Ice, Ice, Maybe by Leighton Grace Read Online Free

The highway stretches empty ahead, nothing but pine trees and early snow. My left shoulder aches with every small adjustment to the wheel. My phone glows on the passenger seat—eight missed calls, twelve texts. All asking the same question I can’t answer.

But the shoulder isn’t what’s killing me.

Sienna’s latest post has half a million likes by now. Perfect villain material. Nobody asks if any of it’s true.

The town limits sign for Pine Hollow appears through the snow. Population 3,847. Three years since Martha’s funeral. The worst Christmas of my life, watching Connor and Lucy shatter while their mom was lowered into frozen ground.

Three weeks in Vermont to heal and stay out of trouble. Yeah. That’ll go well.

Pine Hollow is aggressively cheerful. Christmas lights strung between buildings. Fake snow on windows. Inflatable Santa on the diner. Martha would’ve loved it.

The thought makes my chest ache worse than my shoulder.

I turn onto Maple Street. The Wright house sits at the end—two-story colonial, black shutters, wraparound porch. Connor’s truck in the driveway. The whole family here for the holidays.

I kill the engine and sit in the sudden quiet. My phone lights up again. I flip it face down.

Get through the holidays. Heal. Get back to Boston. Don’t let anyone close.

The cold hits when I step out. Vermont winter, nothing like Boston. Sharper. Cleaner. Gets in your lungs and stays there. Someone’s shoveled the walk. The porch steps are lined with luminarias, and the front door has a wreath the size of a truck tire.

I reach for the doorbell when I hear it. Music blasting from inside. “All I Want for Christmas Is You” and someone singing along, off-key but enthusiastic.

I try the door. Unlocked. Small towns.

Warmth hits me first, then the smell. Pine and cinnamon and something baking. The entryway opens into a large living room.

That’s where I see her.

Lucy Wright stands on a ladder in front of the biggest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen, wearing a red sweater with actual blinking lights. She’s stretched up on her toes, trying to hang an ornament on the top branch. Honey-blonde hair falls in waves down her back. I can see the curve of her waist where the sweater rides up. A sliver of pale skin above her jeans.

I drop my bag. She turns at the sound. Those hazel eyes go wide. Her mouth forms a perfect O.

Then she’s falling.

I move. Drop the bag, cross the room, catch her before she hits the ground. The ladder clatters sideways. She lands against my chest and knocks the air out of both of us.

Neither of us moves.

She’s warm and soft in my arms. Vanilla and something so sweet it makes my teeth ache. My hands span her waist—I can feel her ribs, the racing of her heart through her sweater. Her hands grip my shoulders. Her face is inches from mine. Those hazel eyes, more green than brown in the Christmas lights, stare up at me. I can see freckles across her nose and cheeks. See her lips parted like she forgot how to breathe.

Heat floods through me, unwelcome and sharp.

This is Lucy. Connor’s little sister. The kid who used to follow us around begging to play street hockey. The girl who baked me cookies when my mom died.

Except she’s not a kid. She’s all curves and soft skin and a mouth that makes me forget why this is a bad idea.

“Hi, Lucy,” I say. My voice comes out rough.

Pink floods her cheeks. “Oh my god. Ryder. Hi. I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. The music was too loud, and I was trying to get the angel on the top but she’s being stubborn, and I thought I could reach if I stretched a little more but that was a terrible idea and thank you for catching me because that would’ve been a bad fall and—“

She’s babbling. It’s adorable. I set her on her feet and step back like she burned me.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Fine. Great. You’re here!” She smooths down her sweater, and the lights blink at me. “Connor said you were coming today, but I didn’t know what time and Emma took Maisie to the store and Connor’s in his office on a call and I was trying to get the tree finished because it’s December tenth and the tree should be done by now but we’ve all been so busy with the house renovation and—“

“Blackwood!” Connor’s voice booms from the hallway. He appears, phone in hand, face splitting into a grin. “You made it!”

He pulls me into one of those back-slapping man-hugs that’s more collision than embrace. I return it, grateful for the interruption. Grateful to look away from Lucy and the flush still on her cheeks.

“Traffic was light.”

“Good, good. You look like hell, man.”

“Thanks.”

Connor laughs. “Come on, I’ll show you where you’re staying.” He glances at Lucy. “Lulu, you good? Sounded like the tree attacked you.”

“Fine,” she says, too bright. “Clumsy.”

