We climb the narrow staircase one in front of the other, her hand on the railing, my hand hovering just behind her in case she slips. The building creaks as the wind shoves against it, and my heart is pounding harder than it did in the fourth quarter of any playoff game I’ve ever played.
At the top of the stairs, she turns left into her loft. I’ve been up here a couple of times—once to carry up a box of used books some tourist donated, once when the sink backed up, and she called me instead of a plumber, like I know anything more than “turn it off and back on again.”
It’s exactly the way I remember: cozy, cluttered, more Bailey than any place on earth.
Mismatched mugs hang on hooks in the tiny kitchen. A string of fairy lights zigzags across the ceiling, casting a warm glow that softens the hard edges of the storm outside. There’s a stack of books on the coffee table, another on the floor, and another serving as a plant stand.
She kicks off her shoes by the door, dropping her keys in a ceramic bowl shaped like an open book. “Make yourself at home,” she says, moving toward the kitchenette. “Tea? Coffee? I also have hot chocolate if you want to embrace your inner child.”
“Hot chocolate sounds good,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket. My shirt clings to my back, dampened by the humidity and my nerves.
She pulls a tin of cocoa mix from the cabinet, moving around the little kitchen like she’s done this a thousand times alone. I lean against the back of the couch, watching her putter, feeling weirdly dangerous and domesticated at the same time.
The kettle whistles after a minute, and she pours the water, stirring carefully. The scent of chocolate and vanilla fills the space, fuzzy and nostalgic.
She brings me a mug, fingers brushing mine as she hands it over. The contact is small. It still feels like a spark traveling the length of my arm.
“Thanks,” I say, more gruffly than I mean to.
She curls onto the far end of the couch, tucking her legs under her, mug cradled between both hands. I take the other end, leaving a respectable gulf of cushion between us, like we didn’t almost forget our own names downstairs ten minutes ago.
Rain batters the windows. The lighthouse beam sweeps across the glass, painting the room in pale arcs of light every thirty seconds. The storm is louder up here, somehow, closer.
“It’s kind of nice,” she says after a sip, eyes on the window. “Being forced to stop. The whole town will be tucked up in their houses, reading and baking and pretending they’re not stalking the community Facebook page for drama.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah. Mrs. Delaney’s probably already posted three blurry photos of the clouds with captions like ‘Be safe, y’all’ with seventeen exclamation points.”
“Don’t forget the weather app screenshots,” Bailey adds, smiling into her mug. “With the arrows and circles drawn on like she’s a meteorologist.”
I watch her smile, the way it softens the tension around her eyes. God, I’ve missed this. Missed her. Not just the way she kisses or the way her hands tremble when she’s nervous, but the way she turns everything into a story, even a storm.
“You okay?” she asks suddenly, turning that gaze on me. “You’re awfully quiet for a guy who usually has an opinion about every play on the field.”
I roll the mug between my palms. “Just… thinking.”
“Dangerous,” she teases, but her voice is gentle. “About what?”
You. Us. How I spent years pretending this didn’t matter as much as it does.
“About earlier,” I admit. “Downstairs. About how hard it was to stop.”
Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. “Hard for you, too?” she asks, and there’s a hint of vulnerability in the question that makes my chest ache.
“Bailey,” I say quietly. “You have no idea.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “I do,” she says. “Trust me, I do.”
Silence falls again, heavier but not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that has a pulse.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her. “About wanting to go slow. Wanting to do this right.”
“I know,” she says. “And I meant what I said. About not bracing anymore.”
Her fingers tighten on the mug. She sets it down carefully on the coffee table, then mirrors the motion with my cup, taking it from my hands and placing it beside hers.
Her knee brushes my thigh as she shifts closer. “Can I sit here?” she asks, even though she already is.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice low. “You can sit wherever you want.”
