Checking It Twice

Chapter Ten - Rowan

The thing about restraint is that it teaches you exactly where you’re weakest.

Mine is Hollis Reed at night, when the arena empties and the noise dies down and there’s nothing left to hide behind but fluorescent lights and unfinished conversations.

It’s late—later than either of us planned. Most of the staff is gone, and the rink hums softly with the low mechanical sounds of maintenance. I’m heading toward the exit when I see the light on in Conference Room B.

Hollis.

She’s seated at the table, jacket draped over the chair beside her, hair loose around her shoulders, laptop open and surrounded by paperwork. She looks tired. Focused. Familiar in a way that settles too deep in my chest.

I should keep walking.

Friends don’t linger.

I knock lightly anyway.

She looks up, surprise flickering across her face before smoothing out. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I say. “You’re still here.”

“Trying to wrap this up,” she replies. “If I leave it unfinished, I’ll think about it all night.”

I step inside, staying deliberately on the opposite side of the table. “Want help?”

She hesitates—just a second—then nods. “Actually… yeah. That’d be great.”

That word—great—does something quiet and dangerous to me.

I pull a chair back and sit, scanning the documents. It’s logistics. Budget approvals. Vendor timelines. Mundane stuff.

We work easily, passing papers back and forth, pointing things out, filling the silence with quiet efficiency. It feels… domestic.

That thought lands wrong.

“You’ve been different lately,” she says suddenly.

I glance up. “Different how?”

She shrugs, eyes still on her screen. “More careful.”

I let out a short breath. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” she says. Then, softer: “Just noticeable.”

The silence stretches—not awkward, but weighted.

“I’m trying to do this right,” I admit.

She looks at me then, really looks at me. “And what does ‘right’ look like to you?”

I don’t answer fast enough.

Her mouth tightens—not in anger, but in understanding. And that somehow hurts more.

“Friends,” she says quietly, like she’s reminding both of us.

“Friends,” I echo.

She nods, then stands, gathering her things. “I should go. Early morning.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

We walk toward the door together, shoulders almost brushing. The hallway beyond is dim, the exit sign glowing red at the far end like a warning.

She pauses with her hand on the doorknob.

“This is working,” she says, like she needs to hear it out loud.

I nod. “It is.”

She turns toward me, close enough now that I can see the faint crease between her brows. “Right?”

The question is quiet.

Honest.

And I realize—too late—that answering it truthfully would change everything.

“Yes,” I say.

It’s the wrong answer.

Her shoulders relax slightly, and she opens the door. Cold air rushes in, snapping the moment apart.

“Night, Rowan,” she says.

“Night, Hollis.”

She leaves without looking back.

I stand there longer than necessary, staring at the closed door, heart thudding against my ribs.

This is working.

That’s the problem.

Because the longer we pretend this is just friendship, the more I understand the truth I’ve been avoiding:

I don’t want to stop wanting her.

I just want to stop being afraid of what it costs.

And that fear is starting to show—in the pauses, in the half-answers, in the moments I let pass when I shouldn’t.

Some mistakes don’t come from acting too soon.

They come from waiting too long.