“Yeah,” Jake says slowly. “And?”
“And maybe this—” I gesture vaguely, frustrated, “—was truly temporary.”
Even saying it feels like swallowing glass.
Because nothing about Peyton feels temporary anymore.
Not when her clothes are in my dresser.
Her coffee mug sits beside mine.
Her laughter floats through the cabin.
Not when I get to wake up with her tangled against me every morning.
She became part of my life so quietly that I never even realized it was happening.
Until now.
Until I might lose it.
The room goes quiet again.
Then unexpectedly, Easton speaks from across the locker room. “I don’t usually bring this shit up,” he says carefully.
I look over.
Easton tosses his tape into his locker before continuing. “But I remember her from my Seattle days.”
Everything inside me stills.
“She’d come to the games,” he says. “Landon made her. Flew her in.”
Connor glances between us silently.
Easton leans back against the locker. “She was nice. Quiet.” He shrugs slightly. “But honestly?”
Something in my chest tightens.
“She never looked happy there.”
The room stays completely still.
“Not like she does here,” he continues quietly. “Not like she does with you.”
Jesus Christ.
Hope is a dangerous fucking thing.
But it blooms anyway.
Small. Fragile. Terrifying.
Easton holds my stare for another second before pushing off the locker. “Don’t discount that.”
They’re simple words, but they hit harder than they should.
Connor points at me. “Also,” he says firmly, “that woman looks at you like you hung the moon.”
