“Because of you,” I shoot back, wiping at it with the back of my hand.
“Worth it,” he says, eyes flicking from my mouth to my eyes again, and that look—God, that look—does things to my heartbeat I can’t control.
“Careful,” I warn, trying for a smirk. “You’re supposed to be rinsing, not distracting the guy with the sponge.”
“You know how to multi-task, Brooks.”
“You obviously don’t know how distracting wanting to kiss you is.”
He stills—hand in the sink, water running over his knuckles, eyes locked on mine. The teasing drains into something quieter, heavier, as though the air just shifted between us.
“Then don’t fight it,” he murmurs.
I don’t.
The sponge slips from my fingers, landing with a soft plop in the water as I grab the front of his shirt and pull him back in. The kiss is deeper this time, slower, his wet hands finding my waist and tugging me closer until the counter pressesinto my hip.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless, the faucet still running like background noise to something that suddenly feels too loud inside my chest.
“Guess I’m really bad at following directions,” he says, voice rough with laughter.
“Yeah,” I manage, tracing a line of soap down his jaw with my thumb. “Good thing I’m not mad about it.”
He leans forward until his forehead rests against mine, both of us smiling like idiots, surrounded by half-washed dishes and puddles on the counter.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The kitchen hums with the soft rush of water and the faint clatter of rain beginning to tap against the windows. His breath mingles with mine, and I can almost believe this moment is untouchable.
My mom laughs from the other room, over the hum of the TV, and Todd’s thumb brushes along the waistband of my jeans, grazing my skin with each pass.
I close my eyes and breathe him in—soap, pie, and the faint trace of his cologne—letting it settle deep in my chest.
If I could freeze anything in time, it would be this.
The warmth. The laughter. The way he looks at me as if I’m something worth keeping.
Because, even with the storm rolling in outside, I can’t bring myself to believe it could ever touch us here.
THIRTY
TODD
Sunlight slants through the blinds,cutting thin gold lines across the ceiling. Logan’s childhood room smells like cedar and laundry detergent and him—something safe I don’t want to move away from. His fingers trace slow, lazy circles just below my ribs, the kind of touch that makes the world feel smaller, quieter, perfect.
For a while, I just breathe. The house creaks. The rain that started last night has softened to a steady drip outside. His mom’s laughter drifts up faintly from the kitchen, and I think about staying right here forever—no rink, no pressure, no cameras. Just this.
Then my phone pings from the nightstand.
I ignore it.
Logan hums against my shoulder, half asleep. “Spam?”
“Probably.”
Another ping. Then another. Then what sounds like three at once.
Something cold twists low in my gut. I reach over, trying not to wake him completely, and grab the phone. The screenlights up—text after text, missed calls, notifications stacking faster than I can blink.
Peter: Bro, check TikTok.
