Because for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like I’m drowning. I just feel home.
His arms are solid around me, grounding and warm, and it’s like my body remembers something my brain’s been trying to forget—that this is where I’m supposed to be.
Neither of us says anything. There’s nothing left to say right now. Just the sound of our breathing, the steady thud of his heart against my chest, and the quiet hum of the radiator filling the space where words used to live.
When he finally loosens his grip, I almost don’t let go.
He takes half a step back, his hands still lingering at my sides. “You look wrecked,” he murmurs and brushes my hair from my forehead.
I huff out a laugh that’s half sob. “You should see the other guy.”
That gets the faintest smile out of him—small, but real. He runs his hands over my cheeks, and down to my hoodie like he’s checking if I’m still in one piece.
“Come here,” he says softly, and when he tugs me toward the couch, I go without hesitation, folding into his lap.
THIRTY-FIVE
LOGAN
Todd’s weightsettles against me, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. He’s here. Warm. Real. Shaking just enough that I can feel it through the fabric of his hoodie.
I don’t move at first. I’m terrified that if I do, he’ll vanish—as though this is one of those half-awake dreams that dissolve when you reach for them. So I just sit there, my hands hovering near his back, not sure where to start, not sure I even need to.
Then he exhales, a long, uneven sound that rattles against my chest, and I can’t help it. My hands find him. One on his shoulder, the other splayed low across his spine, holding him like I could anchor us both.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve imagined this—what I’d say if I ever got the chance. But now that he’s here, I don’t want to talk. I just want to feel him breathe.
He shifts slightly, pressing closer, and I realize how small he feels like this—curled against me, face tucked into my neck. The hoodie he’s wearing still smells faintly like the rink, like ice and something that’s justhim.
My chest tightens. I press my nose into his hair, to breathe him in.
The tension starts to bleed out of him, slow and shaky, until he melts completely. One of his hands curls into my shirt, and that tiny, unconscious grip just undoes me.
“God, Todd,” I whisper, voice catching. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He hums something that might be an apology, but it’s quiet, muffled by my collar.
I don’t even think about it—I lean down and kiss the top of his head. Once. Twice. Then again. The soft brush of his hair against my lips does something to me I can’t name.
Every little touch feels like a promise I’m terrified to make and even more terrified to break.
He tilts his head slightly, and my lips find his temple. Then his cheek. The edge of his jaw. I don’t mean to keep going—I can’t seem to stop. Each kiss is small, careful, but my heart’s beating like I’ve just scored in overtime.
He breathes out my name—barely audible, almost a sigh—and it pulls something deep and wordless from me. I whisper his name back, my lips brushing his skin.
By the time I pull back, his eyes are open—glassy, tired, but softer than they were all day today.
“You done?” he asks, voice rough, a faint smile ghosting across his mouth.
“Not even close,” I say, because it’s the truth.
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating against me. Then he leans his forehead against mine, and for the first time since everything fell apart, the world feels right again.
No crowd. No noise. No headlines. Just us.
He doesn’t move off me, and I don’t want him to. Theclock hums somewhere near the kitchen, and the heat kicks on again. It’s the only sound besides our breathing.
Todd’s fingers twist in the fabric of my shirt, like if he lets go the world might tilt again. I slide my hand into his hair, slow and careful, tracing small circles against the back of his head until the tension finally starts to leave his shoulders.
