“Organization is important.”
“So is blinking.”
“I blink.”
“Not for the last thirty seconds.”
He smiles, but his eyes are studying me. Jamie notices changes in people before they are ready to admit them. I should know better than to think I can hide one from him.
I pick up his chart. “Let’s begin with shoulder stability.”
“Good morning to you too.”
The words are light, but I hear the question underneath them.
Normally, I would laugh and ask about his drive from Briar Cove. I might tease him about arriving early or ask whether Coach allowed him to keep the headset after practice.
Today, I simply say, “Good morning.”
His smile fades by a fraction. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
I do.
The first exercise goes well. So does the second. Jamie follows every instruction without arguing for extra repetitions, which would normally earn him at least one comment about personal growth.
I say nothing.
He notices that too.
“Did I do something wrong?”
The question catches me off guard. “No.”
“You’re sure?” “Of course.”
He studies my face, and I recognize the irony immediately. These are the same questions I once asked him when he arrived too quiet and tried to pretend nothing was wrong.
His expression softens. “Long day?”
“Yes.”
It is not entirely a lie, just not the truth he is asking for.
And the longer the truth settles in my heart, the less prepared I am to tell him what I've finally admitted to myself. I love him. Which means I have to make leaving as clean as possible.
He nods and returns to the exercise without pressing.
The grace of it nearly undoes me. I focus on his form. His shoulder remains stable through the movement, and the careful control that once demanded his full concentration now looks almost natural.
“Good,” I say. “One more.”
He completes the repetition and lowers the cable.
“Coffee after?”
The question is casual because coffee has not required an invitation in weeks.
I look toward the clock. There is enough time. I know there is.