but settles in anyway.
They aren’t officially anything yet. No labels. No declarations stamped with meaning.
Just a steady orbit.
A shared gravity.
And the quiet certainty that neither of them wants to fight it anymore.
It’s the kind of steadiness that makes her forget, just for a moment, that nothing ever stays untouched for long.
Adrienne is at Tyler’s house when the call comes. She’s just kicked her shoes off, scrubs rumpled from a double shift, hair falling loose from where she’d pinned it up. Tyler is in the kitchen, slicing up leftover steak for late-night tacos, humming off-key to some country song playing on his speaker.
Her phone buzzes.
She glances at the screen and freezes.
Mom.
She almost didn’t answer. Almost let it ring because her chest tightened the way it always did when that number lit up her screen. But something in her gut insisted.
“Hello?”
Her mother’s voice came through, thin and wavering. “Adrienne… honey, I—I need to talk to you.”
The tone punched straight through her.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s your father.” A pause. “He’s very sick. The doctors say… they say it won’t be long.”
Her stomach dropped. The room went muffled. She pressed a hand to the counter, grounding herself.
“Okay,” she managed. “And?”
“And he wants to see you,” her mother whispered. “You should know… he’s been sober for ten years. He’s worked so hard. He’s not—he’s not the man he was when you left.”
Adrienne’s throat went dry. She stared at the wall, seeing nothing. Hearing everything and nothing at once.
Tyler turned then, knife in hand, eyes sharpening the second he saw her face. “Drie? You okay?”
She couldn’t answer. Not yet.
Her mother’s voice cracked. “He wants to make things right. Or at least… try. But I’ll understand if you can’t. I’ll understand anything.”
Adrienne closed her eyes. Exhaled. “I’ll call you back.”
She hung up.
For a long moment she didn’t move. Just stood there, shaking, staring at the floor like her shadow might hold answers she didn’t want to ask for.
Tyler set the knife down and stepped closer. “Talk to me.”
She swallowed hard. “My dad. He’s dying.”
His breath caught, but he didn’t reach for her yet. He waited—careful, patient, letting her choose.
“And he wants to see me,” she added, bitterness threading through the words. “Apparently he’s been sober for a decade.”
Tyler’s brows knit. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” She laughed once, humorless. “I don’t fucking know, Ty.”
He stepped closer then, slow and steady. “Whatever you decide, I’ll back you. You don’t owe him anything. You don’t owe anyone closure you don’t want. But if you want to go…” He reached out and gently brushed her cheek with his knuckles. “…I’ll go with you. If you want me there.”
Her breath trembled. “I don’t want to go alone.”
“Then you won’t.”
He handled everything after that, not because he needed control, but because she didn’t have any to spare. He asked for time away. He booked the flights. Took care of the details she couldn’t bring herself to think about, letting her lean without ever making her feel like she was falling.
Three days later, they landed in Canada and drove to the quiet house Tyler kept there, a place that felt paused in time. Still. Private. Removed from everything waiting for them on the other side of the door.
Inside, they moved slowly, wordlessly, as if the house already understood what they needed. There was no conversation about space or where anyone would sleep. They simply stayed close, the way they had since the call, since the choice.
That night, she lay beside him, listening to his breathing in the dark, grounding herself in the steady presence of him. His hand found hers sometime after midnight, fingers threading together without either of them fully waking.
In the morning, he brought her coffee, kissed her forehead like it was something sacred, and said softly, “Say the word when you’re ready.”
She wasn’t ready.
But she nodded anyway.
The hospital smelled the same as every hospital, too clean, too bright, too full of endings. The fluorescent lights make everything feel sharper, more exposed. Adrienne’s chest tightens the moment they step inside.
Tyler walks beside her without touching her, giving her space but staying close enough that she can feel him there, steady and solid, like a quiet tether. Every few steps, she’s aware of him in her periphery, the way he matches her pace without trying to lead.
They turn the corner toward the ward—and she sees them.
Her mother is seated in one of the molded plastic chairs outside the room, hands folded tightly in her lap, posture too straight. Mara is pacing near the wall, arms wrapped around herself, chewing anxiously on her bottom lip the way she always did as a kid when she was scared.
“Adrienne,” her mother breathes, rising quickly to her feet.
Mara turns at the sound of her name.
For half a second, she just stares. Then her face crumples.
