He replied around lunch.
Derek: I’ll be home around 6. Let yourself in whenever. Aspen’s always happy to see you.
That gave me a few hours to mentally prepare.
And freak out.
I did like him. As more than a friend.
He was good looking—all solid muscle and all American good looks, the kind of face you’d see on a cereal box or on a billboard in a pair of Calvins. And you would think the Saint Sully act would be grating. It would be, if it was an act. But there was nothing performative about Derek Sullivan. He was just asteady, solid presence. Patient in a way that made me want to test his limits and hide behind his steadiness in equal measure.
And I didn’t have many friends. People I could actually count on.
But despite all that, I had decided to ruin the friendship.
Maybe breaking the cycle wasn’t about avoiding a relationship—it was about not repeating the mistakes of my past ones. I would try to be more honest. More open. Focus on what I could actually change and control.
I got to his place early because my days were wide open in the worst way. I took Aspen for a walk so Derek wouldn’t have to when he got home, then settled on the couch and put onGame of Thrones. The opening credits rolled—that familiar theme, the map unfurling across the screen.
I wasn’t thinking about the fact that he’d invited me to watch it with him.
I wasn’t thinking about what it would mean if I was still here when he got back.
My leg bounced with nervous energy. Aspen put his chin on my knee, unbothered. On screen, someone was plotting a betrayal, which felt appropriate.
A little after 6 p.m., I heard his key in the door.
He walked in with his gym bag over one shoulder and a paper bag with the Walsh & Wilde logo stamped on the front. He wore track pants and a Chicago Frost t-shirt that was tight across his pecs and showed off his veined forearms.
Saint Sully looking sinfully good.
“Hey,” he said, setting the bag on the counter. “I picked up dinner. They’ve got this new—”
Maybe it was the hours of dissecting our every interaction with Sabrina. The fact that I hadn’t seen him in days but it felt like ages. The unbearable weight in my chest that loosened the moment he walked through the door.
I don’t know what possessed me.
I crossed the room before I could talk myself out of it and walked straight into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. My arms wrapped around his waist, my face pressed to his chest. He was warm and solid and real, and I was shaking—actually shaking—though I hadn’t noticed until I stopped moving.
He smelled like clean sweat and bergamot and something underneath that was just him.
He hesitated—surprised, probably. Maybe confused. Then his arms came around me, warm and grounding. One hand settled on the back of my neck, thumb brushing my hair. The other splayed across my lower back, pulling me closer.
He didn’t ask what was wrong. Just held me.
“I missed you, snowdrop,” he breathed.
That stupid nickname again. It cracked something open in my chest.
I pulled back without quite meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry about the other night. I have a lot of… unresolved shit from Toronto.”
“If you’re not ready to—”
“I want to.” My voice went thin around the words. “I need to. If we’re going to… whatever this is, you should know what you’re getting into.”
He didn’t interrupt. Just waited.
I moved to the couch and he followed, sitting beside me but leaving space. Aspen jumped up and wedged himself between us, which was honestly a relief—something to touch while I figured out how to say anything.
