Page 69 of About to Fall

I gave him five. Sat there while his breathing slowed, while the colour crept back, while his hands stopped shaking enough to unclench from his joggers.

When he finally looked at me, his eyes were red rimmed but dry.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Don’t apologize for being human.”

We sat in silence. I kept thinking about every time I'd treated his composure like a game. A locked door to pick for my own entertainment. I hadn't considered that the armour was the only thing holding him together.

“Thank you for trusting me,” I said finally. Insufficient but true.

He looked at me without the mask. Just Nicky. Tired and scared but also relieved.

“You're the first person I've told since I left treatment. I think part of me just wanted to brush it under the rug and go back to my season like it never happened.”

“Why tell me then?”

The second it was out of my mouth, I hated myself a little.

Not because I didn’t want to know. I did. I wanted to understand everything about him, which was turning into its own separate problem. But he’d just handed me something fragile and bleeding and apparently my first instinct was to poke at it.

He was quiet for a long time.

“Because you're the only person who doesn't handle me,” he said. “Everyone else—my uncle, my parents, Kat—they treat me like something that might break. You just treat me like a person. An insufferable person, but a person nonetheless.”

“You are pretty insufferable.”

The ghost of a smile. “Thank you.”

“Your Americano order is offensive. Your training gear is boring. Your posture is beyond uptight.”

The smile became real. Small, watery, but real.

“But you're also—” I stopped. Chose my words with more care than I usually bothered with. “You're kind. Genuinely kind, not the bullshit people do for cameras. You're determined in a way that's a little scary. And you're a generational talent who doesn't seem to realize it.” I took a breath. “You're also more than skating. We both are. And whatever your uncle or anyone else has told you about what happened—you survived something. You're still here. Still showing up. That's pretty badass, Nicky.”

He looked away. Jaw working. Fighting the instinct to contain, to control, to fold whatever he was feeling into something small enough to swallow.

Then his shoulders dropped. Just slightly. And he leaned into me—not a collapse, just a quiet shift of weight that said I'm tired of holding this alone.

32. Adrian

I sucked on my vape as I nursed my rapidly cooling mug of coffee. It was freezing on the terrace but I didn't want Cam to lose his security deposit over smoke damage. The city was just starting to lighten at the edges, pale yellow bleeding into indigo that made everything feel brand new.

The terrace door slid open behind me. Cam shuffled out in sweats and a hoodie, hair a disaster, dark circles under his eyes.

“You're up early.”

“I'm just getting in.” He dropped into the chair beside me and stole my coffee, grimacing at the temperature but drinking it anyway.

“Damn. I feel lame. I’m about to shower and then head to training.””

“I don't envy you.”

“Good night?”

“Writing session. Dev had a breakthrough around 2 a.m. and we rode it until the sun came up.” He yawned, scrolling through his phone. “Three new tracks. Rough but the bones are there.”

“Ahh, that’s awesome man. Can’t wait to hear the demo.”