“Good, just catching up on reading and discussion posts for your class.”
With a snicker, I peer over my shoulder. “Is it weird as fuck to be sitting on your professor’s bed and using his headphones and laptop while doing work for his class?”
Tytus shakes his head, fighting a smile. “When you put it like that…”
I dress, not bothering to turn around or dip into the bathroom. Already, there’s an ease to sharing space with Tytus. In a matter of days, our feelings toward one another have evolved significantly, giving me hope that this dynamic really will work.
“I’m going to grab a shovel and start digging us out,” I tell him as I tug the crewneck on.
He grimaces. “I’d offer to help, but…”
“No explanation needed.” And I appreciate that he doesn’t feel compelled to finish that statement. We both know why he can’t assist me. “I may be out there a while, but I’ll have my AirPods and phone with me. Text if you need anything.” I grab a pen and a Post-it from my desk and jot down my number, then hand it to him.
His gaze narrows, like he’s thinking about denying that he could need anything from me. But then he nods, accepts the note, and says, “Will do.”
We stay like that for a beat, staring at each other, a thought that hit me during my own session swirling in my mind, begging to be spoken.
I take a step toward the bed. “Those guys who showed up earlier—the hockey players, and Sawyer’s brother?”
He frowns up at me. “What about them?”
“You’re lucky to have them. It’s clear they care about you, and that’s not something to be taken for granted.”
I brace myself, prepared for him to snap back about not needing unsolicited advice from the likes of me. But instead of rejecting my counsel, he meets my gaze and nods.
“I’m lucky to have you and Noah, too.”
Emotion clogs my throat as his words sink in. This man owes me nothing. It would be reasonable for him to ice me out completely.
Forcing myself to lean into the moment, I dip my chin. “Thank you for saying that. I’m glad you’re here, and I feel lucky to have you, too.”
His Adam’s apple bobs, his focus remaining on me. The two of us stare at each other, silently acknowledging that we’ve carved out a place for one another that extends beyond the bare minimum civility our arrangement requires.
Eventually, I blink a few times and remember why I came in here in the first place.
“This exchange was far more emotionally charged than I expected when I came in to tell you I’m going to shovel. Is this our thing, Tremblay? We’re only nice to each other when no one is looking?”
He smirks. “Nah. We don’t have a thing, prof. Unless you’re still thinking about that time you swiped your fingers through—”
“Enough!” I cut him off, but I can’t fight the grin that blooms across my face. “Text if you need anything,” I remind him before heading out the door.
The reflection of the sun off the white blankets of snow that stretch as far as the eye can see make the world painfully bright as I trek through the knee-high powder toward the barn. Once I’ve located a shovel and a bucket of salt, I start at the storefront, clearing the porch and the steps, then carving out a path so Ednaand any other employees who come in this week can get to the doors.
The snow is wet and heavy, each shovel load requiring a bit of muscle. I savor the pull, grateful for the outlet, and soon fall into a rhythm.
Scrape. Lift. Toss. Repeat.
Snow falls lightly as I work. I’ve lived in Ohio my entire life, and I can’t recall a single snowfall this prolonged or intense in mid-November. I can only hope it isn’t an indication of what the coming months will bring. Although I certainly don’t mind being snowed in with my girl.
But as revolutionary at the last few days have been, I’m eager to get back into a routine, certain that a return to the familiar will settle my nerves.
Once I’ve cleared the storefront, I work on the path that leads to the house. The individual stone pavers are slick beneath the snow, so I opt to shovel a path through the grass.
I work all the way up to the stairs, taking care to clean off each step, repeating the process—scrape. Lift. Toss. Repeat—only pausing occasionally to catch my breath and change the song on my playlist.
I start on the right side of the porch, optimistic that I can get it done before Noah and Sawyer get home.
Scrape. Lift. Toss. Repeat.
