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ELLIOT

S ix weeks into my new life, and I still haven’t adjusted to the near-daily precipitation. Or to the passive-aggressive politeness that passes for local culture. Or to the corporate apartment with its gleaming chrome fixtures and generic artwork that feels less like home with each passing day.

I haven’t adjusted to the emptiness, either.

“You need to get out more,” Catherine says over lunch in Nexium’s sleek cafeteria. “Seattle has an incredible arts scene, fantastic restaurants, hiking trails twenty minutes from downtown. You’re missing the best parts of the city.”

“I’ve been meaning to explore. Just been focused on the documentation overhaul.”

“Which you’re handling brilliantly,” she says, her smile professional but warm. “The dev team actually praised the new format yesterday. That’s practically unheard of.”

“Thanks,” I say, summoning a smile that feels mechanical. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

“We appreciate your talent.” Catherine checks her watch. “I should get back—board meeting at two. But Elliot? Consider this friendly advice from someone who relocated here five years ago: Seattle only becomes home when you let it. When you stop comparing it to what you left behind.”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I didn’t leave Phoenix behind. Not really. I brought it with me—in memories, in regrets, in the phantom sensation of Brody’s fingers laced through mine. In the echo of his voice saying “I love you” when I wake gasping from dreams where I made a different choice.

Back in my office, I throw myself into work—the one area of my life that still makes sense. Words follow rules. Syntax creates order. Documentation problems have solutions, clear and unambiguous.

Unlike the mess I’ve made of my personal life.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sarah, who’s been checking in daily since the infamous fight between Brody and Jason. Her attempts at casual conversation thinly disguising what I suspect is a reconnaissance mission on Brody’s behalf.

Phoenix lost Game 6. Playoffs over for them. Miami advancing to conference finals. Thought you’d want to know.

I stare at the message, uncertain how to respond. Should I express sympathy for the team’s elimination? Ask about Brody specifically? Pretend I haven’t been following every game via the ESPN app I downloaded specifically for this purpose?

Thanks for the update.

Non-committal. Safe. Revealing nothing of the conflicted emotions churning beneath the surface.

Tommy says the guys are taking it pretty hard. End-of-season meetings scheduled for tomorrow. Then everyone scatters for the summer.

There’s subtext here that I’m missing, some significance to the timeline she’s outlining. But before I can decipher it, another text arrives.

You still haven’t admitted you made a mistake, have you?

Direct as always. No hedging, no gentle leading questions. Pure Sarah.

I’m trying to make the best of my decision.

That’s not the same thing as believing it was the right one.

I set the phone down without responding, turning back to my computer where simple problems with clear solutions await. Unlike the tangled mess of emotions Sarah’s trying to excavate—regret, longing, the persistent sense that I’ve made a terrible mistake that grows more irreversible with each passing day.

By evening, rain has intensified from gentle mist to proper downpour, drumming against my apartment windows with increased urgency. I stand watching droplets trace patterns down the glass, Seattle’s skyline a blur of refracted light through the watery veil.

Beautiful, in its way. But foreign. Unwelcoming. Empty.

My phone buzzes with another text and my heart leaps into my throat, pulse accelerating as I see the preview on the screen before opening it.

Elliot, there are things that need to be said that can’t be texted properly. So I’ll keep this brief. I’m in Seattle. Just landed. Flight delayed due to weather (does it always rain here?). Would like to see you. Talk in person. I’ll be at Pike Place Market tomorrow at noon, by the brass pig. If you come, I promise to respect whatever boundaries you set. If you don’t, I’ll understand, and I’ll never bother you again. The choice is yours. Always has been.

I read the message three times, emotions cycling rapidly through shock, hope, fear, anger, longing—settling finally on a kind of paralyzed indecision that has me sinking onto my couch, phone clutched in suddenly clammy hands.

Brody is here. In Seattle. Wants to see me.

Why now? Why in person? What could he possibly say that would change anything about our situation?

And yet, my mind immediately begins constructing scenarios, imagining the encounter. What will I wear? What will I say? Will I maintain composure or dissolve into the emotional mess I’ve been carefully suppressing for six weeks?

I reread his message, analyzing each word. The choice is yours. Always has been. There’s an accusation embedded there, subtle but unmistakable. A challenge, perhaps. Or a reminder that I was the one who walked away, who chose Seattle over the possibility of us.

My finger hovers over the screen, hesitating to respond. Yes, I’ll be there? No, this is a terrible idea? Please come to my apartment instead so we can have this conversation in private rather than surrounded by tourists and fish-throwers?

