Promise me you won't give this up, Connor. Promise me you'll keep making things.
I'd promised.
"Don't look so scared," Margaret said, glancing up from her shawl. "I'm not retiring tomorrow. Three to five years, remember? Plenty of time to figure it out."
"Now." Edith grabbed her coat. "Don't you break those hands before Saturday's game. I've got half a shawl depending on them."
I laughed—couldn't help it. "Yes, ma'am."
The circle dispersed. Margaret locked the register and started tidying the back room.
Rhett:Outside whenever you're ready. No rush
I grabbed my coat and Gram's old project bag. Rhett's truck idled at the curb, headlights cutting through the snow, exhaust fogging white in the frozen air. When I pulled it open, the door groaned—cold metal, ice in the hinges.
"Hey." Rhett's voice was warm, easy. He held out a to-go cup. "Hot chocolate. Extra marshmallows."
I took the cup, wrapping both hands around it, feeling the heat seep through the cardboard. "Thanks."
"Good night?" he asked.
I climbed in, pulling the door shut. The cab was warm, smelling like sawdust and the peppermint air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror. "Yeah. Good. Weird. I don't know."
"That's specific."
I took a sip of the hot chocolate. Too hot. It burned my tongue, but the sweetness helped. Rhett put the truck in gear, and we pulled away from the curb, tires crunching over packed snow.
"Margaret brought up taking over the shop someday again."
"What'd you say?"
"Nothing. I just—" I ran my hand through my hair, feeling the dampness from melted snow. "I didn't know what to say."
"Are you going to do it?"
The question was simple. Direct. Very Rhett.
"I don't know. It feels too small after hockey. Like—" I gestured with the cup, sloshing hot chocolate dangerously close to the rim. "Like I'd be giving up. Settling for something smaller because my body can't handle the real thing anymore."
Rhett turned onto Main Street, wipers clearing snow in rhythmic sweeps. The truck's heater blasted warm air that smelled faintly of antifreeze.
"Or," he said carefully, "it feels real, and that's scary."
I looked at him. Passing streetlights lit up his profile—strong jaw, the slight hook in his nose, and his hands steady on the wheel.
"You always have something ready to say?" I asked.
He grinned. "Only when I'm right."
"Confident."
"Accurate." He glanced at me. "You think your grandmother was settling when she ran that shop?"
"No, but—"
"And Margaret? She's been doing it for twenty-six years. She settling?"
"That's different."
