“I don’t hate you,” I say, voice soft but firm. “I wanted to. For a long time, I did.”
His inhale is shallow, but he doesn’t speak.
“You hurt me, Landon. You broke something in me I didn’t even know I had. And yeah, part of that’s on you—butnot all of it. I chased the fairytale. I thought scent matches were supposed to mean something unstoppable. Something perfect. And I put all my hope in that… in us… without realizing we weren’t ready.”
His eyes flicker with something, guilt, maybe. Sadness.
“I know you were scared. I was too. But when everything crashed down—when my body was tearing itself apart because your mark was gone—you didn’t come.”
I blink hard, throat tight. “You let me go. And I had to find a way to survive that.”
He lowers his gaze, not quite meeting my eyes.
“And now you’re here,” I whisper. “I know you’re trying. And I see it. I do.”
His lips part, just slightly.
“You’re showing up. And I want you to know I notice that.”
His shoulders relax a little, but I keep going.
“But Landon...I needed you when it mattered. When I was hurting the most. When my body was tearing itself apart and I didn’t even know who I was without you.”
His throat bobs with a swallow.
“And now you’re here, and you’re doing all the things I wished you would have done back then. But I don’t know what to do with it. Because it feels like I’m still healing from the version of you who didn’t fight. And now I’m falling for the people who did. Who stayed. Who caught me when I was at my worst.”
He opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand.
“I’m not saying you don’t deserve a second chance. I’m saying if you want one, you have to stop hovering. Stop waiting for me to make it easier. You want to stay? Then stay. But don’t make me carry the guilt of choosing someone else just because you showed up late.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, Willow.”
I suck in a breath. That came out wrong. It’s hard to shake the anger I held on to. I shake my head. “I know, Landon; it doesn’t stop me from feeling it, though. And I guess, blaming you has become a default.”
He exhales, slow and rough. “I didn’t mean to be late, if I knew—really knew that I wasn’t actually protecting you, I would have come sooner.”
“I know,” I say, voice cracking. “But you still were.”
He steps forward, just a little. “Then let me be on time now. Let me prove it.”
I look at him. Really look. And I want to believe him. But I can’t say it yet.
So instead, I turn—and skate back toward the only steady thing I can hold on to.
Carson’s already at the edge of the rink, quiet and waiting. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t ask questions.
He just opens his arms.
And I crash into him.
My face buries against his chest, his scent wrapping around me. Solid. Certain.
His arms curl around me without hesitation, warm and sure.
“I’ve got you, peaches,” he murmurs, voice low and grounding. “I’ve got you.”
I shudder, silent tears soaking into his shirt. But he holds me tighter, one hand stroking slowly down my back, the other anchoring me in place. A low purr rumbles in his chest.
