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Dad stands on the porch with his hands shoved into his coat pockets.

“Drive carefully, kiddo.”

“I will.”

“And call when you get there.”

“I always do.”

He raises an eyebrow.

I smile.

“Most of the time.”

Mom hugs me tightly.

“Tell Hayes we love him.”

“I will.”

“And don't forget his cheesecake.”

“Mom, it's literally sitting in the passenger seat.”

She glances through the window.

“Good.”

I laugh and kiss her cheek.

Then I climb into the car, start the engine, and pull out of the driveway. Evergreen disappears behind me in the rearview mirror.

The drive to Chicago is familiar enough that I could probably make it in my sleep. Not that I intend to try.

Darcy settles down after the first twenty minutes, and I turn on a playlist, letting the music fill the car.

For a while, I just drive—past dark fields and quiet towns.

Past gas stations with bright fluorescent lights and restaurants advertising Thanksgiving specials.

The sky turns from pale gray to deep blue. And somewhere along the way, I start thinking about the last ten days.

About waking up in Bishop's bed. About the way he'd kissed me goodbye before leaving for practice.

About how easily we'd fallen into something that felt suspiciously like a relationship.

Except we haven't called it that. We haven't called it anything. We've kissed in the kitchen and fallen asleep together on the couch.

We've spent nights in his bed and mornings pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.

And then his phone rings.

Or Declan texts.

Or Bishop has to leave for practice.

And whatever conversation we should probably be having gets pushed aside.