She won’t look at me. She’s straightening the tree skirt, fussing with lights, doing anything but making eye contact. I follow Connor toward the stairs, but I can feel her presence behind me like heat from a fire.

Connor takes the steps two at a time. “So the renovation’s taking longer than expected. Foundation issues, then we found mold. Whole mess. We’re all camping out here at Dad’s until it’s done. You’re in the guest room, Emma and I are in the master with Maisie, and Dad’s got his room. You and Lucy share a bathroom, jack-and-jill style, so knock before you go in. She takes forever in there but swears she’s getting better about it.”

Shared bathroom. Of course.

He opens the door to a medium-sized room. Queen bed, dresser, window overlooking the backyard. “Bathroom’s through there.” He points to a door on the right wall. “Try not to use all the hot water. Lucy gets cranky.”

“Got it.”

Connor leans against the doorframe. “Glad you’re here, man. Feels like old times. Plus, Lucy’s been driving us all crazy with the Christmas stuff. Maybe you can distract her a little.”

Distract her. Right.

“How long are you staying?”

“Through New Year’s. I’ve got contract talks in January, but until then I’m supposed to rest the shoulder and stay out of trouble.”

“Well, you picked the right place for that. Nothing but quiet and Christmas spirit here.” He grins. “Dinner’s at six. Emma’s cooking, so it’ll be edible. I’ll let you get settled.”

He leaves. I sit on the bed and pull out my phone. Seventeen notifications. I delete them without reading.

My shoulder aches. I roll it, feeling the tightness. The doctors say it’s healing, but it needs time. That’s why I’m here instead of Boston, where the media circus never stops.

I unpack. Clothes in the dresser. When I put my razor by the bathroom sink, I notice the other stuff. Perfume. A toothbrush in a cat-shaped holder. Hair ties and bobby pins.

Lucy’s stuff.

I back out of the bathroom and close the door to my side. Stand there staring at the white-painted wood.

This is fine. We’re adults. We can share a bathroom without it being weird. I’ve known Lucy since she was six years old.

Except I’m not thinking about six-year-old Lucy. I’m thinking about the woman in my arms. The curve of her waist. The way she felt pressed against me. The heat in her eyes before she looked away.

This is not fine.

Dinner is as uncomfortable as I expected.

Jim Wright sits at the head of the table, older and grayer but still solid. He grips my hand with both of his. Doesn’t say anything about Martha, but I see it in his eyes.

Emma is Connor’s wife. Easy confidence, marketing consultant. She hugs me as if we’re old friends. Their daughter Maisie is three, talking nonstop about cookies and Santa.

And Lucy. Lucy sits across from me in a green sweater, hair pulled back. She keeps her eyes on her plate except when she has to look at someone else. Even then, she doesn’t look at me.

But I look at her. I can’t stop looking.

“How’s the shoulder?” Emma asks.

“Getting there.”

Connor snorts. “You’re religious about hockey. I’ve never seen anyone so obsessed.”

“It’s my job.”

“It’s your life,” Connor corrects. “When’s the last time you relaxed?”

I don’t answer because I don’t remember.

Jim asks about the Bruins, and we talk hockey. Safe territory. Lucy gets up to refill water glasses, and I watch her move. I have to look away when I catch myself staring.

After dinner, Emma declares it’s time for Maisie’s bath. Connor volunteers to help. Lucy starts clearing plates.

“Let me help.”

“You’re a guest,” Jim says.

“I’m family,” I counter, and Jim’s expression softens.

Lucy doesn’t argue. Hands me a stack of plates and leads the way to the kitchen. Big country kitchen, white cabinets, butcher block counters. She fills the sink with soapy water while I scrape plates into the trash.

“You don’t have to help,” she says, not looking at me.

“It’s fine.”

We work in silence. She washes; I dry. The dishwasher runs with the first load.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” she says. “The falling thing. That was embarrassing.”

“You apologizing for gravity?”

Her mouth tips up. “I guess that would be stupid.”

“Pretty stupid.”

She hands me a plate. Our fingers brush. She pulls back quickly, but I feel that touch everywhere. My pulse kicks up.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says, and her voice softens in a way that makes my chest tighten. “Connor’s been worried about you.”

“Connor worries too much.”

“It’s what big brothers do.”

She’s scrubbing a pot now. A strand of hair falls into her face, and she blows it away. I have the strangest urge to reach over and tuck it behind her ear. To let my fingers trail down her jaw. To see if her skin is as soft as it looks.

