Setting: Sean’s apartment.
The lights are off. The only glow comes from a small lamp and the open window beside his bed. The city is quiet. Too quiet.
Sean sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, head low. He’s wearing a faded Plateau hoodie. Not his. It smells faintly like cedar and BRAWNDO.
He doesn’t remember grabbing it from the locker room.
But it’s here.
And then—
That moment.
It strikes him like a flash of scent, or a dream with weight:
He’s younger.
Sitting beside Brody.
He puts a hand on Brody’s jersey—not as a coach, not as a mentor—
as someone who knows what it means to want closeness and be told you’re dangerous for it.
And he says:
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Brody.”
“You just wanted to be close to someone.”
“That’s not a crime.”
He blinks.
He never said that.