It was supposed to be tension, at most. Friction. A slow-burn mess that we’d walk away from once it cooled. That’s what I’d told myself.
But somewhere between those sharp-edged words and the quiet things he started doing—bringing coffee without asking, texting Jamie just to check in, showing up even when he wasn’t expected—I stopped keeping him at arm’s length.
And now he’s under my skin.
Now he’s in my house, even when he’s not.
Now I’m in love with him.
I exhale slowly, jaw tight, chest tight.
Christ.
It’s not a word. It’s a confession.
Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with him. Not after all the walls I’d built. Not when I know how this ends.
There’s hockey and there’s love, and God knows you can’t serve two masters.
The game ends.
Chicago wins and Roe is on the ice until the end. I don’t watch the last two minutes, I just sit here, staring at the wall while the sounds of celebration bleed out of the speakers like static.
The house feels colder now. Or maybe that’s just me.
My phone buzzes again. I don’t need to check it to know who it is.
Still, I do.
Five words.
That’s all.
Nothing dramatic. No pressure. Just honest. Just him.
I read it twice. Three times. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I miss you too.
Come home.
I love you.
All of it sits in my throat, but nothing makes it to the screen.
What if I say too much?
What if I say nothing, and that’s worse than saying too much?
What if he comes back and realizes I’m just a town he passed through?
I lock the phone without typing a thing.
The screen goes dark in my hand, and for a second I almost turn it back on. But I don’t.
Instead, I stand, stretch the ache out of my back, and walk into the woodshop.
The sign is still there, wood darkened just slightly where the blood soaked in earlier.