I don’t.

“The tree looks good,” I say instead.

“You think? I wasn’t sure about the angel. She’s kind of crooked.”

“She’s perfect.”

Lucy glances at me. For a second, our eyes meet. Hold. I see something there I didn’t expect. Heat and want and surprise, like she can’t believe she’s feeling it either.

Then she looks away. The moment breaks.

“I should finish up,” she says. “Early morning tomorrow. The shop gets busy this time of year.”

“The shop?”

“The Frost and Ivy. My bookstore. Well, bookstore and gift shop. I’ve had it for two years now.” Pride creeps into her voice. “You should stop by sometime.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

She dries her hands and gives me a small smile. “Goodnight, Ryder.”

“Goodnight.”

She leaves. When I head upstairs, I can hear Connor reading to Maisie, his voice doing different character voices. Jim’s TV in his room. And music from Lucy’s room. Something soft and acoustic.

I close my door and sit on the edge of the bed. My shoulder throbs. I should do my exercises. Should take the anti-inflammatory. Should get ready for bed and try to sleep.

Instead, I sit there and stare at the bathroom door.

The door that leads to Lucy’s room.

An hour later, I give up on sleep.

My shoulder aches. My mind won’t shut off. The bed is too soft. I get up, pull on sweatpants, and head to the bathroom for water and aspirin.

I don’t knock. It’s late. Everyone’s in bed.

I open the door.

Lucy is in the bathtub.

The scene makes me hesitate, not sure what to do. Bubbles and candlelight. Her head tipped back against the rim, eyes closed. Her hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot. And her shoulders—bare and pale and perfect above the water. Her skin glows in the soft light. I can see the curve of her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. Water droplets cling to her skin. The bubbles don’t cover as much as they should. I catch a glimpse of the swell of her breasts, the pink of a nipple just barely hidden by foam.

My brain short-circuits. Blood rushes south so fast I get dizzy.

She hears the door. Her eyes fly open. For a frozen second, we stare at each other.

Her eyes are very green in the candlelight. Her lips part in surprise. I can see the quick rise and fall of her chest as her breathing speeds up. See the way her pupils dilate. The bubbles shift with her movement, and I see more—the curve of her breast, her ribcage, the dip of her waist.

Heat floods through me. Sharp and hungry and wrong. My body responds whether or not I want it to. I’m getting hard, and there’s nothing I can do about it except back out of this room before I do something stupid.

Like step inside. Lock the door. Find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells.

“Fuck,” I say. “Sorry. I didn’t—“

I back out fast and yank the door closed. I stand there on my side with my heart hammering. My pulse pounds in my throat, my temples, my groin. I hear splashing on the other side. I imagine her sitting up, water streaming down her body, bubbles sliding over her skin.

I need to stop.

“It’s okay,” she calls through the door. Her voice is breathless. High. “I should’ve locked it.”

“My fault.”

Silence. Then: “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Take your time.”

I back away from the door and return to my room. Sit on the bed. Put my head in my hands.

This is bad.

When I saw her in that tub, I wanted to sink to my knees beside it and trail my fingers through the water. I wanted to watch the bubbles slide away. Wanted to find out if her skin tastes as good as it looks, if she’d make those breathy sounds if I put my mouth on her neck. I wanted to make her say my name.

I wanted, and I have no right.

She’s Lucy. Connor’s baby sister. I can still hear his voice from nine years ago, catching me watching her at her high school graduation. “She’s off-limits, man. Your lifestyle would destroy someone like her.”

He was right then. He’s right now.

Not me.

I lay back and stare at the ceiling. Listen to the water drain. Listen to her moving around, getting ready for bed. Listen to her door close.

My shoulder aches. And I’m aware—too aware—that Lucy Wright is so close. In an oversized T-shirt. Brushing her hair. Sliding into bed.

I’m aware of her scent—warm vanilla, a hint of spice. The image burned into my brain: her wet skin, her parted lips, the surprise in her eyes that looked like heat. I’m aware, and I shouldn’t be. But I am.

When sleep comes hours later, I dream of falling and catching and green eyes in candlelight. Of water and bubbles and pale skin. Of curves I want to map with my hands. I dream of Lucy Wright, and I wake before dawn with her name on my lips and the smell of vanilla and cinnamon in the air.

This is going to be a long three weeks.

