"I don't know."
"You keep saying that."
"It's still true."
Pickle turned toward me.
"I'm not good at not knowing," he said. "I'm not good at slow. I'm not good at—" He moved a hand to my knee. "I'm not good at any of the things you're probably good at."
"What things?"
"Being calm. Patient. Waiting to see how things play out." His fingers curled against the fabric of my jeans. "I just—I want things. And then I want them immediately. And then I'm too much about wanting them, and people get overwhelmed, and—"
"You're not overwhelming me."
"Yet."
"Not yet. Not ever."
He stared at me. "You don't know that."
"I know what I see."
"Which is what? Chaos or disaster?"
"Well, all of that. And someone with instincts I can't explain. Someone who sees plays before they happen. Someone who—" I stopped. "I watched your scrimmage footage. You intercepted a pass that shouldn't have been possible. You were moving before the other player decided where to send the puck."
Pickle blinked. "That's just—I don't know. I just knew where it was going."
"That's what I mean. You contain things that shouldn't fit together. Chaos and precision. Scattered and sharp." I held his gaze. "I keep finding more, and I haven't hit the bottom yet."
"I keep thinking about the car," he whispered. "About kissing you. I haven't stopped."
"Neither have I."
"Yeah?"
"I stayed two extra days, Pickle. I'm not here only for the documentary."
His hand slid up my thigh. Slow and deliberate.
"Can I—" He leaned closer. Close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes. Close enough to feel his breath. "Adrian, can I—"
I kissed him before he finished.
It wasn't like the car. That kiss had been tentative, questioning—two people testing whether the ice would hold.
This was an answer.
Pickle whimpered against my mouth—surprised, relieved, hungry—and then his hands raked into my hair, and he pressed closer, climbing into my lap the way he'd done before. I caught his hip to steady him, fingers digging into the soft fabric of his sweatpants, and he gasped into the kiss.
"Sorry," I managed. "Too much?"
"No. God, no. Are you kidding? Do it again." He pulled back just enough to look at me, grinning even as his pupils dilated. "Seriously, I'm not fragile. I'm very sturdy. Hockey player. I have professional getting-hit-by-large-men experience."
"That's not—"
"I'm just saying, you don't have to be careful." He kissed me again, quick and fierce. "I've been thinking about this for days. I don't want careful."
