Off the Record

Anna

The sunlight was too honest.

It cut through the thin hotel curtains like a scalpel, carving reality into the quiet warmth they'd built in the car the night before. Anna blinked awake on Chris’s shoulder, curled in the passenger seat of his SUV, still parked by the lake. His hoodie was draped over her like a blanket, his head tilted back against the seat rest, mouth slightly parted in sleep.

They hadn't touched beyond that—not really. But it had felt like everything.

A line crossed quietly. Irreversibly.

Her phone buzzed—again. Six missed calls. Two from her department head. Four from a number she didn’t recognize, probably press.

She didn’t need to scroll far to see the headline:

> “Barley Blades Star Leaves Arena with Team Doctor—Sources Say It’s Not About the Injury”

Her breath caught. Her stomach turned.

Chris stirred beside her. “Morning,” he said groggily, then registered her expression. “What is it?”

She turned the phone so he could see.