The kitchen smells of coffee and bacon.

I hover in the doorway, smoothing my sweater for the third time, trying to convince myself I can act normal. Ryder’s at the table. Right across from my usual spot because the universe has a twisted sense of humor. His hair is damp from the shower we share—the shower where, twelve hours ago, he walked in on me in the bathtub.

Heat creeps up my neck at the memory. The way his eyes went dark. The way I couldn’t move, didn’t want to move, wanted him to step inside and—

“Morning, Lulu!” Emma’s voice snaps me back. She’s watching me with knowing eyes.

I force a smile. “Morning.”

Connor looks up from his phone. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I pour coffee with hands that want to shake. I’ve been avoiding Mr. Carmichael’s emails for two weeks now—another one arrived this morning about the shop lease. The deadline for the building purchase is December 31st, and I’m still fifteen thousand short.

Not thinking about that right now.

I slide into my seat. Directly across from Ryder. Our knees are three inches apart under the table.

“Sleep okay?” The question escapes before I can stop it.

His eyes meet mine. Hold for one heartbeat too long. “No.”

The single word hangs between us, loaded with everything we’re not saying.

Emma clears her throat. I grab my toast.

Maisie saves us by launching into a story about the snowman she wants to build today, complete with a carrot nose and button eyes, and can Uncle Ryder please help her right after breakfast?

I watch him with her. The way his expression goes soft. The way he listens to her three-year-old logic like it’s the most important thing in the world. He’ll be a good dad someday.

The thought makes my chest ache.

Connor’s phone rings. He glances at the screen. “Work. I’ll be back in ten.” He steps outside, and suddenly it’s just the four of us—me, Ryder, Emma, and Maisie chattering about snowmen.

Ryder’s knee brushes mine under the table.

I freeze. It could be an accident. Except it happens again, and I know it’s not.

I look up. He’s cutting his eggs, face blank, but his jaw is tight.

Two can play this game.

I shift in my seat. Let my knee press against his and stay there. Watch color climb his neck.

“Lucy?” Emma’s voice cuts through the tension. “Can you help me in the kitchen? Now?”

Not subtle. Ryder’s mouth tips at one corner, and I want to trace that almost-smile with my tongue.

I follow Emma to the kitchen. She rounds on me the second we’re alone.

“So.” She crosses her arms. “That was interesting.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Lulu. You both looked like you wanted to crawl under the table.” She leans against the counter. “What happened?”

I close my eyes. “He walked in on me. Last night. In the bath.”

Emma’s eyes go wide. “He what?”

“The shared bathroom. He didn’t knock, and I was—” Heat floods my face. “I was in the tub, and he just walked in and saw me.”

“And?”

“And nothing. He left.”

“Lucy.” Emma’s voice goes soft. “That was not nothing at breakfast. That was definitely something.”

“I thought I was over him.” The words tumble out. “I really did. It’s been twelve years. I’m not some fifteen-year-old with a crush anymore.”

“Maybe you didn’t outgrow it.” Emma reaches for my hand. “Maybe you just grew into someone he could finally see.”

The words hit somewhere deep. I want to believe them.

“He’s leaving in three weeks, Em. And Connor would kill us both.”

“When was the last time you fought for something you wanted just because you wanted it?” She squeezes my hand. “Not for the shop. Not for the family. For you.”

I don’t have an answer.

By afternoon, the kitchen is a war zone of flour and sugar.

Cookie baking is a Wright family tradition—one Mom started when Connor and I were kids. Now Emma keeps it going, and none of us can say no without feeling like we’re disappointing a ghost.

Dad’s in his workshop. Connor’s doing paperwork. And Ryder hovers by the door like he’s planning an escape.

“You’re staying,” I tell him.

“I don’t bake.”

“You’re about to learn.” I hold out an apron. “Come on, Blackwood. Scared of a little flour?”

His eyes drop to where I’m tying my apron around my waist. Linger. Track up slowly to my face. “Not scared.”

He takes the apron. Our fingers brush, and the same electric current from this morning shoots through me.

We work in comfortable chaos. Emma manages Maisie’s “helping” which mostly involves eating dough and distributing sprinkles with wild abandon. Connor pops in to steal a cookie and gets smacked with a dish towel. And Ryder—

Ryder is good at this.

His hands are steady as he rolls out dough with even pressure. Confident. Sure. I watch those hands and think about them on my skin.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking up.

“Just surprised. Didn’t peg you for domestic.”

