Page 128 of Mending Hearts
“No,” he insists. “You are.”
And the way he says it—not accusing, not wary, just… noticing—makes something warm settle low in my chest.
“You make it sound easy,” he says, his smile gentle.
“It’s not,” I admit. “Last night, when that statement hit? My first thought was a drink.”
His eyes sharpen instantly.
“I didn’t,” I add quickly. “I called Miles instead.”
The tension in his shoulders loosens a fraction.
“I hate that my parents put you in that position,” he says.
“So do I.”
His face shifts at that. Something vulnerable, something younger. We sit in that for a moment.
He reaches up and grips my hand again, like he needs the contact. “I’m not ready for you to carry me,” he says. “Not like before.”
“I’m not offering to carry you,” I answer. “I’m offering to build with you.”
That makes him still.
“There’s a difference,” I add.
He searches my face again.
“You’re retiring,” I say after a moment. “That’s not a small thing. That’s a tectonic shift.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want you doing that for me either.”
“I’m not,” he says immediately. “I was already done. The shoulder. The noise. The constant split life. This just… clarified that I’m absolutely making the right decision.”
I believe him.
“But I don’t want my retirement to be announced and it be tied to our marriage so that people think I’m retiring because I’m ashamed or have done something wrong.”
The words hang there, heavy and sharp.
Fuck.
He’s right.
I hadn’t even let my mind get that far ahead. I’ve been thinking in twelve-hour increments—statements, damage control, containment. I haven’t zoomed out to see the narrative people will try to write for him and for us.
And theywillwrite one.
If those self-righteous assholes thought their carefully worded statement would frame him as deceitful, morally compromised, somehow lesser—if they thought they’d “won” by dragging our marriage into the light without his consent—the idea that it could now taint the end of his career makes something dark and furious coil in my gut.
“No,” I say immediately, sitting up a little. “That doesn’t get to happen.”
Ollie watches me, cautious but steady.
“We control the sequence,” I continue, thinking out loud now. “Your retirement is about your body. Your shoulder. Your legacy. Your choice. It’s not a footnote to your sexuality or our marriage.”
