The radio stayed off the whole drive.
20 minutes of nothing but tyres on tarmac and his indicator clicking at junctions, and I spent every one of those minutes deciding whether to ask him to just drop me back at the safe room instead.
I didn’t ask, wanting this too much to make myself say the words that would end it.
We pulled up outside a building I’d never been to before, narrow, old brick, not at all what I’d expected from a captain with his kind of money, no gates, and no security buzzer, at the same time nothing that said any of what he actually was.
He killed the engine and sat there with both hands on the wheel again, same as before, except this time he wasn’t avoiding looking at me.
He just wasn’t looking at anything at all.
“You— you coming in?” he said, not really a question.
“Is that— is that an invitation or an order?” “Does it matter which?” “Kind of, yeah.” “Then it’s an invitation.” He got out before I could answer either way.
I followed him up a narrow staircase into a flat that barely looked lived-in at all, white walls, almost no furniture, a single photograph on the mantelpiece I didn’t get a proper look at before he crossed straight to the kettle.
“You’ve— you’ve got a flat.
I half expected you to live at the training ground.” “I am there most days regardless.” “That’s not an answer.” “No,” he said, filling the kettle, steady-handed, not a single word about the morning we’d just had.
“It— it is not.” “Who’s in the photo?” “Nobody important tonight.” “That’s also not an answer.” “You are very fixated on answers, all of a sudden.” “Yeah, well.
Fixation’s kind of my whole thing today.” “Damjan…” He didn’t turn around from the kettle.
“Look at me.
Please.” Nothing happened for a beat, then he turned, his whole face gone carefully still, the same control I’d watched him wrap around himself in the car.
I crossed the kitchen before I could talk myself out of it and put my hand flat on his chest, right over where his heart was going too fast for a man standing so still.
He didn’t pull away this time.
“I’m sorry,” he said, low.
“For the car.
I didn’t know what to do with any of it, so I did nothing, and that was the wrong thing.” “Yeah.
It was.” “I know.” “You can’t— you can’t just go quiet on me every time something gets too real, Damjan.
That’s not gonna work.
Not for 4 days, not for 40 years.” “I’m aware.” “Are you?
‘Cause from where I’m standing, that’s just a habit talking.” “Maybe it is.
I do not know how else to be, Nico.
My whole life I have been taught that control is the only thing keeping me from being—” “From being what?
Your father?” He didn’t answer that one at all, and for once I didn’t push.
His hand came up and covered mine on his chest instead, not pulling it away, just holding it there, like he needed proof I was actually touching him and not about to stop.
“Nobody— nobody ever taught me what to do with wanting something instead of controlling it,” he said.
“Then let me teach you.
Or don’t, and we figure it out together badly.
Same as everyone else does.” “You make that sound simple.” “Never said it was simple.
Said I’m in it with you.” “I don’t— I don’t want a version of this where you’re just going through the motions because Henrik told you to,” I said.
“I want to know you actually want me here like this.
Not performing it for an audience on Saturday, just…
this.
Now.” “I am— I am here.
Whatever else Saturday turns out to be, I am here for this part on purpose.” I let that sit a second, because it was the most certain thing he’d said to me all day.
“What happens if I cry in front of 300 wolves on Saturday?” I said, mostly joking, except not completely.
“Then you cry.
Nobody there will think less of you for it.” A pause, almost a smile, gone before it landed properly.
“I might, if I am— if I am honest.
Cry a little, myself.
I will deny it forever after tonight, but I might.” That admission settled low behind my ribs, warm, nothing to do with the kettle behind him.
“So we’re doing this,” I said.
“Actually doing it.
Saturday.” “We are— we are doing this.” His thumb moved against my hand on his chest, slow.
“Not because Henrik told us to.
Because I am choosing it.
Right now, in this kitchen, with you.” “That’s the first time you’ve said that.” “Said what?” “That you’re choosing it.
Not that you have to.
That you want to.” “I am saying it now.” “Good,” I said.
“Because I’m choosing it too.
Not the bond, or even the heat, none of that gave me a vote.
This part is what I’m choosing.
Just you and also…all of it.
Even the parts of you that go quiet when it gets hard.” “Even those?” “Especially those.
I don’t need you fixed, Damjan.
I just need you in the room with me when it gets hard, instead of shutting down and pretending to be fine.
I had easy with literally everyone before you, and it—” I shook my head, giving up on the word halfway through.
“It bored me senseless.
That’s what I’m trying to say.” “I have— I have wanted you since the day you walked into my training session and couldn’t tell your left foot from your right,” he said, “and I have spent every day since pretending that wasn’t true.
I am done pretending, Nico.
I don’t know how to do this slowly.
I don’t know if I have it in me tonight.” “Good,” I said.
“I wasn’t asking for slow.” “No?” “No.
Not slow.
Especially not tonight.” His mouth found mine before I’d even finished the word, one hand fisting in the back of my shirt like he was scared I’d disappear if he let go, and the kettle behind him started screaming, steam filling the kitchen while neither of us moved to deal with it.