“I have hidden depths.” He glances up. The corner of his mouth tips. “Want to find out what they are?”

Yes. God, yes.

“Lucy, pass the cinnamon!” Connor’s voice breaks the spell.

We cut out shapes—stars and trees and bells. The first batch goes into the oven, and the smell of butter and sugar fills the house. Emma puts on Christmas music. Maisie sings off-key.

For a moment, it feels like Mom never left.

Decorating happens at the counter. Ryder and I end up across from each other with a tray of cooled cookies between us. His star is perfect—precise piping, even lines. Mine is an enthusiastic disaster.

“Yours has character,” he says, studying my lopsided tree.

“That’s a nice way to say it’s a mess.”

“It’s not a mess.” He glances up. “It’s happy. Like you actually enjoyed making it instead of trying to make it perfect.”

I busy myself with frosting before he sees how much those words affect me.

I reach for the white icing and misjudge the distance. Get a glob on my nose.

Ryder makes a sound—almost a laugh. “You’ve got—”

His thumb brushes across my nose. Warm. Gentle. Removing the frosting with a touch that makes my breath catch.

Our eyes lock.

His thumb doesn’t move. Stays there. Then slides down to trace my bottom lip in one slow pass.

My lips part. I taste sugar. Feel the faint callus on his thumb.

“Lucy.” My name is gravel in his throat.

I lean forward. Just an inch.

“Hey Blackwood!” Connor’s voice shatters the moment. “Quit making googly eyes at my sister and pass the red frosting.”

Ryder jerks back as if I burned him.

Connor laughs, already moving on to help Maisie. But the words stick with me. Making googly eyes at my sister. Like it’s a joke. Like the idea is ridiculous.

I focus on my cookie. Spread green frosting too thick. Ryder doesn’t look at me for the rest of the afternoon.

Later, after Maisie’s nap, I see Connor pull Ryder aside in the living room. They talk quietly. I can’t hear the words, but I see Connor’s face—that big brother smile that isn’t entirely joking.

When they’re done, Connor claps Ryder on the back and heads upstairs.

Ryder stays. Runs his hand through his hair. His eyes find me in the kitchen doorway.

For a second, I see it. Want. Frustration. Regret.

Then he turns and heads upstairs without a word.

***

I find Emma folding laundry after dinner.

“I think Connor talked to him.” I close the door behind me.

She looks up. “About?”

“Me.” I lean against the dryer. “Had to be. The way Ryder looked after—” I stop. “Whatever Connor said, it worked. Ryder won’t even look at me now.”

“What do you think he said?”

“Probably that I deserve someone stable. Someone who’s not leaving in three weeks. Someone who’s not him.” The words taste bitter. “And he’s not wrong.”

“Is that what you want? Stable?”

“I don’t know.” I slide down to sit on the floor. “That’s a lie. I know exactly what I want. I want Ryder to look at me the way he did this morning. I want his hands on me. I want—” I press my palms to my eyes. “I’ve been in love with him since I was fifteen, Em. Fifteen. I watched him date other girls. Watched him leave every time. And I told myself I was over it, that I’d moved on, but seeing him again—” My voice cracks. “I want him. Even knowing he’s leaving. Even knowing it’ll wreck me the same way it did every other time.”

She sits beside me. “Then take him.”

“What?”

“Stop waiting for permission.” Her voice is fierce. “Stop waiting for him to choose you. When do you get to fight for what you want? When do you get to be selfish?”

“What if he says no?”

“Then at least you’ll know.” She takes my hand. “But that man at breakfast did not look at you like he wants to say no.”

I think about his eyes. The hunger there. The way his knee pressed against mine.

“Connor will be furious.”

“Connor will survive.” Emma pulls me up. “The question is—are you brave enough?”

I don’t answer. But the question sits in my chest like a stone.

Another email from Mr. Carmichael is waiting on my phone. Another reminder that I’m running out of time—for the shop, for Ryder, for everything.

I leave it unread and head upstairs.

Sleep is impossible.

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, hyperaware that Ryder is twenty feet away through the bathroom we share. I hear water running. Hear him moving around. Hear his door close.

Silence stretches. Heavy. Loaded.

I replay the bathroom incident frame by frame. The shock on his face giving way to heat. The way he looked at me—not like Connor’s little sister. Like a woman he wanted.

And the frosting moment today. His thumb on my lip. The hunger in his eyes before Connor interrupted.