“Oh my god,” Mara says, rushing forward and pulling Adrienne into a fierce hug. “You scared me. You didn’t answer my texts. I didn’t know if—” Her voice breaks. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Adrienne holds her tight, breathing her in, the familiar weight of her sister grounding her in a way nothing else has yet.
When they pull apart, Mara’s eyes flick over Adrienne’s shoulder.
And land on Tyler.
She freezes.
Her expression shifts through surprise, disbelief, and then something rawer—relief mixed with emotion she doesn’t bother hiding.
“Ty?” she says quietly. “Tyler Seguin?”
He steps forward just enough to be seen, his presence calm and respectful. “Hey, Mara.”
Her eyes shine instantly. “What are you—” She stops herself, swallowing. “You’re here?”
“I am,” he says gently. “I didn’t want Adrienne doing this alone.”
Mara looks between them, taking in the way he stands close without crowding her, the way Adrienne hasn’t moved away from him. Her breath shudders out of her.
“Thank you,” she says, voice thick. “Seriously. Thank you.”
Behind them, Adrienne’s mother watches the exchange closely. When her gaze finally settles on Tyler, something soft flickers across her face—recognition, memory, and something quieter. Something long-held.
“Tyler,” she says. “It’s good to see you.”
He offers a small, polite smile. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”
She nods. Then, after a moment, her voice lowers. “I always wondered if the two of you would find your way back to each other.”
Adrienne’s throat tightens.
Her mother squeezes her arm gently, a silent reassurance, before stepping aside and glancing toward the closed door.
“He’s asking for you,” she says softly.
The hallway seems to narrow then. The weight of the moment presses in.
Adrienne steps forward, stopping just short of the door. Her breath catches. Her hands feel unsteady at her sides.
Tyler doesn’t rush her. He just brushes his fingers against hers, a quiet reminder that she’s not alone.
“I’ll be right here,” he murmurs.
She nods because she can’t speak—not without breaking.
Then she reaches for the handle and pushes the door open.
Her father looks smaller than she remembers. Not just older. Smaller. Shoulders hunched. Skin sallow. Hands trembling slightly as he tries to lift the cup of water on his bedside table. Tubes snake across the sheets. Machines beep softly, indifferent to the weight of the moment.
He turns when he hears the door.
“Adrienne?”
Her name cracks in his mouth.
She freezes halfway into the room. She knows this man. And she doesn’t. There is the faint outline of the broad-shouldered shadow she grew up fearing, but time has carved him down to something fragile. Breakable.
She does not feel sorry.
She feels furious that time got to do this to him instead of her fists.
His eyes fill with tears almost instantly. “You came.”
“I’m here,” she says, but it comes out flat, emotionless. A fact, not forgiveness.
He swallows hard like her voice alone hurts him. “You look… grown. Beautiful. Your mother sends me pictures sometimes. Not often. I didn’t want to ask.” He laughs once, a broken sound. “Didn’t feel like I had the right.”
Silence stretches. Her hands shake at her sides.
She steps closer, not because she wants to, but because she has to see him up close. She has to see the truth, not the ghost she’s carried.
His eyes drop to the floor. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
Adrienne’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t come for you.”
He nods, accepting it like he expected nothing more. “I know. I know you shouldn’t have. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you never walked into this room.”
Another long silence. The kind that bruises.
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Adrienne.”
It hits her harder than she expects. The words she begged for as a child. The words she would’ve given anything to hear at fourteen, sixteen, seventeen.
Now they almost make her sick.
“You don’t get to just say that,” she whispers.
He closes his eyes. “I know.”
“No.” Her voice breaks open, sharp. “You don’t.”
His hands tremble. “Then tell me. Please. Tell me.”
She stares at him, rage pricking behind her eyes, because how dare he ask her to do the emotional labor of explaining her trauma. How dare he make her say it out loud.
But she needs this.
She needs him to hear it.
“You hurt us,” she says, voice low, controlled only because she is holding herself together by threads. “You hurt Mom. You hurt me. Every single day. You made home feel like a war zone.”
He flinches.
“You drank until you couldn’t stand and then you’d scream at us for the way you were. You broke shit. You broke her. You broke me.” Her breath shudders. “I used to sleep with my shoes on because some nights I didn’t know if we’d have to run.”
His face twists, devastated. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry—”
“Sorry?” she snaps. “You think sorry fixes that? Sorry doesn’t give me back a childhood. Sorry doesn’t fix the nights I thought you’d kill her. Sorry doesn’t fix the part of me that still jumps when someone slams a damn door.”
