My apartment had never felt smaller. Every surface was too close and breakable. The couch where we'd kissed three days ago. The kitchen where I'd made him hot chocolate. The hallway that led to my bedroom.
I'd been pacing for twenty minutes when headlights swept across my window—a Prius—compact, efficient, completely wrong for someone Hog's size. I watched him unfold from the driver's seat like origami in reverse, all shoulders and elbows and careful maneuvering around the door frame.
He stood beside his car momentarily, looking up at my building. From three stories up, I watched him take a breath—steel himself.
Then I saw the bag.
It was faded canvas, with leather handles worn smooth. His grandmother's project bag—the one he'd mentioned that first day in my workshop, softly talking about peppermint and needles and hands that had taught him everything that mattered.
He hadn't hidden it, left it in the car, or made excuses. He'd brought it with him, to me, like he was done keeping pieces of himself separate.
When he knocked, my mouth was dry and my hands were shaking. I opened the door, and he filled the frame—shoulders nearly brushing both sides, feeling the need to duck slightly even though my doorway was standard height.
Hog stepped inside, setting the bag down carefully beside my boots. His eyes swept the apartment—taking in the candles, the music filtering through the room, and how I'd straightened up for once.
"Fancy," he said, grinning. "You expecting company?"
"Something like that."
"Anyone I know?"
"A banana-bread-baking enforcer." I stepped closer. "Guy with a reputation for chaos on the ice who knits an alarmingly large collection of tiny animals."
"Sounds like trouble."
"The best kind."
He laughed. "I came here because—" He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. "Margaret offered me the shop. Teaching classes, eventually buying it. Making it mine."
"And?"
"And I'm terrified I'll fuck it up. That I'm not who she thinks I am, and fifteen years from now, I'll be standing in that shop wondering why I thought I deserved what she left me."
I reached for his jacket and helped him out of it. Hung it on the hook beside mine.
"You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think Margaret sees exactly who you are now. And I think you're the only one who doesn't see it yet."
His mouth opened slightly. Closed. "Rhett—"
"You came here with her bag," I said quietly. "You didn't hide it. You brought it with you."
He glanced at the canvas bag like he'd forgotten it was there. "Yeah. I did."
"That's choosing, Hog. That's not being afraid of who you are."
He was quiet for a moment, and then he redirected the conversation. "The candles are a nice touch."
"You noticed."
"Hard to miss. Very romantic. Very—" He gestured vaguely. "Intentional."
"It is intentional." I stepped close enough to smell mint tea clinging to his breath. "It's what I want, Hog. This. You. Here with me."
He swallowed hard. "Just so we're clear about what this means—"