He wants me. I know he does.

But wanting isn’t enough when my brother is in the way. When Ryder’s leaving. When I’m fifteen thousand short of saving my shop and can’t afford another disaster.

I roll over. Punch my pillow. Try to sleep.

But all I can think about is Ryder Blackwood on the other side of that door, and whether Emma is right—whether I’m brave enough to fight for what I want.

Even if what I want could break me.

I wake up to snow falling past my window and the house quiet around me.

The clock says six-fifteen. Too early, but my body gave up on sleep around four. Too many thoughts. Too much awareness of Lucy in the room down the hall.

My shoulder aches when I roll out of bed. Six weeks minimum before contact practice. Three weeks down. Three to go.

Three weeks with Lucy before I have to leave.

I pull on sweatpants and a henley and head downstairs. Connor sits at the table with Maisie, building a tower out of her breakfast cereal. Jim reads the paper at the counter.

No Lucy yet.

Footsteps on the stairs. My pulse kicks up.

Lucy walks in wearing dark jeans and a cream sweater. Her hair falls in waves over her shoulders.

Our eyes meet. Hold. Her cheeks flush pink.

“Morning,” she says, breathless.

“Morning.” Mine comes out rough.

Connor glances between us, but Maisie launches into an explanation of her cereal tower and the moment passes.

Lucy slides into the chair across from mine. I can feel the closeness of her knees to mine.

Emma breezes in and gives Lucy a look that says they’ll be talking later.

Lucy’s blush deepens.

Breakfast is torture. Every time Lucy moves, I’m aware of it. When she reaches for the jam, her sweater pulls tight across her breasts. When she tucks hair behind her ear, I track the movement. When she licks jam from her thumb, I have to look away.

“Blackwood, you with us?” Connor waves a hand in front of my face.

I blink. “What?”

“I asked if you want more coffee.”

“I’m good.”

Connor drains his mug. “All right, Maisie. Ready to build that snowman?”

“You in, Blackwood?” Connor asks.

Lucy is watching me with those hazel eyes, and I can’t seem to form the word no.

“Yeah. I’m in.”

The snow outside packs perfect. Connor works on the base while I handle the middle section. Maisie throws snow in the air and catches it on her tongue.

“Remember that fort? Eighth grade?” Connor asks.

I do. Three days of work. Snow bricks shaped with buckets. His mom brought us hot chocolate every hour.

“Your mom was convinced we’d get frostbite.”

“She was probably right.” Connor’s voice goes soft. “But she never stopped us.”

Martha. Warm and patient and the closest thing to a mother I had after mine died.

“She was the best,” I say.

We hoist the middle ball onto the base. My shoulder screams, but I don’t let it show.

I glance at the house. Lucy stands at the kitchen window watching us. Even from this distance, I can see her soft smile.

She lifts her hand in a small wave.

I wave back.

Then Emma appears beside her. Says something. Lucy’s head whips around. Her cheeks go red.

Emma laughs. Lucy swats at her arm.

“Earth to Ryder.” Connor’s voice pulls me back. “You gonna help with this head or just stare at the house?”

By the time we finish, Maisie declares it the best snowman in the history of snowmen. Connor takes a dozen photos, then glances at his watch.

“Hey, Lucy’s helping me at the Christmas market this afternoon. You should come. Two o’clock?”

I should say no. Should find an excuse.

Connor’s words from yesterday echo in my head. She deserves someone who can be here. Someone stable who can give her everything she wants.

‘Yeah,’ I hear myself say. “I’ll be there.”

***

The Christmas market is chaos. Main Street is blocked off for vendors. White tents line both sides. The air smells like roasted chestnuts and mulled cider.

I find Lucy’s booth near the town square. She’s talking to an older woman, her smile bright.

Then she sees me.

The smile changes. Heats.

“Mrs. Henderson, this is Ryder Blackwood.”

Mrs. Henderson’s eyes light up. “The hockey player! My grandson is a big fan.”

Lucy packages books while Mrs. Henderson talks. I sign a napkin when she asks. But I’m tracking Lucy’s movements. The sway of her hips. The way she bites her lip when she concentrates.

Between customers, she catches my eye. “You didn’t have to come.”

“Connor asked me to help.”

“But I know you hate crowds.”

A man approaches. Mid-thirties, gym build, expensive jacket. He zeroes in on me.

“Holy shit. Ryder Blackwood?”

