“Room, board, and all the awkward small talk I can handle. Honestly, it’s not a bad setup. Liam and Mal have been great. Haven’t really met Hawk and Eva yet, but I’m sure we’ll cross paths.”
“They’re good people,” I say with a nod. “Slightly chaotic, but in a lovable, cable knit sweater kind of way.”
He chuckles, gaze drifting toward the window. “Yeah. It’s been nice. The quiet, the pace, the snow. I forgot how great this town can be in the winter.”
Something in my chest tightens, sharp and unexpected, like someone tugged a thread buried too deep to be pulled. Forgot. He forgot how much he missed it here. I know he means the town. The lights, the garland wrapped lampposts, the gingerbread storefronts, the smell of snow on pine. But the word still lands like a cold palm against my chest. Because this place was never just sleigh bells and cinnamon rolls for me. It was us. Him and me. Mason and Miles. The way we carved out space for each other in whispers and glances and stolen hours that felt like whole lives when we were seventeen. And maybe I was stupid enough to think I haunted him the way he’s haunted me. That I wasn’t the only one who held on. But if he forgot how much he missed this place, did he forget me, too?
I don’t mean to react outwardly. I try to keep my face neutral, my body language easy. But something must give. A drop of my shoulders, a flicker in my eyes, maybe even the breath I forget to finish. When I glance back up, he’s already watching me.
Concern crosses his face, soft and real. “Hey,” he says, tilting his head, voice lower now. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
I try for a smile, something light. “You’re fine.”
But Miles doesn’t let it go. He leans in a little, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around his mug like he needs the warmth to say what comes next. “I didn’t forget everything. Life gets loud. Busy. Messy. But I never forgot what this place meant to me.”
He pauses; eyes locked on mine.
“And I never forgot you.”
The words hang between us, soft as snow and heavier than anything I was ready for. My throat tightens, and I look down at my latte, watching the foam swirl like it might offer a safer answer.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “that’s good. Otherwise, I’d have to dump this coffee on you and call it even.”
He grins, relief flickering across his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Guess I’d deserve it.”
“You definitely would’ve. And I’d make it a peppermint latte, just for extra stickiness.”
He chuckles. “So ruthless.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Oh?” He leans back, feigning offense. “You’re saying I taught you sass and sabotage?”
I smirk over my mug. “Don’t act surprised. You were the king of sarcastic flirting in homeroom.”
He snorts. “Homeroom doesn’t count. That was survival mode. I had to keep my dignity somehow while failing algebra and dodging jocks.”
I tilt my head. “You didn’t fail algebra.”
“No,” he admits with a laugh. “But I definitely got distracted.”
I raise an eyebrow. “By what?”
He meets my gaze, eyes warm and direct. “Let’s just say I had excellent taste in distractions.”
I blink, caught off guard for half a heartbeat. Then I recover with a slow, crooked smile. “You always were smooth, Dalton.”
“I try,” he says, reaching for his coffee. “Sometimes it works.”
We fall into a rhythm I hadn’t realized I missed until now. The kind of easy back and forth you don’t fake. He asks about the coffee shop, and I tell him I’ve been coming here for years, that I even helped the owner pick out the window seating. He nods like that makes perfect sense.
“You always had good taste,” he says, fingers trailing the rim of his cup. “Your locker looked like a spread from Better Homes and Gardens.”
I bark a laugh. “Excuse you. It was Tasteful Maximalist. And I’ll have you know my color-coded sticker system was very advanced.”
He grins. “You were the only person I knew who could make a glitter pen look intimidating.”
“Oh, baby. I still can.”
