He kissed me.
Soft at first. I answered by pulling him closer, one hand gripping his coat, the other wrapping around the back of his neck.
When we broke apart, neither of us moved. "Come home with me," he said quietly.
"Your place or mine?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yours," I said. "Your coffee's better."
"My coffee's terrible."
"Yeah, but you make it anyway."
The drive back to his place took ten minutes. The truck's heater finally kicked in around the third stoplight. Rhett kept his hand on my thigh the whole way, only letting go when he needed to shift gears.
Rhett's apartment was warm when we stepped inside. I kicked off my boots, hung my jacket next to his, and stood in his living room like I'd done at least a dozen times before. It felt different—more permanent.
I looked around his apartment. The quilt his grandmother had made was draped across the couch. The photos on his dresser were visible through the bedroom doorway—him and Sloane as kids, with his dad before the dementia. A knitted turtle I'd left last week sat next to his carpentry magazines on the bookshelf.
"I've spent so many years being the Storm's noise," I said slowly, working through the thought as I spoke. "The guy who made sure everyone knew we existed. Who fought, chirped, and baked banana bread so nobody could ignore us." I looked at Rhett. "But that's not what I am anymore."
"No?" He said nothing else, giving me room to figure it out.
"No. I'm part of the team's heart now. Not the whole thing—just part of it. Like Evan's the brain, Jake's the chaos, andPickle's the hope that won't quit." I reached out to squeeze his hand. "And you're—"
"I'm your home," he finished softly.
"Yeah," I said. "You are."
He pulled me in, arms wrapping around me, and I buried my face in his neck. Breathed in sawdust and coffee.
"Tomorrow," I said, "the ice melts a little. Training starts in four months. Margaret wants me to teach Tuesday classes." I traced the line of his jaw with my thumb. "But tonight—"
"Tonight is ours," he finished.
"Yeah."
From somewhere down the street, I heard laughter—probably the last stragglers from The Drop, making their way home. A car horn honked twice, friendly. The plow rumbled past on the main road, scraping away the day's accumulation to make room for tomorrow's.
"Come on," Rhett said, tugging me toward the bedroom. "You're exhausted, your shoulder's killing you, and if I know Coach, he's calling practice for ten AM just to be sadistic."
"Eleven," I corrected. "He's cruel but not inhumane."
I followed him, shedding my hoodie and jeans, too tired to care about being graceful. He'd already seen me at my worst—crying on his couch and spiraling after bad practices, convinced I wasn't enough.
He'd stayed anyway.
We climbed into bed together, his body warm against mine, and I thought about all the times I'd been alone in my apartment after a loss. I'd knit until my hands ached.
Tonight, Rhett spooned, pressing his back against me. His breathing evened out first—he always fell asleep faster—and I lay there listening to the sound of it, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against my arms.
I finally understood what Rhett had been trying to tell me all along.
Home wasn't the noise, performance, or how I made people feel. It wasn't even the Storm, though they were part of it.
Home was the quiet moments after the game ended. It was choosing to stay even when leaving would be easier.
