I slip on leggings under my sleep shirt, grab a hoodie, and pad through the silent house. The stairs creak under my weight, and I freeze, holding my breath. Nothing. No doors opening, no voices. The house stays quiet.
Ryder's waiting by the front door, already in his jacket. His eyes meet mine in the darkness, and something passes between us. Understanding, maybe. Or desperation.
We slip outside together.
The cold hits like a slap, sharp and clean. The driveway is empty, the street quiet. Christmas lights glow from neighboring houses, but ours is dark except for the porch light someone left on. Our breath comes out in white puffs, hanging in the air between us.
"Hey," he says. Soft. Intimate.
"Hey."
We stand there, a foot of space between us that feels like miles. I want to close it. Want to press against him and feel his warmth and forget about Boston and distance and all the ways this could fall apart.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," Ryder says. His voice is rough with something I can't name. "About earlier. About what you said."
My chest tightens. "You don't have to—"
"I do." He steps closer. Close enough that I can see the conflict in his eyes, the way his jaw is tight with tension. "Lucy, I—"
He stops. Shakes his head like he's trying to clear it.
"I'm not good at this. At saying what I feel. But you need to know—what we have, it matters. You matter. More than anything has mattered in a long time."
It's not I love you. But it's something. Maybe it's all he has right now.
"I know," I whisper.
"Do you?" He reaches for me, his hand finding my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Because I'm terrified I'm going to mess this up. That I already am messing it up. And the thought of hurting you—"
I kiss him before he can finish. Before he can spiral into all the reasons this is complicated. His mouth opens under mine, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat through my whole body despite the cold.
The kiss deepens. His hands find my waist, pulling me flush against him. I can feel his heart pounding through his jacket, can taste the mint of his toothpaste, can feel the desperate edge to the way he holds me. Like I might disappear if he lets go.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his breath warm on my face.
"Lucy," he murmurs. Just my name, but the way he says it sounds like a promise.
"I know," I say again. Because I do. I know he's scared. I know he's leaving. I know this is messy and complicated and probably a terrible idea.
But right now, standing in the cold with his arms around me and his mouth still tingling from his kiss, I don't care.
He kisses me again. Slower this time. Sweeter. Like he's memorizing the taste of me, the feel of me against him. My hands find their way into his hair, and he groans, pulling me closer still.
I lose track of time. Could be seconds or minutes or hours. All I know is him—the solid warmth of his body, the way his hands map my spine, the sound of his breathing mixing with mine in the frozen air.
That's when the front door slams open.
Ryder
The kiss ends when Connor slams the front door so hard the windows rattle.
Lucy pulls back first, her breath catching against my mouth. I turn toward the house as the porch light blazes on, flooding us in white light. My hand is still at the small of her back, her fingers tangled in my shirt. The heat of her body burns through the thin fabric, and I can taste her ChapStick, feel the rapid flutter of her pulse under my thumb where it rests against her spine. I should let go, step away, make this look like anything other than what it is.
Connor stands on the porch in sweatpants and a Bulldogs hoodie, his face a mask of fury I've never seen directed atme. Not when I forgot his birthday. Not when I missed his championship game. This is something else.
"Are you kidding me?" His voice cracks on the last word.
Lucy's hand drops from my chest, leaving a cold spot where her palm pressed. "Connor, let's just—"
