Bailey stared at the article glowing on her phone, the photo of her and Man outside the dorm—his jacket on her shoulders, her eyes half-hidden behind rain.  

The caption read, *“Intimate late-night visit sparks speculation.”*

She turned the screen off. The silence after felt deafening.

“Don’t read the comments,” Kaiylin said from the couch.  

“Too late,” Bailey replied flatly.

“What did we learn?”

“That the internet thinks I’m sleeping with my sponsor.”

Kaiylin grimaced. “Technically accurate?”

“Technically none of their business.”

“Still—he *did* show up at midnight with flowers.”

“They were from a gas station.”

“Doesn’t make it less romantic.”

Bailey groaned, pressing her palms to her eyes. “This is bad.”

“Could be worse,” Kaiylin said. “At least they used a flattering photo.”

“Fantastic. I’ll print it on my tombstone.”

Man called twenty minutes later. She almost didn’t answer.

“Hey,” he said carefully. “You saw it.”

“Obviously.”

“Before you panic—”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You sound like you’re panicking.”

“I’m *angry*.”

“That’s new. Usually I’m the one in trouble.”

“Congratulations, now it’s both of us.”

He exhaled. “I’ll handle it.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Don’t. You’ll make it worse.”

“How?”

“By existing! You’re a headline magnet.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Then go do your occupation somewhere else.”

There was a pause. Then, softer: “Bailey—”

“Don’t. Just… don’t call for a while.”

The line clicked dead.

By evening, the story had spread.  

Her coach called, her federation called, even her mother texted a curt *“Stay focused.”*  

Each message felt like another crack in her chest.

At 9 p.m., someone knocked again.

She opened the door, ready to bite.  

Then saw him—hair still damp, eyes tired, holding nothing this time.

“I told you not to come,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “I ignored it.”

“Of course you did.”

He stepped inside anyway. “They’re not going to stop unless we give them something else to talk about.”

“I’m not playing that game.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Then what is it, Man?” Her voice rose, sharp. “Because it feels like everything around me keeps breaking the second you show up!”

He flinched. Just a little.

She hated herself for seeing it.

He spoke quietly. “I didn’t mean for this to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said, voice brittle. “But it does.”

“I’ll fix it.”

“You can’t fix me.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But that’s what you do, isn’t it?” she said. “You walk into people’s lives, rearrange everything until it looks like you saved them—and then you wonder why they can’t breathe.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

“No, it’s your fear talking.”

“My fear keeps me standing.”

“And it keeps you alone.”

She froze.

He stepped closer. “You push everyone away the second they see too much.”

“Because ‘too much’ always costs something.”

“And what about me?”

“You’ll realize it was a mistake.”

“Then let me make it,” he said. “Let me *choose* you.”

She laughed—a small, broken sound. “You don’t even know what that means.”

“I’m learning.”

“Then learn somewhere safe.”

He looked at her for a long moment, rain still dripping from his sleeve.  

Finally, he said, “There’s no safe without you.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He left quietly.  

When the door closed, the silence was unbearable.

Bailey sat on the floor, back against the door, trying not to shake.  

Every headline, every look, every sound blurred into one truth she didn’t want to face:

He made her feel seen.  

And that scared her more than the silence ever did.

The next morning, a message blinked on her phone.

**M: “I’ll stop showing up if that’s what you need.”**  

**M: “But I won’t stop caring.”**

She stared at it for a long time, fingers hovering, not replying.

Her reflection in the dark screen looked like someone halfway between running and staying.  

And for once, she didn’t know which hurt more.