Worth The Wait

37|𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓

𝐋𝐔𝐂IE 𝐁𝐀𝐒I𝐋𝐋E

I know the second he walks in, something's wrong.

River doesn't slam the door, but he doesn't close it gently either. His movements are tight, clipped. The calm he's been learning to carry around me is gone. He tosses his gym bag into the corner of bleachers like it offended him.

I straighten from where I'm stretching on the floor, my stomach already tightening.

"What happened?" I ask, careful.

He doesn't answer right away. Just runs a hand through his hair and mutters, "Nothing."

That word. A red flag waving in my face.

"Don't do that," I say quietly. "Don't shut me out."

He exhales sharply. "Lucie, not tonight."

"Why not tonight?"

"Because I'm trying to keep it together," he snaps, finally looking at me. His eyes are darker than usual, and not in the way that makes me ache—in the way that makes me brace for impact.

"You want to talk about pressure? I've got scouts in the stands questioning whether I'll ever skate again, I've got calls from my agent asking if I'm dropping figure skating before I've even finished a goddamn program, and I've got coaches looking at me like I'm the fucking weak link."

My pulse spikes. "And you think I don't feel that too?"

River laughs bitterly. "You? You were born to win. People still believe in you. Me? I'm a hockey player pretending to belong in your world."

I stand, crossing my arms. "You don't get to use that as a weapon just because you're scared."

He takes a step forward. "I'm not scared."

"Then what is this?" I throw my hands up. "Because I've been here, showing up, trusting you, skating my heart out beside you. But the second it stops being easy, you pull away."

He goes quiet for a beat. Then: "Maybe I never should've said yes to this in the first place."

I go still. "What?"

River's jaw tightens, and something flickers in his eyes—regret, maybe, or just exhaustion. "This was your world, Lucie. You dragged me into it."

My heart cracks, sharp and clean. "You think I dragged you?"

He hesitates.

"That night at the rink," I whisper. "When you kissed me and told me we could carry this together—was that just another thing you said to keep me from walking away?"

River steps back like I struck him. "Don't do that."

"I'm doing exactly what you're doing," I say, voice rising. "You're scared, so you hurt me first. Classic Prescott move."

"That's not fair—"

"No. What's not fair is me starting to give everything to this partnership, to us, and being the only one willing to fight when it gets hard."

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

That silence? It tells me everything.

I swallow, my voice breaking now. "If you're going to leave, River, just go."

He doesn't move. Not right away.

So I say it again—this time more forcefully. "Leave."

His throat works around something, but he doesn't argue. Doesn't try to fix it.