His shoulders shake. “I know. I know it doesn’t. I can’t fix what I did. I can’t undo a single second of it.”
“Then why ask me to come?”
He looks at her with eyes that are tired, hollow, pleading in a way that feels wrong on his face.
“Because I wanted to tell you that I changed,” he whispers. “Not to erase anything. Not to make you forgive me. Just so you’d know I didn’t stay that man. I’ve been sober for ten years, Adrienne. Ten years. And every day of those ten years, I wished I could tell you. I wished I could tell you that I became someone who deserved to be your father.”
Tears burn behind her eyes. She hates that they do.
“You don’t get to decide that,” she says. “You don’t get to rewrite who you were.”
He nods, tears spilling over. “You’re right. I don’t. I’m just… I’m dying. And I needed you to know that I loved you. Even when I was too broken to show it.”
The words crash into her chest.
Love.
The word she wanted and dreaded.
“Why didn’t you fight for us?” she asks suddenly, voice shaking. “Why didn’t you get help before you destroyed everything?”
He is silent for a long time. “Because I was weak. And selfish. And sick. And I didn’t understand the damage until it was done.” His voice breaks. “And by then, you were gone. And you deserved better than the man I was.”
She looks away, blinking hard.
“You don’t have to forgive me,” he whispers. “You don’t even have to come back again. I just… I wanted you to see me. The man I tried to become. Not the one you had to survive.”
Her throat tightens with a conflicting, suffocating mix of rage and sorrow.
“I don’t forgive you,” she says quietly.
He nods, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I never expected you to.”
“But I hear you,” she adds. “And that’s all I have right now.”
His face crumples in a way that is both painful and strangely relieving. Not because she wants to hurt him. But because she needs him to understand.
She steps back.
“I hope you find peace,” she murmurs.
He lifts his eyes to hers, something like gratitude flickering through them. “And I hope you find happiness, Adrienne. Real happiness. The kind I was never able to give you.”
She stands there, breath caught in her throat, the words hitting places she never lets anyone touch. She stares at him — this frail man in a hospital bed who once filled doorways with rage — and she doesn’t know why she says it. Maybe because it’s true. Maybe because part of healing is claiming what she finally has.
Or maybe because some small, younger version of her needs him to know she didn’t drown in the wreckage he made.
“I have,” she says softly.
His eyes lift, confused at first. Then hopeful. So heartbreakingly hopeful it almost hurts to look at him.
She swallows. “I’m… I’m happy. With someone.”
Silence falls like a held breath.
His voice trembles. “Tyler?”
Her chest twists. “Yeah. Tyler.”
A sound leaves him — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. Something relieved. Something grateful. Something like the first break in a storm.
“I always liked that boy,” he whispers. “Even when I didn’t like myself.”
She looks down at her hands because his face is too much to bear. Too full of emotions he never gave her when she was young enough to need them.
“He takes care of you?” he asks, voice fragile with sincerity. “He treats you the way you should’ve always been treated?”
Adrienne nods. “He does. Better than I ever expected anyone would.”
Her father’s breath shudders out of him. “Then I can live with that,” he murmurs, tears sliding freely now. “I can go knowing you’re safe. That you found someone who loves you right.”
The words crack something open in her — not forgiveness, not absolution, but a softening of a wound that’s been locked behind armor for thirteen years.
“I am safe,” she says, voice quiet but steady. “For the first time in a long time.”
He closes his eyes like he’s absorbing it into his bones.
“Good,” he whispers. “Good. That’s all I ever wanted for you. Even when I didn’t know how to give it.”
She turns before he can say anything else, because if she stays, she might crumble. She walks toward the door on shaking legs, heart thudding painfully, breathing tight.
She steps into the hallway on unsteady legs, the door closing softly behind her.
Mara is there.
She looks up the second she sees Adrienne, eyes already wet, hands clasped together like she doesn’t know what to do with them. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The hospital hums around them, distant voices and rolling carts and the quiet weight of things ending.
“Did you—” Mara starts, then stops. Tries again. “Did you talk to him?”
Adrienne nods once. That’s all she can manage.
Mara exhales shakily. “Okay.”
They stand there, sisters again in the way they used to be as kids, braced side by side, absorbing something too big to look at head-on.
“I forgave him,” Mara says softly.
The words land, not like a blow, but like a careful offering.
Adrienne turns to her. Really looks at her. “I didn’t.”
“I know,” Mara says immediately. No hesitation. No judgment. “I didn’t expect you to.”
