“Still calling me Bruiser?” he asks.
“Always.”
“Good.”
Then he kisses me.
Longer and deeper than before. Familiar but brand new.
I hear giggles from behind the curtain. Small voices whispering.
“They’re kissing!”
“I told you he liked her!”
Then Ivy’s voice carries from somewhere in the wings. “Get a room!”
Hadley’s laugh follows. “They already have one!”
I laugh against his mouth. “Small town.”
“Wouldn’t trade it,” he murmurs, pulling me closer.
We stay like that for a moment. Just breathing. Just being.
“So about that auction date,” I say quietly.
“What about it?”
“You still owe me dinner. Publicly.”
He grins. “Guess I do.”
“Friday?”
“Friday,” he agrees. Then, softer, “And Saturday. And Sunday. And every day after that if you’ll have me.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest. Something that feels like music finding its rhythm.
“Deal.”
Later that night, after the community center empties and Dad locks up, Jude and I walk through the parking lot toward our cars. The rink lights are still glowing through the windows. A few kids are on the ice, practicing with their parents.
Jude taps the glass twice as we pass. Habit.
“You know,” I say, tucking my hand into his, “you’re still terrible at piano.”
“Good thing I’m great at defense.”
“And kissing.”
“That too.” He squeezes my hand. “And apparently the triangle.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
Snow starts falling again. Soft and gentle. The kind that makes everything look clean and new.
