In the stillness of his home gym, Stephen Curry bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard in the kind of way that had nothing to do with drills. The echo of bouncing balls and buzzing crowds was gone; only the weight of his thoughts remained.

“You’re pushing too hard,” you said from behind him.

He didn’t look up at first. Just breathed. Then, without turning, he answered, “If I slow down, everything catches up.”

You stepped beside him, close enough for your shoulders to brush. You didn’t push him to stop; you didn’t tell him to be okay. You just stood there until he finally lifted his head and looked at you with tired, grateful eyes.

“You here for a while?” he asked quietly.

“As long as you need,” you said.

He nodded once—small, but enough. As weeks passed, your presence became a fixture of his days. During practice, he’d glance toward the sideline and relax the second he saw you. In the middle of a scrimmage, he’d toss you a quick half-smile like it was a secret between you two. The guys noticed, but no one said anything; there was something quiet and unspoken about the way Steph drifted toward you every time he got a break.

After practice, he’d nudge your shoulder with his. Not a hug. Not a grab. Just that little contact, gentle enough to pretend it meant nothing. And yet, he lingered there. Nights were the softest. You and Steph sat on his rooftop more often than anywhere else. The city was loud far below, but up there, everything felt muted. He’d sit beside you with a blanket draped loosely over both your legs, pretending it was just because it was cold, not because he liked the closeness.

He didn’t talk about the divorce much. He didn’t have to. Some nights he stared at the lights and said, “Feels weird not having people in the house.” Other nights he stayed silent, leaning the side of his head lightly against yours, barely noticeable unless you paid attention. You always did. Sometimes his hand would brush yours on accident, and neither of you moved away. He’d shift slightly, fingertips resting close enough to touch but never taking the last step. He didn’t need to. The almost-touch said enough.

Other times he’d fall asleep during late-night movies, his shoulder pressed to yours, his arm resting against your leg. You’d stay still, letting him use you as an anchor without ever mentioning it afterward. In the morning, he’d mumble a sleepy “thanks for staying,” voice rough, eyes soft.