In the end, I set the phone down without responding, too overwhelmed by conflicting impulses to formulate a coherent reply. There will be no sleep for me tonight, my mind racing with questions and rehearsed conversations that branch into countless variations depending on what he might say, what I might answer, how either of us might react to the other’s presence after six weeks of silence.

* * *

Morning arrives with clearing skies—an unusual respite from Seattle’s perpetual dampness. Perhaps a sign, if I believed in such things. Which I don’t. Because signs and fate and cosmic intervention are the realm of romantic irrationality, not pragmatic technical editors who make decisions based on logic and risk assessment.

And yet...

By ten o’clock, I’ve changed clothes three times, fussed with my hair endlessly, and drafted seven different text responses to Brody’s—none of which I’ve sent. By eleven, I’m pacing my apartment, alternating between nervous anticipation and firm resolution to ignore the invitation entirely.

By eleven-thirty, I’m in an Uber headed downtown, heart hammering against my ribs, palms damp with anxiety, a voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Sarah’s whispering: About damn time you did something brave.

Pike Place is crowded with the usual mix of tourists and locals, the famous market bustling with activity under unexpectedly blue skies. I navigate through the crowd, overwhelmed by the kaleidoscope of colors from flower stalls, the briny scent of fresh seafood, the cacophony of vendors hawking their wares.

The brass pig—Rachel, according to the plaque on her side—serves as a meeting point and unofficial mascot. I spot it from twenty yards away, gleaming in a rare patch of sunlight.

And there, leaning casually against the railing beside it, is Brody.

He’s wearing jeans and a simple blue button-down that matches his eyes, rolled at the sleeves to accommodate a cast on his right hand—evidence of the fight that still makes my stomach clench when I remember it. His hair is slightly longer than when I left, curling at the edges in a way that makes my fingers itch to brush it back. He hasn’t noticed me yet, attention focused on the market activity before him, expression thoughtful but relaxed.

He looks good. Solid. Real in a way that makes my chest ache with the realization of how much I’ve missed his physical presence.

For a moment, I consider turning around, disappearing into the crowd before he spots me. What can possibly come from this meeting except more pain, more confusion, more impossible choices?

But then he glances up, gaze sweeping the crowd before settling on me with such immediate recognition, such unguarded joy, that my feet carry me forward of their own volition.

“You came,” he says when I reach him, voice warm with something that might be relief. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Neither was I,” I admit, fighting the urge to brush my fingers over the wrinkles in his collar, to touch his face, to verify through physical contact that he’s really here. “Why are you in Seattle, Brody?”

“Hockey business,” he says with surprising casualness. “Discussing contract options with the Seattle team.”

This catches me off guard—practical hockey concerns were the last thing I expected. “You’re... thinking of playing for Seattle?”

“Not thinking. Decided.” He shifts slightly, wincing as his cast catches against the railing. “My agent’s finalizing details with management today. Two-year contract, starting next season.”

I blink, certain I’ve misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m moving to Seattle,” he says, as casually as someone might announce they’ve switched coffee brands. “Playing for the local team next season. Contract’s basically done.”

My brain short-circuits, unable to process the magnitude of what he’s saying. “You’re—you requested a trade? To Seattle? Because of?—”

“Because of you?” He finishes my unspoken question with a small smile. “Yes and no. Yes, you’re the reason I wanted Seattle specifically. No, it’s not some grand manipulative gesture to force you back into my life.”

“But your career, your team in Phoenix—” I sputter, struggling to comprehend. “You can’t just—that’s—hockey players don’t just?—”

“Actually, we do,” he interrupts gently. “Players request geographical considerations all the time. Teams understand that performance is tied to off-ice happiness.”

“But this is?—”

“A big deal? Yes.” His eyes never leave my face, gauging my reaction. “Life-altering? Absolutely. Worth it? Completely.”

“You barely know me,” I protest, mind still reeling. “We dated for what, a month? And you’re uprooting your entire career, moving to another state?”

“I know enough,” he says with that infuriating Carter certainty. “I know you’re brilliant and kind and funny in that dry way that makes me laugh days later when I finally get the joke. I know you curl your toes when you’re nervous and twist your hair when you’re thinking and get this tiny crease between your eyebrows when something doesn’t make logical sense.”

He steps closer, voice dropping. “And I know I’ve been in love with you since that Christmas party three years ago, Elliot. That’s not going to change whether I’m playing in Phoenix or Seattle or Timbuktu. So yes, I requested a trade. Yes, I’m moving here. Not because I expect it to change your mind about us, but because I’d rather be near you, even if ‘near’ just means the same city, than across the country wondering what might have been.”

