Not just their voices, but the ease. The way they just… see me. Not as a commodity or a paycheck or an NHL forward with good stats. Just their son. Their brother. Still the kid who built forts in the woods and cried when our dog got sick.
I swallow hard and lean my head back against the couch cushion.
Min’s not even here, and somehow she’s the reason I made that call.
She builds things. That’s what she does. Not just devices and charts and endless ferret spreadsheets. She builds safety. Trust. She built a home here and let me in. And now I want her in every part of mine.
I tap the screen back on and open our shared album. The one I titledScience Babe + Ferret Dad, because I’m a little whipped and don’t care who knows it.
I scroll past blurry selfies, half-eaten pastries, and the one where Kepler is mid-sneeze. I find the one I need. Min on my lap, curled under my arm, holding a beaker of hot chocolate.
I hit Share and send it to my mom.
No text.
No explanation.
Just this is the girl that’s starting to mean everything to me.
And if I’m lucky, she’s my future.
Chapter Fifteen
Minerva
Absorbing new information sometimes feels like inviting a swarm of bees to take up residence in my brain. In a good way, because the bees are friendly, but it’s still exhausting.
I’m simultaneously overloaded with exciting new ideas and physically drained from a long day spent around tons of people when I finally make it back to the condo. My hand is cramped from making notes. A familiar overwhelm presses at my ribs, but underneath it, there’s this hum of anticipation. Someone’s waiting for me at home. Someone who likes it when I walk through the door.
When I step into the living room, though, all the bees go quiet. The first thing I notice is Tristan lying splayed on the couch, mouth open and arm flung over his head, with Kepler draped across his chest. My whole body exhales. He’s not just a man I sleep with—he’s a place my nervous system recognizes.
I sneak out my phone to take photos, and only when I’ve snapped about a dozen pictures do I register the corner of the living room. While I was out, Tristan bought a massive, multi-level ferret paradise. I tiptoe around the couch to get a closer look and realize, no, he didn’t buy it, hemadeit.
My eyes well up, and my throat spasms shut. This man—this gorgeous, stupid, infuriating man—built a dream home for my ferret. Not because I asked him to. He chose to.
Does he have any idea what this means to me?
I think he might.
I cup my hands around my mouth and take a few deep breaths. My chest is tight, the way it gets before a panic attack.Why has this beautiful, perfect gift sent me hurtling toward a ledge? Joy and terror always masquerade as the same thing in my body. I never know which is which until I’m already falling.
Maybe because I’ve spent my whole life being dismissed. Overlooked. Told that I wasn’t feminine enough, that I wasn’t right, that the things I’m good at don’t matter, and that I fall short in all the ways that do.
And then there’s Tristan Dubois, who doesn’t just tolerate my quirks—he’s built a goddamn habitat for them.
I slide my bag off my shoulder and hold myself for a moment. What if I mess this up? What if I do something that makes Tristan realize that I’m just me? I’ve seen the movies where the guy falls for a girl because she’s different, because she’s funny and weird. I know I have manic pixie dream girl energy, but that’s only fun while it’s easy and lighthearted. What if Tristan gets bored with me in a few months? What if I push him away without realizing it?
Or—oh, how have I never considered this before—what if he doesn’t? What if he likes me for real?
I get back to my feet and slink back to the couch. Tristan shifts, which makes Kepler adjust his position, but neither of them wakes up. I kneel beside the couch and watch Tristan sleep.
This is probably creepy, but I want to look at him. To appreciate him. Eye contact is hard, and I’m fully aware that most people don’t like being stared at, but he’s so handsome. I consider the angles of his face, the curve of his nose, the cut of his cheekbones, contrasted with the fall of his long lashes. Is his mouth objectively more attractive than Luca’s? Or do I think so because I know his words are always kinder than the poison Luca forms with his tongue?
I should wake him up. I should thank him.
Instead, I lean closer to press a kiss to his cheek. I press my palm to the curve of his jaw, admiring the prickle of stubble against my skin. He smells good, like warm wood and pine needles with a hint of something musky and uniquely him. I want to bury my face against him and breathe deep.
Tristan shifts toward me. “Min?” he asks, without opening his eyes.
