Chapter 160 No More Hedging

Chapter 160 No More Hedging
Levi's POV

Sloane's revelation about her father turned out to be smaller than the dread her text promised, a business filing she'd found buried in his study, tying an old shell account to Ridgemont Holdings, proof he'd unknowingly signed off on Ashcroft's cover consulting contract years ago without ever meeting the man behind it.

Damning for her father's judgment, maybe. Not evidence he knew what Ashcroft would become. Marcus is already running it down with the detective assigned to the case, and for the first time in weeks, that particular thread feels like it's moving toward an actual answer instead of another dead end. It's not resolution, not yet, but it's the first piece of good news either of us has gotten in longer than I can remember.

Which leaves me here, three days later, sitting across from Anya at the small table in the guesthouse kitchen, feeling something entirely unrelated to danger settle heavy and certain in my chest.

"You're staring again," she says, not looking up from the book she's pretending to read.

"I'm allowed."

"That's becoming your whole personality."

"Could be worse personalities to have." I reach across the table, closing the distance between our hands, and something in her expression shifts when she finally looks up and catches whatever's showing on my face. "Can I tell you something? And I need you to actually let me finish it this time, without deflecting into a joke halfway through."

She sets the book down slowly. "Okay."

I've rehearsed versions of this conversation for weeks, polished, careful sentences designed to sound impressive, designed to prove something instead of just say it. Standing here now, watching her wait patiently for me to find my footing, I don't want polished. I want true.

"I used to be terrified of saying exactly what I felt," I start. "Not because I didn't feel it. Because saying it out loud made it real, made it something that could be taken away, and I grew up watching my father lose things the second he admitted how much they mattered to him. So I learned to hedge. Soften everything. Leave myself an exit in case it all fell apart." I tighten my grip on her hand. "I'm done doing that with you."

"Levi"

"Let me finish." My voice is steadier than I expect. "I love you. Not carefully, not with an exit planned in case it gets complicated, not in the coded, hedged way I say things when I'm scared.

I love the way you refused to disappear when the whole internet tried to make you small. I love that you moved into a guesthouse you hated the idea of and made it feel like home within a week. I love that you've spent two months being genuinely terrified and still get up every single day and choose to keep living out loud instead of hiding.

I'm not scared to say any of that anymore. I'm not scared of what it costs me if it changes something between us. I just needed you to hear it without hedging, for once."

Her eyes are bright, glassy, but she's smiling in a way that reaches all the way up into them. "You've told me you loved me before."

"I told you at the rail after the championship game, in front of four thousand people and a scoreboard, with adrenaline still running through both of us." I shake my head slightly. "This is different. This is quiet. This is just us, no crowd, no crisis pushing the words out of me. I wanted you to have this version too, the one where I'm choosing to say it, not the one where the moment demands it."

"I love you," she says back, simply, without hesitation, the words landing steady between us instead of rushed or scared. "Quietly. Loudly. However you need to hear it. I think I needed to hear you say it this way too, not because the other times didn't count, but because this version doesn't have an audience to perform for. It's just true because you decided it was."

I lean across the small table and kiss her, slow and unhurried, nothing chasing us for once, nothing timed to fear or adrenaline or crisis. Just this. Just us, finally learning what it feels like to trust each other in the ordinary, undramatic moments instead of only the terrifying ones.

"I think that's the first time either of us has said it without something bad happening five minutes later," she says when we break apart, laughing softly.

"Don't jinx it."

"Too late, probably." She squeezes my hand. "But I'll take it. However long it lasts."

We sit there a while longer, the kitchen quiet and warm around us, and for the first time in months I let myself imagine an actual future instead of just surviving the immediate danger in front of us, college, adulthood, some version of us that exists past graduation and past whatever's still lurking behind Ashcroft's stolen identity. I picture ordinary things, embarrassingly ordinary: apartments, road trips, mornings that don't start with checking my phone for threats. It feels almost indulgent to want something that small and that whole at the same time.

That thought is still settling warm in my chest when my phone buzzes on the counter. I almost let it go to voicemail, not wanting to break whatever this moment is, but the area code catches my eye before I can stop myself from answering.

"Levi Thorne?" The voice on the other end is crisp, professional, unmistakably excited in a practiced sort of way. "This is Coach Danvers, head recruiter for the national development program. We've had our eye on your season, especially that championship performance. We'd like to fly you out next week to talk seriously about a full scholarship offer, top-tier program, real shot at the next level. This kind of opportunity doesn't come around twice."

I glance up at Anya, who's watching my face shift from soft and open to something tighter, more complicated, and I feel the warmth of the last twenty minutes collide head-on with a future I hadn't let myself consider yet, one that might not include her in it at all.

"That's incredible," I manage. "Can I call you back? I need to talk to someone first."

Anya's smile has already started to falter, like she can read the shape of the conversation even without hearing the other end of it.

"Levi," she says slowly. "What was that call?"