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I leave our connecting doors open and take my bag to my room.

FORTY-FOUR

QUINN

The cold here is different from campus. Drier. It gets in through the gaps at my collar the second we leave the porch, and I pull my jacket up and wish I had put on the second pair of gloves I brought, instead of leaving them in my room. I flex my fingers and shove them into my pockets. Daniel notices. He peels off his own gloves at the end of the driveway and holds them out without making a speech about it.

“I have gloves,” I say.

“Yeah. You have one pair on, and you’ve already put your hands in your pockets.” He wiggles his bare hands at me. “I grew up here. I’m fine. Take them.”

I take them hesitantly. They are still warm from him. That feels more intimate than it should, which is a stupid thing to think about gloves, but I pull them on anyway because he was right, my fingers were already getting cold.

Downtown is only a few blocks, but he leads us toward the water first, past houses with wreaths and plastic candles in the windows, and every time the sidewalk is icy, he does this small, sneaky thing with his hand at the back of my jacket. Not really a hold, more just a press of his palm long enough to steer me around the slick patch, then gone before I can decide whether I’m supposed to say something. The first time I almost do. It’s against the rules. Kind of. I mean…we are technically alone, but people could see from their windows or driving past. The second time, I only get warmer, which makes no sense. It’s maybe twenty degrees out.

“That’s the bay,” he says, as if I could miss it.

The water is grey and waves crash against the frozen shoreline. It’s beautiful in the way only nature can be. The wind tastes like ice and smells so fresh I can’t remember what normal air smells like. He stands close enough that our sleeves keep brushing, and I stop moving my arm away. “In the summer, this whole place is filled with tourists and the smell of fudge. Right now, it’s just us and the people who live here full time. And whoever is stubborn enough to walk the shore line.”

“You’re including yourself in that category.”

“Obviously.” He grins, then knocks the back of his knuckles against mine as we walk. One step. Two steps. Three steps. On the fourth, he pulls away when a woman with a stroller turns the corner and walks toward us. And my hand feels the loss.

I don’t ask him to do it again. I think about asking. But I don’t bring myself to voice the question.

The bookstore sits on a corner with fogged windows and snow paintings of winter wonderland pictures filling them. A bell goes off when we enter. Heat hits me in the face along with the smell of new books and something sweet from the cafe counter in the back. My glasses fog up, and I have to take them off and swipe them on my shirt, which turns the room into a soft blur until I put them back on.

Daniel’s watching me with a smile.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing.” He tips his head toward the stacks. “Come on. They have a seating area back here by a fake fireplace. We can get warm. I used to hang out here after practice when I didn’t want to go home yet. Not in a bad way, I just sometimes enjoy the company of books.”

That I understand.

The fireplace isn’t real, like he said, but the heat coming off of it is, and the chairs are the kind that sag in the middle as though they’ve been sat in by every person in town at least once. He gets us two drinks from the counter without asking what I want. Which should bother me, but doesn’t, because he gets my tea right. We sit close enough that our knees keep touching. Every time I shift, he shifts with me.

I shed my jacket, because between the heat from the fake fire, the tea, and his touch, I’m overheating. I enjoy watching the flames flicker, trying to see a pattern. We don’t talk much. We don’t need to. He shows me a paperback with a lighthouse on it and tells me it’s required reading if I’m staying in his house, because his dad loves lighthouses. So I take it and read what I can.

When our cups are empty, he stands and nods deeper into the store. “Come on. I want to show you something. Local history’s this way. Also it’s the only aisle nobody ever comes down unless they’re lost.”

My stomach flips. Is he saying that because we’ll be alone? I leave my jacket with his and follow him with anticipation churning inside me.

The history row is narrow and dim. Daniel’s shoulders can almost touch each side of the row. The front windows don’t reach this far back, and it’s quiet. He checks both ends of the aisle, and then he’s in front of me, crowding me back into the books behind me without pinning me, and I know what he’s going to do the second before he does it.

“We’re alone,” he whispers.

I nod. My eyes dip to his lips and then skate back to his eyes. I bite down on my lower lip as my heart tries to beat out of my chest. We are not in complete privacy. This is a very public aisle. But I don’t stop him.

He waits a beat longer, and then he kisses me.

It’s not like the dorm. We can be caught here. But the thrill that runs through me tells me that the risk makes it more exciting. He kisses me like we have all the time in the world. My fingers fist in his soft t-shirt, and I try to get closer. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb running along my jawline as he tips my head up to him and deepens it, and my lungs just quit working. I break the kiss so I can breathe, and he follows me, like he can’t get enough. He kisses the corner of my mouth, then my mouth again, stealing any air I might have found.

When he finally leans back, my whole body feels as if I could step outside and be just fine on the walk back to his parents’ house without a jacket or gloves. He looks as stunned as I feel, which helps.

“Hi,” he says, stupidly quiet.

“Hi.” I smile. I can still feel him on my mouth. “That was⁠—”