His eyes meet mine, vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen from him before. His hand moves tentatively across the small space between us, not quite touching mine, but close enough that I can feel its warmth.
“Like maybe that article wasn’t so wrong after all,” he says softly. “Like maybe the guy in that jewelry store photo—the one looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen—that’s the real me. Not the ‘Hockey Playboy.’ Not the Instagram celebrity.”
My breath catches in my throat, and for a moment, the elevator feels too small again—not from claustrophobia,but from the weight of what he’s saying, from the intensity in his eyes as they hold mine.
“I mean it,” he says, voice even lower. “You make me want to be better. For me. For you.” He lets out a breath and gives this small, self-deprecating laugh. “Which sounds totally cliche, but I swear it’s true.”
He glances away, runs a nervous hand along the back of his neck. “I know I’ve screwed up a million times. That night at Christmas, I—” He stops. His jaw flexes, hard, like he’s debating if it’s even worth explaining. “I thought I’d be doing you a favor by keeping things chill around my family. I didn’t want to mess up what we had, or move too fast. But ... I was just being a coward. I was afraid of rejection, of messing up, of not being taken seriously, of you getting back together with Garrett...”
He’s rambling now, and I recognize it for what it is: the rare moments Dylan gets so tangled inside his own head, he can’t find his usual smooth exit.
“I’m not always gonna say the perfect thing. And lately, it’s like ... no matter how many times I rehearse what I want to say, the moment I look at you, it gets stuck in my throat.” Another huff of air, another sheepish grin.
He finally meets my gaze again, and the intensity there nearly knocks me over. “But you’re worth the effort. And I just ... I guess what I’m trying to say is ... I really, really care about you, Chey. And up until now, I always prided myself onnotcaring. About anyone. Because in my mind, that was easierthan getting hurt. But it turns out that actually just makes you kind of hollow, and lonely in a way you don’t even realize until something wakes you up. Or someone.” His eyes flicker with naked vulnerability, as if he’s afraid I’ll laugh, or worse, pity him. “You woke me up. And now I can’t go back to how things were before. I don’t want to.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I’m pretty sure my brain has stalled from pure emotional whiplash.
“I know I sound like a total idiot, but if you wanted to give me, like, an actual shot ... I’d try my hardest not to blow it.”
The elevator is silent for a few heartbeats, the tension vibrating so high my skin feels electrified. I realize I’ve crumpled the hem of my dress in my fists, and I force myself to let go, slow and deliberate.
A dozen reasons to push him away crowd to the front of my mind. I could list them in alphabetical order: best friend’s brother, complicated history, my own ridiculous baggage. But none of it matters when his hand finds mine, tentative and feather-light, and curls his fingers around mine the way you hold something fragile and precious.
He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t try to force anything. Just holds my gaze and waits, like the ball is in my court now.
Which, I guess, it is.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dylan
I sit frozen in the elevator, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. The dim emergency lights cast strange shadows across Cheyenne’s face as she processes my confession.
I’ve never felt more exposed, more vulnerable in my entire life.
This is it—the moment where everything either falls into place or falls completely apart.
I’ve spent years hiding behind charm and carefully constructed walls, but right now, I’m just a guy who’s laid his heart bare in a trapped elevator, waiting for Chey to say something, anything.
Seconds stretch into what feels like hours. I search her face for any hint of what she’s thinking. Her eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes that shift between green and gold depending on her mood, give nothing away.
I realize I’m still holding her hand, my thumb absently tracing circles on her palm. I should probably let go, give her space, but I can’t bring myself to break this connection.
“Chey,” I start, not even sure what I’m going to say next. Maybe apologize for dumping all this on her while we’re trapped in a metal box.
But before I can say another word, she moves.
It happens so quickly, I barely have time to register it.
One moment she’s sitting perfectly still, and the next she’s leaning forward, her face coming closer to mine. When her lips touch mine, they’re soft, hesitant, a question more than a statement. My brain short-circuits for a split second before I realize—Cheyenne is kissing me. Actually kissing me.
I respond instantly, like my body knows what to do even when my mind is still catching up. My hand moves from her wrist to cup her face, my thumb brushing along her cheekbone as I kiss her back. The sequins of her dress catch the dim emergency lighting, sending tiny sparkles dancing across her skin, across my hands, across the walls.
She pulls back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes, and what I see there makes my breath catch. Uncertainty, yes, but also something warm and bright that I’ve been too blind to recognize all these years.
“I like you too,” she whispers, her breath warm against my lips. “As more than a friend.”
Five simple words, but they hit me like a cross-check to the chest. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping with it.