I tense. “That’s me.”

“Dude, I’m a huge fan. Can I get a picture?”

“Sure.”

He positions himself next to me. Takes three selfies. Then he leans in, voice dropping.

“So what really happened with Sienna? The stuff she’s saying online, is any of that true? Because man, she’s making you look like a real asshole.”

My jaw goes tight. “I don’t talk about my personal life.”

“Come on. Just between us. Was she really that crazy, or did you do something to set her off? Because the way she tells it—”

“I said I don’t talk about it.” My voice is flat. Cold.

The guy holds up his hands. “Whoa. Touchy subject. My bad.”

He backs away, but the damage is done. My chest is tight. My hands are fists.

Then Lucy is there. Stepping between me and the guy with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Sir, if you’re not here to shop, I’m going to have to ask you to move along. We’ve got paying customers waiting.”

“I was just talking to—”

“I know who you were talking to. And I know you were being rude about things that are none of your business.” Her voice is still pleasant, but there’s steel underneath. “So unless you want to buy something, please leave.”

The guy mutters something and walks away.

Lucy turns to me. “You okay?”

I stare at her. This woman who just stepped in front of me like a shield. Who protected me from invasive questions without making a scene.

“Yeah,” I say, and my voice comes out rough. “Thank you.”

“People forget you’re human. That you have feelings and boundaries.” She squeezes my arm. Quick. “That guy was an ass.”

“I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

She holds my gaze. In the middle of the crowded market, she looks at me like I matter. Like I’m more than a hockey player or a tabloid story.

She sees me.

Lucy Wright sees me. All of me. The broken parts and the scared parts and the parts I don’t show anyone.

And she’s still here.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get hot chocolate. I need a break, and you look like you could use some sugar.”

We walk through the market with white lights twinkling overhead and snow crunching under our boots.

She doesn’t touch me, but I’m aware of her every second. The way she walks close enough that our arms almost brush.

We get hot chocolate from a cart. Find a bench near the gazebo, away from the crowd.

Lucy sits close. She doesn’t move away.

“Better?” she asks.

“Getting there.”

“I hate people who do that. Act like you owe them something because you’re on TV.” She takes a sip of her drink. Gets whipped cream on her upper lip. “You’re not public property.”

I reach out without thinking. Thumb away the whipped cream from the corner of her mouth. Feel her breath catch.

“Whipped cream,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended.

Her lips part. “Oh.”

I should move my hand. We’re in public. Anyone could see.

But I can’t seem to let go. My thumb traces her bottom lip. Just once.

“Ryder.” My name is barely a whisper.

“Lucy.”

She catches my wrist. Holds it for a heartbeat longer. Then lets go.

We finish our hot chocolate in charged silence. Walk back through the market like nothing happened. But everything happened. Every brush of her shoulder against mine. Every shared look.

Back at the house, Connor’s warning from yesterday plays on repeat. Keep some distance. Be her friend. She deserves someone who can be here. Someone stable.

But all I can think about is the way Lucy looked at me. The way she protected me. The way her breath caught when I touched her mouth.

At five-thirty, I can’t take it anymore. I grab my keys and tell Connor I’m going for a drive.

I drive to Main Street. Park behind the shop. Wait until I see the last customer leave and Lucy flip the sign to CLOSED.

Then I walk to the front door and knock.

Lucy appears through the glass. Her eyes widen when she sees me. For a second, she just stares. Then she crosses to the door, unlocks it, and pulls me inside.

She locks the door behind us.

We just look at each other. Her chest rises and falls fast. Her pupils are blown wide.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

“Connor talked to you. Yesterday.”

Not a question.

“Yeah.”

“What did he say?”

“That you deserve better than me.” I take a step closer. “He’s not wrong.”

“I get to decide what I deserve.” She closes the distance. Puts her hand flat on my chest. “And I want you.”

“Lucy—”

“Do you want me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then stop trying to protect me from my own choices.” Her other hand slides up to curl around the back of my neck. “I’m twenty-seven years old, Ryder. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?”

“I know this is temporary. I know you’re leaving. I know all the reasons this is a bad idea.” She goes up on her toes. Brings her mouth close to mine. “But I’m tired of playing it safe. Tired of wanting things and being too scared to take them.” Her lips brush mine. “So kiss me. And don’t stop.”

I break.

My mouth crashes onto hers. Hard and hungry. My hands slide into her hair and fist there. Angle her head so I can kiss her deeper.

