“Am I warm?”
“Like my own hot water bottle,” she chuckled, unable to stop the smile tugging at her lips as she wrapped her arms around his middle.
He was right.
It was downright frigid on the ride back to her house. The wind whipped at her hair and chilled her arms right through her sweatshirt, but pressed against his solid frame, she could almost forget the cold. Almost. Her fingers curled tighter into the folds of his light jacket as the bike roared down the quiet streets, every turn and bump pulling her closer. She wasn’t sure if her shivers were entirely from the cold anymore.
By the time they pulled up in front of her house, Nettie felt suspended in a strange sort of dream. She glanced up at the night sky, the stars smudged like faint chalk dust across black velvet. She didn’t know what time it was, and she didn’t care.
Tate pulled off his helmet, raked a hand through his dark hair, and turned off the bike. The sudden silence was deafening after the steady hum of the engine. He walked her to the door, his stride slower now, more hesitant.
“This was so nice tonight,” he said softly, reaching for her hand, his fingers brushing hers in a way that sent warmth shooting up her arm.
“I had a really nice time,” she admitted, her voice a little breathless. Then she chuckled, almost nervously. “I guess maybe we are talking now.”
And he smiled—oh, that smile.
“I hope so.”
“Me too.”
Her breath caught as he stepped closer, his dark eyes locking with hers. There was something in the way his gaze lingered—intense, smoky, dangerous in a way that made her pulse stumble. His lids lowered slightly, and she could swear the world narrowed down to nothing but the space between them.
“Maybe we could manage to do this again sometime…” he invited, his voice low, velvety warm.
“I might be up to that.”
His nose brushed against hers, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver racing down her spine. His breath was warm against her lips, teasing, promising. Nettie’s heart pounded so loudly she was certain he could hear it. She was convinced—absolutely convinced—he was going to kiss her. Her body leaned into the moment, craving the contact she had been denying herself for far too long.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, his voice so tender it cracked something deep inside her. The back of his finger traced along her cheek, light as a whisper, but it left fire in its wake.
“If you kiss me, then it better not break whatever spell this is between us…” she whispered, her words more plea than warning. She needed this—needed the fragile, perfect bubble of now to remain unbroken.
His lips curved into a soft, knowing smile, as though he understood far more than he was saying. He leaned closer, and she parted her lips, waiting, bracing for the kiss that felt inevitable.
But instead, his mouth brushed against the side of hers—just the faintest caress on her cheek, enough to make her ache, enough to leave her wanting.
“Sweet dreams, Sticks,” he murmured, his breath tickling her skin. “Text me tomorrow.”
And just like that, he was gone, leaving her pressed against the door, trembling in the silence, her lips tingling from the almost-kiss and her heart racing with all the things left unspoken.
Three days later, the daycare was blanketed in the soft hush of naptime—a rare oasis in Nettie’s otherwise noisy, finger-paint-covered, spill-filled daily chaos. The blinds were drawn low, muting the sunlight into dim stripes across the carpet. The air was warm with that sleepy, stuffy smell of crayons, baby lotion, and animal crackers. Little bodies shifted restlessly on their mats, a chorus of tiny sighs, thumb-sucking, and the occasional squeaky snore filling the silence.
Nettie sat cross-legged against the far wall, her back pressed to the cool paint, her phone tucked discreetly in her lap. It was on silent, just in case, because the last thing she needed was “Baby Shark” waking twenty-two toddlers into anarchy.
Her thumb hovered over the dark screen.
Tate had said, ‘text me tomorrow’.
That had been three tomorrows ago.
And she hadn’t.
At first, it had been intentional—a power move, or at least that’s what she told herself. Play it cool. Don’t come across as desperate. Show him she wasn’t waiting breathlessly by her phone. Except— she kind of had been. Every time it buzzed, her heart leapt in her throat, only to plummet when it was just spam about her car’s extended warranty.
The worst part? He hadn’t texted her either.
They were both stubborn mules. And Nettie knew, with a grimace, that’s exactly why this weird non-game was dragging out. He was waiting. She was waiting. And here she sat, chewing on her bottom lip like a lovesick teenager, overthinking every word she might send.
