Heat floods low and fast. My pulse doesn’t stutter—it surges like it’s been waiting for this exact second to exist again.
He’s real.
He’s here.
Not in New York. Not alone. Not watching through a storm.
And he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the building.
"Cedar Falls," he nods slowly. "You?"
"Grace. Nursing program. Full scholarship. She got accepted here."
Something shifts behind his eyes. A recalculation. Not surprise anymore. Realization.
"I'm interviewing here," he says. Quieter. "Coaching position."
The words land in my chest and detonate without sound.
Two separate futures collapse into a single point.
Grace, three feet away, pretending not to listen with all the subtlety of a woman who has never pretended anything in her life: "Don't mind me. I'm just witnessing the best thing that's ever happened."
Neither of us looks at her. Neither of us looks away from each other.
Then Grace looks at her phone. At the scoreboard. At me and West standing inches apart in a Cedar Falls arena on a Sunday morning in February.
"Okay. Can I just say something?"
Nobody stops her. Nobody has ever successfully stopped Grace from saying something.
"It's two-twenty-two-twenty-six. That's four twos. Two pairs. The universe literally wrotecouplein the date." She holds up her fingers, counting. "Also, the US just tied Canada on the same date as the Miracle on Ice. Forty-six years later. Also, it is nearly fifty-two degrees in Colorado in February. Also—" she gestures at us with both hands "—you two ended up in the same town on the same day without telling each other."
She pauses for effect.
"The universe is being romantic and I am NOT going to disrespect it by pretending this is normal."
“This isn’t random. This is orchestration.”
West's mouth twitches. The barest crack in his composure.
And then his arms are around me.
Both of them. Full contact. Pulling me against his chest with the compressed urgency of a man who has been three weeks without this and is done pretending that's acceptable.
He holds me.
I let him.
My face against his chest. His heartbeat under my ear—fast, which surprises me. West's heart rate is supposed to be a medically impressive resting fifty beats per minute. This is not fifty.
He pulls back. Looks at me. Really looks. Searching my face like he's reading a document he's been waiting three weeks to receive.
"You're here," he says. Not a question. Confirmation.
"I'm here."
He holds me again. Tighter.
