He doesn’t push right away. Just watches me, and he stays steady, open.
“I don’t really like talking about it,” I add, shifting my weight slightly. “She’s…she knows how to cut deep.”
Ty waits, his eyes searching mine before he looks forward again. “I’m listening.”
I nod once, then tug gently on his hand, guiding us toward the boards. The ice slows beneath us until we come to a stop, leaning back against the rail. The cold seeps through the sweatshirt at my shoulders, grounding me in a way that helps.
“There’s not too much to say, really,” I begin, eyes drifting out over the empty stretch of ice. “My dad passed away when I was young. Eleven.”
The words land without drama. They always do now.
“My mom, well, she’s an overachiever and a great long-distance runner.” I shrug lightly. “When I was about twelve, she was offered a promotion at her job, as a Foreign Service Officer, and it wasn’t long before she became a Consular Officer. She’s made it a career. A whole life out of it. She just chose to do it when I needed her most.”
I pause, pressing my lips together for a second before continuing.
“I like to think it’s because she just doesn’t want to deal with the realities here,” I admit. “My grandma says sometimes she thinks my mom was so hurt when my dad died, that it was just easier for her to run. To close off from everything else.”
I glance down at our hands, still loosely linked.
“But at the end of the day…” I lift one shoulder. “She doesn’t really know how to be a mom. She’s tried. In her way.” A small, almost amused breath leaves me. “There are parts of her that can’t even really be a daughter to her own mother.”
I tilt my head slightly toward him. “That’s why I’m with my grandma. That’s why I’m here. And I’m okay with it.”
Ty studies me, quiet, taking it in.
“That’s it?” he asks gently.
I shrug again, a little more firmly. “Yeah. Really. No big dramatic fanfare. No lingering sadness.” I give him a small smile. “That’s just who we are.”
I look out over the ice, then down, then finally back at him.
“I learned a long time ago not to want things from her,” I explain. “It was easier that way. Instead, I put that energy into what I do have. My grandma. My life here.” My smile comes a little easier this time. Realer. “And that makes me happy.”
For a second, neither of us moves. Then, he gently tugs me forward.
“I’m starting to realize that you make me happy, Vivian Sullivan,” he says, his voice low, scratchy in a way that goes straight to my bloodstream.
I go with it, more instinct than decision, and suddenly, I’m closer. Close enough that I feel the solid warmth of him through layers that now don’t feel like much at all.
His arm comes around me, steady, sure, pulling me in just enough to say something without actually saying it. He keeps it around me for a second longer, like he’s giving me time to pull away if I want to.
I don’t.
Instead, I tilt my chin up just slightly—offering, tempting. His attention narrows until it feels like I’m the only thing in the room.
He adjusts us without a word, turning just enough so the boards are behind me, the rail at my back. One of his hands slides up, fingers brushing lightly at the edge of my hair, tucking a piece behind my ear before lingering there.
“Vivian,” he says, low, like a warning and a question all at once.
I don’t answer. I don’t think I could if I tried.
His gaze drops to my mouth, before he drags it to my eyes, giving me a half-second to make a choice before he leans in.
The kiss lands soft at first, almost careful, like he’s testing the space between us. But the second I respond—tilting into him, closing that last inch—it changes. Deepens.
His hand slides fully into my hair, fingers threading through it, holding me there as his other arm tightens at my waist, pulling me closer until there’s no mistaking this for anything but what it is.
I make a small sound, and his mouth curves against mine like he felt it. This is not controlled. My hands come up without thinking, sliding around his neck, fingers curling at the back of it as I lean into him, matching him, meeting him with just as much heat as he’s giving. The cold air, the ice, the empty rink—it’s all gone. Fallen to the wayside and it’s only him.
