They don't come.
So I hold her tighter and hope she feels what I can't say.
Hours later, she's asleep in my arms and I'm still awake. Staring at the ceiling. Words trapped behind my teeth.
Three simple words. Should be the easiest thing in the world.
I love you.
My throat closes every time I try. It's the same paralysis. The same inability to translate feeling into language. I've been this way my whole life. Showing up instead of speaking. Doing instead of saying.
Lucy shifts. Her hand finds mine in sleep. I lace our fingers and feel the terror of it in my ribs.
I think about my parents. How Dad never said what Mom needed until it was too late. All the moments I stayed silent. The times I let actions speak when words would have been kinder.
I think about Lucy. How she looks at me like I'm worth something beyond my slapshot. How she deserves someone who can give her everything. Not just the easy parts.
The words hang in darkness. Unspoken but present.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Maybe tomorrow. Maybe morning brings courage.
But deep down I know the truth. I'm not afraid of getting hurt. I'm afraid that loving her this much, needing her this much, makes me vulnerable in ways I've never been.
Vulnerability has never been my strong suit.
Lucy murmurs in sleep. Curls closer. I hold tighter. Press a kiss to her hair.
For now, this has to be enough.
But lying here in the dark, her warm and soft against me, I know it won't be. Not long-term. Not when she deserves someone who can say the words as easily as he shows them.
The realization doesn't change anything. Can't make my throat unlock. Can't force the words past my teeth.
So I hold her and tell myself tomorrow will be different.
Knowing it won't be.
Lucy
The town square glows with Christmas lights, and I've never been so aware of how far apart Ryder and I are standing.
He's across the gazebo, talking to Mr. Peterson about the winter festival committee's budget. I'm helping Mrs. Henderson arrange cookies on a platter, pretending I'm not tracking his every movement in my peripheral vision. We've gotten good at this. The casual distance. The polite nods when we pass. The careful choreography of two people pretending they haven't memorized the taste of each other's skin.
"More gingerbread on this side, dear," Mrs. Henderson says, and I nod, moving cookies I don't see.
Ryder's laugh carries across the square. My stomach flips.
I steal a glance. He's looking at me over Mr. Peterson's shoulder, and the heat in his eyes makes my breath catch. Then Mr. Peterson turns, and Ryder's expression smooths into polite interest, nodding along to whatever story the older man is telling.
Everything changed at the cabin. Then he saved the charity hockey game, then he saved my shop, and I'm still processing what it means that he'd do that for me. These stolen moments feel like torture when we have to pretend in public.
"I need more cocoa from the kitchen," I say. Mrs. Henderson waves me off, already distracted by someone asking about the recipe.
I slip through the crowd toward the community center. The kitchen is blessedly empty, quiet compared to the celebration outside. I lean against the counter, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
The door opens.