I stare at him, speechless, the magnitude of what he’s saying—what he’s done—hitting me like a physical force. No one has ever rearranged their life for me. Not family, not friends, certainly not Jason. No one has ever looked at the equation of their existence and decided I was the variable worth changing everything else to accommodate.

A couple bumps past us, breaking the moment, reminding me we’re having this conversation in one of Seattle’s most crowded tourist attractions.

“Is there somewhere less public we could talk?” I ask, suddenly aware of the curious glances from passersby. Even outside Phoenix, a six-foot-three athlete with movie-star good looks attracts attention.

“Lead the way.” He gestures with his uninjured hand. “It’s your city now.”

My city . The phrase strikes a discordant note. In six weeks, I haven’t claimed any part of Seattle as mine—not a favorite café, not a regular walking route, not even a preferred grocery store. I’ve existed rather than lived here in Seattle, going through motions without emotional investment.

I lead him to a nearby coffee shop, less crowded than the market but still public enough to discourage a complete emotional breakdown. We settle at a corner table, steaming mugs between us, the awkwardness of our situation finally catching up with the initial shock of reunion.

“Your hand,” I say, nodding at the cast. “Is it broken?”

“Small fracture. Fourth metacarpal. Classic ‘boxer’s break’ according to the doctor.” He flexes his fingers where they emerge from the plaster. “Worth it, though.”

“For hitting Jason? How can that possibly be worth it?”

His expression darkens slightly, jaw tightening. “For defending your honor. For shutting him up when he crossed a line that should never be crossed.”

“What exactly did he say?” I’ve wondered for weeks. Sarah refused to repeat it verbatim, claiming it was too vile. “On the ice, I mean. What could possibly be worth sacrificing your playoff run, risking your career?”

Brody hesitates, studying me carefully. “You sure you want to know? It was... graphic. Vulgar. Deliberately calculated to provoke exactly the reaction it got.”

“I survived being married to Jason for four years. I’m familiar with his particular brand of cruelty.” I meet his gaze steadily. “I’d rather know than imagine.”

He sighs, leaning closer to keep his voice low. “He implied that you two had been... intimate in Seattle during your conference. That when I... when we...” He shakes his head, visibly uncomfortable. “He said something about how every time I kissed you, I was tasting where he’d finished.”

Heat floods my face—not just embarrassment, but a visceral rage at the crudeness, the violation of something that should have been private and meaningful between Brody and me. “That’s disgusting. And completely untrue. I barely spoke to Jason in Seattle, and certainly never?—”

“I know.” He cuts me off gently. “I never believed it for a second. That’s not why I hit him.”

“Then why?”

“Because he was using our relationship—something real and meaningful—as a weapon. Because he knew exactly how to destroy any chance of me maintaining composure.” His uninjured hand clenches around his coffee mug. “Because no one gets to talk about you that way. Not ever. Not even if it costs me everything.”

The raw emotion in his voice—protective, possessive, but without Jason’s toxic controlling edge—creates a warmth in my chest that spreads outward, melting something I hadn’t realized was frozen.

“You broke your hand defending my honor,” I say softly. “That’s simultaneously ridiculous and... touching.”

A small smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “My specialty—the intersection of ridiculous and touching. It’s where I live.”

I take a sip of coffee, trying to gather my thoughts, to process everything he’s told me—about the fight, about moving to Seattle, about love that spans three years and two states.

“Let me get this straight,” I say finally. “You requested a trade to Seattle. You’re moving here permanently. You’ve completely restructured your professional life. Because of me.”

“Yes.” No hesitation, no equivocation.

“And you’re doing this with no expectation that I’ll change my mind about us? No pressure for me to reciprocate or restart our relationship?”

“Correct.” He holds my gaze steadily. “I’d like another chance with you, obviously. But that’s your decision to make, not mine to pressure you into.”

“That’s...” Words fail me, which is ironic for someone who edits them professionally. “Brody, that’s insane. You can’t just uproot your entire life on the off-chance I might change my mind about us.”

“Already did.” He shrugs, the casual gesture belying the enormity of what he’s done. “Seattle’s press release goes out Monday.”

“But what if—” I struggle to articulate the swirling thoughts. “What if this doesn’t work? What if I don’t change my mind? You’ll be stuck in Seattle, a reminder of what didn’t happen?—”

“I’ll still be playing hockey in a beautiful city for a good team that wants me.” He says this simply, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And maybe, someday, we can be friends. Either way, I’ll be okay, Elliot. I’m not doing this as some elaborate manipulation. I’m doing it because I want to be where you are, in whatever capacity you’ll allow.”