Adrienne’s throat tightens. “When did that happen?”
Mara shrugs, wiping at her cheeks. “Not all at once. Not even… fully, I guess. I just got tired of carrying it around all the time. I needed it to stop owning me.”
Adrienne nods slowly. “Does it help?”
Mara considers. “It doesn’t make it okay. It just makes it quieter.”
Adrienne absorbs that. Lets it sit where it is.
“I’m glad you found something that works for you,” she says honestly. “I just… I can’t give him that.”
“You don’t have to,” Mara says, stepping closer. “You don’t owe him forgiveness. Or peace. Or anything else.”
Something in Adrienne’s chest eases, just a fraction.
Mara pulls her into a hug then, tight and familiar. Adrienne closes her eyes, pressing her forehead into her sister’s shoulder.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Mara murmurs. “Not by leaving. Not by staying away. Not by feeling the way you feel now.”
Adrienne exhales, shaky. “I just didn’t want him to think—”
“That you forgave him?” Mara finishes gently.
Adrienne nods.
“He knows,” Mara says. “And if he doesn’t, that’s not your responsibility.”
Adrienne pulls back, blinking hard. “Thank you.”
Mara glances past her, down the hall, and her expression softens. “I can’t believe he’s here.”
Adrienne doesn’t turn yet, but she feels it, that steady presence like gravity at her back.
“I remember him,” Mara adds quietly. “From when we were kids. You always came home calmer when he was around.”
Adrienne swallows.
Mara gives her hand one last squeeze. “Go. I’ll stay with Mom for a bit.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Mara says. “I’ve got this.”
Adrienne nods, emotion clogging her throat. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
She turns then.
And Tyler is already there.
Waiting.
Like he always has been.
She doesn’t speak. She just walks straight into him, burying her face in his chest. His arms wrap around her instantly — steady, warm, grounding — and she feels herself finally unravel in the safest place she’s ever known.
“I told him about you,” she whispers.
Tyler’s arms tighten. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His lips brush the crown of her head, soft and reverent. “Then I’m glad I’m the one here with you.”
And she is too.
God, she is.
Her father dies two days later.
It’s still dark outside when her phone vibrates on the nightstand. She doesn’t recognize the number, but the local area code coils dread low in her stomach before she even answers.
The nurse’s voice is quiet and steady.
He passed peacefully.
It was quick.
He wasn’t in pain.
Adrienne sits on the edge of the bed long after the call ends, the phone still in her hand even though she can barely feel it. The world feels muffled, distant, like she’s underwater.
When she finally steps into the hallway, Tyler wakes instantly. His head lifts, eyes heavy with sleep but alert the moment he sees her face.
“Drie…” His voice is soft, careful.
She turns her head just slightly. “He’s gone.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He takes two steps and pulls her into his chest. Her fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, not shaking or falling apart, just holding on like she’s trying to stay upright while the ground shifts beneath her feet.
“I’m here,” he murmurs into her hair. “I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t fill the silence with empty comfort or try to fix something that can’t be fixed. He just holds her until the numbness settles into a shape she can walk through.
The funeral is small and quiet. Her mother clings to her hand like she’s afraid to let go, fingers tightening every time the wind shifts or a voice breaks. Tyler stays on her other side the entire time, close without crowding, his thumb brushing slow circles against the back of her hand whenever her breath stutters.
Adrienne feels hollow through most of it, like she’s watching someone else move through the motions. Grief and shock sit beside each other in a strange, uneasy truce — not fighting yet, just existing.
At the graveside, when her chest tightens too sharply and the air seems to thin, Tyler steps closer, a steady hand at her back. She leans into him without thinking, the familiarity of him anchoring her in a way nothing else can. He doesn’t say anything. He just stays solid, warm, real.
After the burial, after the hushed condolences from distant family, after the long drive back to Tyler’s house, she feels wrung out — emptied and overfull all at once.
Inside, the quiet presses in.
She kicks off her shoes and sinks onto the edge of the bed, staring down at her hands. They’re trembling now that there’s nothing left to hold her upright.
Tyler doesn’t rush her. He sets his keys down, moves slowly, and kneels in front of her like it’s instinct. He takes her hands gently, grounding her without forcing her to look up.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs.
She swallows, nodding, because she can’t trust her voice yet.
He rises then and draws her with him, easing her back onto the bed, pulling her into his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She fits herself there automatically, tucking her face into his shirt, fingers curling in the cotton like it’s the only solid thing left.
