"You don't get to be mad now!" Her voice cracked. Rose to match mine. "You iced me out forweeks! You looked at me like I disgusted you every time I walked on that ice!"
"Because I knew?—"
"You made me feel like I was nothing!"
"I couldn't be around you!" The words tore out of me. Raw. Desperate. "I couldn't look at you without wanting to fucking tear him apart! Without wanting to grab you and?—"
I stopped. Chest heaving. Hands shaking. Standing in the middle of my kitchen breathing like I'd just skated overtime.
She stared at me. Tears tracking down her cheeks. Bruise dark against her jaw. And I couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't pretend. Couldn't stay away. Couldn't watch her carry this alone while I hid behind whistles and drills and professional fucking distance.
I crossed to her in two steps. Cupped her face in my hands — careful of the bruise, so careful — and kissed her like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
She made a sound against my mouth. Half-sob, half-relief. Her hands fisted in my shirt and she kissed me back like she'd been drowning for weeks and I was the first breath of air she'd found.
No restraint. No careful distance. Just desperate, aching need.
I backed her against the counter. She pulled me closer. Her tears wet on both our faces.
And for the first time in three weeks, I could finally breathe.
The kiss wasn’t like the others. Not the desperate, angry one in the alley. Not the frantic, half-dressed collision in the locker room. This was slow. Deliberate. Like we had all the time in the world and I was finally going to use it right.
Her hands slid up my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt like she was afraid I’d disappear. I wouldn’t. Not this time. I kissed her deeper, slower, until her breath hitched and her body melted against mine. Then I lifted her—just enough to feel the weight of her, the trust in the way she let me—and guided her backward, toward the bedroom.
Déjà vu hit me like a body check. Same hallway. Same doorframe. Same way the light from the kitchen spilled across the floor, cutting sharp lines across her skin.
But this wasn’t the same.
Last time, I’d been trying to forget. Trying to burn the memory of her out of my system with rough hands and faster movements.
This time?
This time, I wanted to remember.
I wanted to memorize the way her lashes fluttered when I kissed the corner of her mouth. The way her pulse jumped under my thumb when I traced the bruise on her jaw—gentle, so fucking gentle, like she was made of something breakable. The way her breath caught when I pulled back just enough to look at her.
"Calder—"
"Shh." I pressed my fingers to her lips. "Let me."
She swallowed. Nodded.
I undressed her like she was something sacred.
Started with the hoodie—peeling it off her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. Her arms were still wrapped around herself, like she was cold, like she needed the warmth. I kissed the inside of her wrist. The crook of her elbow. The sensitive skin where her pulse beat too fast.
Her hands found my belt. Started working it open.
"Not yet." I caught her wrists. Brought them to my mouth. Kissed her knuckles. "Let me take care of you first."
She exhaled shakily. Let her arms fall to her sides.
I knelt in front of her. Unlaced her sneakers. Pulled them off, then her socks, pressing my lips to the arch of her foot, the dip of her ankle. She made a quiet sound—something between a laugh and a gasp—and her fingers tangled in my hair.
"Ticklish?"
"A little."
