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"No promises."

He disappears down the hall, and I watch him go with a stupid flutter in my stomach. Now that he’s home, I move back into my study room. I try to refocus…just need one more hour of study before I can take another break.

At exactly ten, I close my laptop and stretch. My shoulders ache, and I’m mentally fried. I walk quietly to the kitchen,pausing when I hear Nate in the living room, flipping channels with the sound low.

He glances over. "Surviving the night shift?"

"Barely. My brain is mush. I’m taking a break for a minute and will continue until 11:00."

"I’ve got water, protein bars, and leftover cookies. Choose your poison."

"I’ll take a cookie. The law can’t scare me after sugar."

I grab one and sit on the arm of the couch, biting into it while he leans back, looking at me like he’s been waiting all evening to talk.

"You okay?"

I nod. "Just tired. Long day. But productive."

He’s quiet for a second, then says, "You ever feel like you’re trying to prove something to people who already made up their minds about you?"

I blink. That’s not what I expected.

"Yeah," I say softly. "All the time."

He exhales and rubs his jaw. "That’s how it felt when I got traded here. Like I wasn’t wanted, just tolerated. Some of the guys were cool, but a few made it obvious I was on trial. I had to prove I wasn’t just a filler until they could find someone better."

I feel a tug in my chest. "That’s awful. I’m sorry."

He shrugs. "Part of the game. You get used to earning every inch. But it wears on you. Especially when you realize you’re not just fighting for ice time. You’re fighting to be seen."

I don’t say anything right away. Just sit beside him as I shove the rest of the cookie in my mouth.

"I see you," I say quietly. "I’ve seen how you’ve made space for me here. How you didn’t ask for anything in return. You don’t talk much about yourself, but when you do, it’s real. That counts."

His eyes lock on mine. There’s something in them I haven’t seen before, something raw and almost vulnerable.

He chuckles, a quiet sound that doesn’t quite match the look in his eyes. "Thanks. That means more than you know."

Then, more softly, he adds, "It was hard at first. Coming to Detroit. Everyone smiles and says the right things, but you can feel when you’re not really wanted. I kept wondering if it was all in my head, or if I actually didn’t belong."

I shift closer, instinctively.

"But I stuck it out," he continues. "Played hard. Shut my mouth. Let my game speak for me. And eventually, the tide turned. The guys respect me now. Coach trusts me. It’s better. But the pressure never leaves. You’re only as good as your last game."

"That sounds exhausting," I say, meaning every word.

He nods. "It is. But I love the game. That part hasn’t changed."

I draw a breath. "Honestly? I get it. Today, Wilkins grilled everyone. I held my own, but walking into that room, I felt like I was back in junior high. Like I had something to prove just to be allowed in the room."

"Did he say anything?"

"Yeah. He said I nailed it. But even then it still felt like I was holding my breath. Being a lawyer is all about proving yourself. Your case. Your worth. Sometimes I wonder if that ever stops."

He meets my gaze again. "Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe we just get better at pretending we’re not scared."

I smile softly. "Or maybe we find people who see us even when we’re not trying to prove anything."