The question is soft, not accusatory. Just curious.
I take a moment to answer. “I want to care and I do care,” I say. “I want to show up. I want to be there when I can and give what I’ve got. But I don’t want to be anybody’s only option. Or their safety net. Or their entire plan.”
“And you don’t want to have that from someone else either,” she says slowly, piecing it together.
“Exactly,” I agree. “I don’t want someone hitching their whole life to mine and then resenting me when I can’t carry it.”
She sits with that, chewing on the inside of her cheek.
“So we’re what? Friends who care about each other and sometimes…” She trails off, blushing.
“Friends who care about each other and sometimes make very questionable decisions in showers,” I offer with a smirk.
Her burst of laughter is bright and sudden, loosening my chest. “Okay, that’s one way to put it.”
“You want a different label?” I ask wondering if her acceptance of my lifestyle is too good to be true..
She shakes her head. “No. For the first time in a long time, I don’t. It feels good not having to define everything. Not having to meet a list of criteria to be worthy of staying.”
I brush my thumb over her shoulder absently. “You’re worthy of staying because you exist. Everything else is noise.”
The words come out before I can filter them. They’re more honest than I meant to be.
She freezes, then presses her face into my chest, hiding. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? They’re true.”
“Because it makes me want to,” She swallows the rest.
“Want to what, Holley?” I challenge, low, amused and already knowing.
She fists her hand in my shirt. “Want to keep you.”
The confession is a punch straight to the ribs. It hurts and warms at the same time.
I exhale slowly, resting my chin on her head. “I’m not the keeping kind,” I say. “But I’m not gonna pretend I don’t want to stay longer than I should. And you can have me for right now.”
Her breath hitches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She relaxes, just a little. The slow burn shifts again, deepening into something heavier, richer. In those quiet moments, we let our bodies speak for us in a language only we know.
The roads are clear by Friday.
I know it the moment I look outside. The plows have been through again. Cars creep slowly along the main drag in the distance. The sky is that pale, washed-out blue that only comes after snow, bright and unforgiving.
It’s time.
I pack in stages, leaving my bag open in the bedroom while I move through the cabin. I’m not in a rush. I fold shirts more neatly than usual just to give my hands something to do. I check the bike twice, making sure the cover kept the worst of it off, that nothing’s frozen that shouldn’t be. It’ll be cold as hell riding out, but I’ve done worse.
Holley watches me from the doorway for a while, wrapped in my hoodie again, hands in the front pocket like she’s holding herself together.
“You don’t have to go today,” she says eventually.
I look up at her. “I do, baby”
“I know,” she admits, voice small. “I just had to say it once.”