His hand moves up and down her back in slow, steady strokes.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing fragile.
Just there.
“Try to sleep,” he whispers.
“I’m scared.”
He presses a kiss into her hair. “Of what?”
“That I’ll dream about him. That it’ll feel like going backward.”
“If you dream anything bad, I’ll wake you.” His arm tightens around her. “You’re not doing any of this alone.”
She exhales shakily and lets herself soften into him, into the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of him, the safety she’s always found in him even before she understood what it meant.
“I’m right here,” he promises.
And she falls asleep in his arms, wrapped in the kind of safety she never thought she would get back.
Morning comes quietly.
Adrienne is already awake when the pale light begins to slip across the backyard, cool and soft, the kind of northern morning that still holds onto the night. She is wrapped in one of Tyler’s hoodies, bare feet tucked beneath her on the patio chair, hands empty because she forgot to bring anything with her when she stepped outside.
The air smells like dew and pine and something faintly metallic, cold lingering even as the sun rises.
The house behind her is still.
For the first time since the phone call, since the hospital, since the funeral, the quiet does not feel sharp. It does not feel like it is waiting to hurt her.
She listens to the world wake up slowly. Birds in the trees. A distant car passing on wet pavement. Wind moving through branches. Familiar sounds. Grounding ones.
She breathes.
Yesterday presses gently at the edges of her mind. Her father as he was, and as he was not. The grief that still sits heavy in her chest. The ache that has not vanished but no longer threatens to swallow her whole.
And threaded through all of it, steady and constant, is Tyler.
The back door creaks softly behind her.
She does not turn right away. She does not have to.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
A moment later, a mug appears in her line of sight, steam curling into the cool air. Coffee. Exactly how she takes it. He remembered. Of course he did.
She accepts it with both hands, fingers brushing his briefly. “Thank you.”
He pulls out the chair beside her and sits, close but not crowding, his knee brushing hers. He is still half-soft from sleep, hair messy, T-shirt rumpled, eyes gentle in a way that makes her chest tighten.
They sit like that for a minute. No rush. No pressure.
Finally, he asks quietly, “How are you feeling?”
She considers the question honestly.
About the man her father had been.
About the man he tried to become.
About the grief that is still there, heavy but survivable.
About the way Tyler never once let her carry any of it alone.
“I don’t feel alone,” she says.
His breath eases out of him, slow and relieved. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because you’re not.”
She turns then, really turns, meeting his eyes in the clear morning light. There is no performance in his face. No bravado. Just sincerity. Devotion worn quietly, the kind that shows up instead of speaking first.
The truth rises without fear this time.
“I love you,” she says.
The words land softly between them. Not fragile. Not rushed. Just real.
His breath catches, barely audible, like something in his chest finally gives way. He reaches out, hesitates for half a second like he is checking in, then cups her cheek.
“Drie,” he says, voice low and thick. “I love you too. More than I ever knew how to say.”
Her eyes burn, but the feeling is warm instead of sharp. She leans into his touch, grounding herself in the solidness of him.
“We’re going to be okay,” he adds quietly.
She nods. She believes him.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “I don’t think I could have done these last few days without you.”
“You don’t have to,” he replies gently. “Not anymore.”
She watches him for a moment. This boy she grew up with. This man who stayed. Who chose her again and again without asking her to be anything but herself.
For years, there was something suspended between them. Something fragile and unnamed. It lived in almost-kisses and unfinished sentences, in the quiet pauses, in the space between who they were and who they kept pretending to be.
Now, sitting in the cool morning air with coffee cooling between her hands and his knee pressed against hers, that space feels different.
Smaller.
Warmer.
Like something finally closing. Finally mending.
She reaches for him, fingers sliding into his shirt at the waist, resting there like it has always belonged.
“I love you,” she says again, without fear, without hesitation, without the old instinct to run.
His smile is slow and steady, like something he has been carrying for a long time. “I love you too.”
He leans in, pressing his forehead to hers. Not a kiss. Not a beginning or an end. Just a promise.
There will still be things to figure out. Conversations to have. A future to navigate.
But the distance that once lived between them, the hesitation, the fear, the ache, is gone.
What remains is the space between them now.
Not empty.
Not aching.
But full of breath, and choice, and love.
Adrienne takes another breath, cool air filling her lungs, Tyler solid at her side.
And for the first time in a long time, she knows it with certainty.
She is exactly where she is meant to be.
