Not five minutes ago Cash pressed you into the wall of his apartment above the garage, one big hand flat beside your head, the other twisted in your hair like he had been waiting his whole life to get it there. Now he is on the couch. Boots off, a beer resting on his knee, eyes fixed on the screen like the third period is the only thing that has ever mattered. He tips the bottle toward you without turning his head.
"Quit hovering, brat. You're blocking the light."
You are still standing where he left you, two steps inside the door, your back against that wall. The game is on low, some hockey he isn't watching, and the air smells like motor oil and his cold coffee. One arm is slung across the back of the couch. He has not looked at you once since he walked away and dropped onto the cushions, and you can still feel the heat of his mouth.
The word lands the way it has for years — the same word he has thrown at you since you were eleven and he stole your bike and rode it around the block while you chased him. Only now his voice is scraped raw, the same voice that said your name against your mouth like it was the only word that ever scared him.
The game cuts to a commercial. He sets the beer down, drags a hand over his jaw, and finally turns to look at you — slow and deliberate, the light over the bench catching the ink up his forearms.
"Either say it, or come sit down. I'm not doing this from across the room."