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He starts ranting again, but I don’t hear a word he says, because a warm hand settles on my lower back. A familiar hand.

Killian steps in front of me, reaching out. I think he’s about to touch my face, but instead, his fingers close around the phone, and he pulls it lightly from my grip. Before I can even speak, he hangs up the call.

“You don’t have to listen to that,” he says, his voice carrying an angry edge, his jaw set tightly. But I know it’s not because of me.

“How much did you hear?” I ask.

“Enough. Too much,” he replies. “I understand why you do, but I wish you wouldn’t let him speak to you like that.”

“I wish I wouldn’t, too,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

Killian is wearing a plaid shirt over his T-shirt. He shrugs it off and drapes it over my shoulders.

“Oh, you don’t have to—” I begin, but he interrupts with a raised brow, pulling the shirt around my body. He doesn’t drop his hands, and, for a moment, it feels like he’s holding me together, not just the shirt.

“You’re a good mom, Scar. Don’t ever let him tell you different.”

I want to believe him. I do believe him a little, which is more than I did before he started telling me almost daily that I’m a good mom. But there’s always that voice in the back of my head: I’m too young. I work too much. I don’t work enough. I ask for too much help. I don’t ask for enough help.

The kids are happy. The kids are lonely. The kids have everything they need, sure, but I could give them more of what they want.

It’s a constant battle, and no matter what side I land on, I feel like I’m losing. But I don’t know how to put all of that into words, so instead, I shrug and say, “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t get to have nights like this anymore. Not until they’re older.”

Killian lifts a hand from his shirt and cups my face. His fingers are burning against my skin as they brush away tears I hadn’t even noticed had fallen. I want to close my eyes and lean into him, but I catch myself before I make a mistake I can’t take back.

“He’s not right. You can have whatever you want, love, and still be a good mom. You can have everything you want.”

“Not everything,” I whisper before I can stop myself.

The air between us goes taut because he knows, as well as I do, what I want is …

We both look up in unison as if we feel the snow at the same time—tiny little flakes hitting my face, landing in my hair and on my eyelashes. When I look back at Killian, there are little white snowflakes dotted over his hair, his T-shirt. I want to reach out and touch them, touch him, but that feels like a line I won’t be able to uncross.

“What do you want, Scar?” His voice is low, burning me up from my head to my toes.

“I want …” Fuck. “I want you.”

Killian sucks in a breath. “Well, like I said, you can have everything you want. You just have to take it.”

He’s leaving it up to me to obliterate the last of the line between us, because he knows I have the most to lose here. I allow myself one tiny step closer to him, then another, and his grip on my face tightens with every breath I take. I place my hand over his on my face, like I’m trapping him to me—like I can’t bear the thought of him letting me go. Because I can’t.

His breath hitches in his chest as I run my other hand up his T-shirt, snowflakes melting into the fabric beneath my fingers.

“Scar.” My name is a whisper, lost to the wind and the snow.

“Kill,” I reply. It’s an answer. It’s permission. It’s me taking what I want. It’s the final crack in this careful facade we’ve built—the one that makes us break.

Killian ducks his head at the same time I stand on my tiptoes, reaching for him. Our lips meet somewhere in the middle, and the world goes quiet for a second. The doubts disappear, the worries fade into nothing. All I can focus on is Killian—his lips on mine, his fingers pressed against my face, the all-consuming, earth-shattering feel of him, taste of him. All of him.

And it doesn’t feel like a mistake.

I pull him closer, but it’s not close enough. We break apart, gasping for air. Fuck needing to breathe. Killian sighs my name, dragging his lips down my jaw and onto my neck. I moan, the sound somewhat muffled by the way I bury my face against his neck, but not muffled enough, considering we’re standing in a very public place.

A wolf whistle pulls us back to reality, and I look over my shoulder to see a group of smokers leaning against a truck, watching us. Shit, is that my old math teacher?

I ignore them, turning back to Killian. There’s a smudge of lipstick on his cheek, and I wipe it away with my thumb. His dark stubble is hiding the worst of it, but I can see flecks of glitter around his mouth. Fuck. I did that. I can’t wait to do it again.

“Let’s go home,” I say, and Killian is pulling me toward his car before I can blink.