I stare at him, this man who has crossed state lines, restructured his career, broken his hand—all without any guarantee of reciprocation. Who talks about love with the easy certainty of someone stating a simple fact rather than a complex emotional vulnerability.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, I start to laugh.

It bubbles up from somewhere deep, uncontrollable and slightly hysterical. Brody’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but there’s a hint of amusement in his expression too.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“You,” I manage between bursts of laughter that feel dangerously close to sobs. “This. Everything. It’s absurd. I move to Seattle to escape hockey drama, to protect your career from Jason, to avoid complications. And what happens? You follow me here, sign with the local team, essentially bringing all of it right back to my doorstep.”

His smile widens. “When you put it that way, it does sound a bit stalkerish.”

“A bit?” I wipe tears of laughter from my eyes. “Brody, this is beyond stalking. This is... I don’t even know what this is.”

“Love, I think,” he says softly. “Messy, inconvenient, completely irrational love.”

And just like that, the laughter dies in my throat, replaced by something warm and overwhelming that rises up, crashing through every carefully constructed defense.

“You really love me.” It’s not a question but a revelation, as though I’m finally grasping the magnitude of what he’s been telling me all along. “Not just saying it. Not manipulating. You actually, genuinely love me.”

“Yes.” So simple, so certain. “I do.”

“Even after I walked away? Even knowing all my issues, my fears, my inability to trust my own judgment after Jason?”

“Especially because of those things,” he says, reaching across the table to take my hand.

The dam breaks then, tears spilling over, not the controlled weeping of someone maintaining dignity but the messy, overwhelming sobs of release—of six weeks of loneliness, of years of careful self-protection, of a lifetime of believing love was conditional upon perfect performance.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, mortified at falling apart in a public coffee shop. “I don’t know why I’m?—”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, moving around the table to sit beside me, arm coming around my shoulders in that protective gesture I’ve missed so desperately. “Let it out. I’ve got you.”

And he does. He holds me while I cry, unconcerned with curious onlookers, focused entirely on providing comfort while I process emotions too complex to name.

When the storm finally passes, when embarrassment begins to creep in at my public display, I pull back slightly to look at him.

“I can’t believe you moved to Seattle for me,” I whisper, still processing the enormity of it.

“Technically, I haven’t moved yet,” he points out with a hint of his characteristic humor. “Just signed the contract. Still need to find an apartment, pack my stuff, learn to carry an umbrella everywhere...”

I laugh weakly, the sound watery but genuine. “You hate rain.”

“I’ll adjust.” His eyes never leave mine, searching for something. “The question is, can you adjust to having me here? In your city? In your life? Even just as a friend, if that’s all you’re comfortable with?”

And suddenly I know exactly what I want. What I’ve wanted all along but been too afraid to admit.

“I don’t want to be friends,” I say firmly.

His face falls, a flash of genuine pain crossing his features before he controls it. “I understand. I’ll respect that boundary?—”

“No,” I interrupt, placing my hand on his chest to stop his retreat. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want to be just friends. I want... everything. What we started in Phoenix. What I ran away from because I was too afraid to believe it could be real.”

“Elliot, don’t say that unless you mean it. I can handle just about anything except getting my hopes up only to?—”

I silence him the only way that makes sense in this moment—by leaning forward and pressing my lips to his.

The kiss is gentle, tentative, a question rather than a demand. His uninjured hand comes up to cradle my face with a tenderness that makes my heart ache, responding to the kiss without deepening it, letting me set the pace.

When we break apart, his eyes are wide with wonder and cautious hope. “Does this mean?—”

“It means I’m done running,” I say, the words coming easily now that I’ve stopped fighting them. “Done overthinking. Done letting fear make my decisions for me.”

“And us?” he asks, still careful, still giving me space to retreat if needed.

“Us is... something I want to explore,” I say honestly. “Day by day. No pressure, no expectations. Just... possibility.” I take a deep breath, forcing myself to complete the admission. “Because I love you too, Brody. Have for longer than I was brave enough to admit. Even to myself.”

The smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise after endless night—brilliant, warming, illuminating everything it touches. “Well, that’s convenient,” he says, voice slightly hoarse with emotion, “since I’ve already gone to the trouble of moving to your city and all.”

I laugh, the sound freer than anything I’ve managed since arriving in Seattle. “Very considerate of you. Saves me the hassle of moving back to Phoenix.”

“Always thinking of your convenience,” he agrees, pulling me closer. “It’s part of my charm.”

“Your charm is dangerous,” I murmur against his lips. “Made me laugh in the middle of trying to be serious.”

“Made you fall in love with me too,” he points out, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “So I’d say it’s working pretty well.”

For the first time since arriving in this rain-soaked city, I feel like I’m home.