I don’t see George the rest of the day.

And I try not to care. Really, I do. But my thoughts keep circling back to the look on his face when my mom shut him down in the hallway. Like something inside him had been slapped quiet.

My mom’s words echo louder every time I replay them. George Hale was the last person who saw your brother alive.

It didn’t sound like a fact. It sounded like an accusation. A warning.

By morning, I’m more tired than rested, and my hip is stiff again, probably from tension more than swelling. Still, I drag myself into the rink just after sunrise. My limbs ache. My mood’s worse. But I show up. Because showing up is what Connor always did, and even if I can’t be him, I can at least try to act like I belong here.

Jessie is already waiting inside the trainer’s room. She doesn’t look surprised when I walk in.

“You’re early,” she says, handing me a towel and motioning toward the mat.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

She hums but doesn’t ask questions. “Mobility first. Then balance. Maybe stick work later this week, but only if today goes well.”

I start stretching, biting back a grimace when my hip flares. Jessie watches, scribbling notes on a clipboard.

Five minutes in, the door opens behind me.

I don’t even have to look. I know it’s him.

George walks in like this is his second home. Towel over his shoulder. Water bottle in hand. Hair still damp from a shower. He spots me and gives a small nod. I return it without thinking, and suddenly we’re back in yesterday’s rhythm like no time passed.

Jessie raises one eyebrow. “No glaring. Huh. That’s new.”

I shrug and keep stretching. He kneels across from me, quiet, focused. No smirk. No tension. Just steady hands and calm eyes like he’s decided not to poke the bear today.

We work in silence at first. He holds the band steady while I do lateral raises, his fingers grazing just above my ankle. I try not to react, but I feel it. Every brush. Every pause. Every second his touch lingers a fraction longer than it needs to.

“You’re improving,” he says after a while.

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not. You’re stubborn. It’s your best and worst quality.”

I glance up. “You think you know my best qualities?”

He meets my eyes, calm but unreadable. “I’m getting there.”

I don’t reply. But the heat crawls up my neck anyway, and I have to look away.

Jessie moves us to the balance board next. George stands close while I wobble my way through the first set. I manage okay, until my left foot slips and the board tips hard.

His hands catch me fast, fingers tight around my waist.

We freeze.

I can feel the press of his palms. The heat of his skin through my hoodie. His breath is just a whisper from my cheek.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“I’m fine.”

But my voice cracks a little, and I hate that it does. Hate that my body reacts to him like it’s trying to tell me something I’m not ready to hear.

He lets go slowly, hands lingering like he doesn’t want to lose the contact too soon.

Jessie watches us over her clipboard but doesn’t say anything. Just writes something down like this is all part of the plan.

We finish the rest of rehab without saying much, but the silence between us has changed. It’s not sharp or awkward anymore. It’s warm. Heavy. Like something thick hanging in the air that neither of us wants to name.

After the session, Jessie leaves us to clean up. I’m still sitting on the mat, stretching my back when George lowers himself beside me.

For once, he doesn’t try to be clever. Just rests his elbows on his knees and watches the far wall.

“I didn’t sleep much either,” he says after a while.

I don’t answer, but I don’t move away either.

He leans back and glances over. “I kept thinking about what your mom said.”

That gets my attention. I look at him. Really look.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to be the last person. I was just trying to keep a promise.”

“What kind of promise?”

“That I wouldn’t tell anyone. That I’d let him push through. That I’d act like nothing was wrong.”

My chest tightens. “You knew he was hurting.”

He nods. “I didn’t know how bad until it was too late.”

The quiet stretches between us. Not cold. Just tired.

“Do you blame yourself?” I ask softly.

His eyes drop to his hands. “Yeah. Sometimes. Not all the time. But enough.”

I swallow hard. “I blame myself too. For not seeing it.”

“You weren’t supposed to have to.”

“Neither were you.”

His lips press into a thin line. “Doesn’t change what happened.”

“No,” I whisper. “It doesn’t.”

He turns to face me, slowly, cautiously. “That’s why I’m here. I want to make sure you don’t end up like him.”

“That’s not your job.”

“Maybe not. But I still want to.”

For a second, I want to push him away again. Remind him that this is my pain, my family, my story. But then I look at his face. At how tired he looks. How real.

I can’t push him. Not when I feel the same.

Jessie reappears and tells us we’re done for the day. George stands first, offering a hand to help me up. I hesitate, then take it.

His grip is firm. Gentle. Warm.

It’s nothing. And it’s everything.

As we walk toward the locker room, I limp a little, and he slows down without making a thing of it.

At the door, I pause. He does too.

“Thanks,” I say.

He gives a small nod. “Same time tomorrow?”

I nod back.

He starts to turn, but then stops. “Hey... did you ever go back to Connor’s room?”

I blink. “What?”

“His room. At home. You ever go back in?”

I shake my head slowly. “No. My mom kept the door closed. Still does.”

He frowns. “Maybe you should.”

“Why?”

He hesitates. “Because he wrote stuff. Skating notes. Thoughts. I saw some of it once. I think he was trying to work through things.”

“No one ever told me that.”

“No one probably knew but him. And maybe... maybe someone else.”

His voice trails off.

“Someone like who?”

George steps back, suddenly looking like he said too much.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” he mutters.

“George—”

But he’s already walking away.

I stare after him, heart thudding, mind spinning.

What did he see?

What did Connor write?

And why does it feel like George knows something I don’t?

I push open the locker room door, barely noticing the sting in my hip. My pulse is louder than the pain now.

There’s something buried in Connor’s past. Something George is afraid to say.

And for the first time since he died, I’m not sure I knew everything about my brother at all.