I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, jaw clenched as I pull into Caroline's driveway. The headlights wash over the front porch. I shift the car into park but don't move. Neither does she.
We just sit there for a few seconds before she reaches over and touches my face, gentle and warm.
"Hey," she whispers, "look at me."
I do. And the second our eyes meet, something in my chest loosens just a little.
"Sorry," I say. "For being a crappy, sulky travel buddy."
Her lips curve into that small, knowing smile that never fails to punch through my mood. "You're not sulky," she says, tilting her head a little. "You're just... you. And I get it. You hate losing more than anyone I know."
A small laugh slips out of me—quiet, tired. "You make that sound like a bad thing."
She shakes her head. "It's not. It just means you care. But don't beat yourself up too much, okay? I know you are—you always do. You'll replay every mistake in your head, try to fix what's already done."
Her fingers trace lightly over my face. "So here's the deal—you get an hour. Two, tops. Then you stop. You leave it on the ice where it belongs. At least for tomorrow."
I meet her eyes, and yeah—I know exactly what she means.
"Alright," I say quietly. "Two hours. Promise."
Caroline narrows her eyes at me playfully, lifting her pointer finger like she's giving me a warning. "And you know I'm going to check," she says.
I actually laugh. A real one — the kind that shakes something loose in my chest after days of being wound too tight.
Her smile widens at the sound, soft and sweet and so damn beautiful it almost hurts to look at her. The porch light from her house spills across her face, making her glow like some goddess dropped into my front seat just to pull me back to earth.
For a second, I just stare at her.
She's looking at me like I'm not a disappointment, not the guy who missed plays and blew chances — but someone who still matters.
I lean forward, brushing my nose against hers before kissing her—slow, tired, grateful. She hums against my lips, warm and gentle, before pulling back with a small laugh.
"See you tomorrow?" she whispers.
"Yeah. Go on, before I change my mind and keep you all night."
Her eyes roll dramatically, but I catch the heat flickering behind them. She shifts in her seat just slightly, like she's fighting the urge to press her thighs together.
God, this woman is insatiable.
And I am absolutely not complaining.
I reach for her, pulling her into one last kiss—deeper, hungrier—before reluctantly breaking away.
"I mean it," I whisper against her lips.
She bites her lower lip, fighting a smile. "Alright," she says, opening the door.
I watch her walk up the path toward her front steps, the porch light catching in her hair as she glances back at me one more time. She waves, then slips inside.
Only then do I shift into reverse, glancing at her door one last time before backing out of the driveway and heading next door.
I push the front door open quietly, stepping into the dark house. It's a little after midnight, and I figured Mom and Sam would already be asleep by now. Mom especially — she probably went to bed early, knowing she'll be busy tomorrow for Dad's death anniversary.
Just thinking about it makes my chest feel heavier.
I slip off my shoes and let out a long, tired breath. Just thinking about tomorrow already weighs on me.
