The words permeate the air between us. We’re both carrying family wounds, just different shapes.
The car slows as he pulls up in front of my building.
He parks. Turns off the engine.
Silence fills the car in that heavy, fuzzy way. Like Christmas snow falling. Meaningful but somehow completely ordinary. We stay like that for a minute, neither of us willing to end the moment.
“I’ll walk you up,” he finally says, his voice soft.
“You don’t have to?—”
But he’s already out, coming around to my side.
The cold hits me like a slap when I step out of the car. Fifteen degrees, maybe less. My breath comes out in visible puffs, and the snow is falling harder now—light flurries catching in the porch light above my second-floor door.
We climb the exterior stairs together. His hand hovers near my back—not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth.
I fumble with my keys. My hands are shaking, and I’m telling myself it’s the cold, but we both know that’s a lie.
“Chloe.”
I look up.
He’s standing close. Too close. Our breath mingles in the frigid air between us, little clouds of white that disappear as quickly as they form.
His eyes meet mine.
And then he leans in.
Time stops.
His gaze drops to my lips. And then?—
He stills, lets out a resigned sigh. His lips brush my cheek. Soft. Quick. Over before I can fully process it’s happening.
“Seven o’clock Monday,” he murmurs.
Then he’s gone, taking the stairs two at a time, and I’m standing on my doorstep in the cold, frozen, one hand still clutching my keys, the other touching my cheek where I can still feel the ghost of his lips.
I hear the car engine start. See the taillights disappear down the street.
Finally—finally—I get my key in the lock and stumble inside.
Warmth hits me. The smell of cinnamon candle and coffee. Jessa’s on the couch with her laptop, working late as usual.
She looks up. “How was it?”
I close the door. Lean against it.
“Dangerous.”
eight
brody
I makethe defensive play look easy—reading Tyler’s approach two steps ahead, positioning myself where the puck’s going to be before he even releases it, cutting off the angle with the kind of precision that’s been eluding me for weeks.
“Nice, Kane!” Coach Jacobsen calls from the boards.