She opens for me. Meets my hunger with her own. Her nails dig into my neck. Her body presses against mine from chest to thigh.

I walk her backward until her back hits the nearest bookshelf and pin her there.

My hand slides down her side. Grips her thigh and hitches it up around my hip. The new position lets me settle between her legs. Lets her feel exactly how much I want her.

She rocks against me. Makes a sound that’s half moan, half whimper. I swallow it. Kiss her deeper.

My other hand finds the hem of her sweater. Slides underneath to palm the soft skin of her waist. She’s warm and smooth, and when my thumb brushes the underside of her breast through her bra, she gasps into my mouth.

“Ryder.” My name is ragged. Desperate.

I pull back enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen and red from my mouth. Her hair is a mess from my hands. Her sweater is rumpled up and her chest heaves with each breath.

“We should stop,” I say, even though stopping is the last thing I want.

“Why?”

“Because if we don’t stop now, I’m going to take you right here against these bookshelves.”

Her eyes go dark. “Maybe that’s what I want.”

Fuck.

“Lucy—”

“Don’t.” She slides her hands under my shirt. Her palms are cool against my abs. “Don’t overthink this. Don’t decide what’s best for me.” Her hands move higher. “Just want me.”

“I do want you.” I catch her wrists. Hold them still. “But not here. Not like this. You deserve better than me losing control in your shop.”

“What if I want you to lose control?”

“Trust me. You don’t.”

Her smile is slow. Dangerous. “Try me.”

I kiss her again because I have to. Because she’s here and she wants me and I’m not strong enough to walk away.

But I keep my hands on her waist. Keep the kiss just this side of control.

When I finally pull back, we’re both breathing hard.

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“Tomorrow what?”

“I’ll pick you up after you close. We’ll go somewhere private. And I’ll show you what happens when I lose control.”

Her breath catches. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

I force myself to step back. To let her go.

She straightens her sweater. Smooths her hair. Tries to look composed but her hands shake and her face is flushed.

“You should go,” she says. “Dinner’s at seven.”

“Lucy—”

“Go.” She steps closer. Rises on her toes. Presses one more soft kiss to my mouth. “Before I change my mind about letting you leave.”

I go. Walk out into the cold December air with my heart hammering and my body aching and the taste of her still on my tongue.

Connor’s warning echoes in my head. She’ll be the one left behind.

He’s right. When I leave Pine Hollow, Lucy will still be here.

And I’ll be in Boston with nothing but memories and regrets.

Lucy Wright is going to break my heart.

But right now, walking through the snow with her taste on my lips and her voice in my head promising tomorrow, I can’t find it in me to care.

The first snowflake hits my window around four in the afternoon.

By five, Pine Hollow is buried under a white curtain so thick I can’t see the neighbor’s house. Wind rattles the windows and howls through the eaves like something alive.

“Power’s going to go,” Dad says from his spot by the window. He’s holding his coffee mug with both hands, watching the storm the way he used to watch Mom’s moods. Reading the signs. “I’ll check the generator.”

Connor helps him. Emma herds Maisie away from the windows and starts pulling out candles. I move through the house on autopilot, checking locks, drawing curtains, making sure everything’s secure.

Ryder watches me from the doorway. I can feel his eyes tracking my movements. Can feel the heat of his attention even from across the room. Last night at the shop, pressed against the bookshelves with his mouth on mine, his promise of “tomorrow” still echoing in my head. The memory makes heat pool low in my belly.

“You’re staring,” I say without looking at him.

“I know.”

The lights flicker once. Twice. The house goes dark.

Maisie squeals with delight. Dad mutters something colorful from the basement. Connor appears with a flashlight, beam cutting through the sudden blackness.

“Old-fashioned night it is,” he says. “Everyone to the living room.”

We gather like pioneers. Dad builds the fire while Emma lights every candle she can find. Connor drags blankets down from the linen closet. I make hot chocolate on the woodstove, stirring with the old wooden spoon Mom used, steam dampening my face in the firelight.

By seven, we’re settled. Dad in his chair telling stories. Connor and Emma on the couch with Maisie between them, half asleep against her father’s shoulder. And me on the floor by the fire with Ryder beside me because there’s nowhere else for him to sit.

Our shoulders touch. He doesn’t move away. Neither do I.

“Remember the storm when you boys were eight?” Dad asks. “Martha made a fort down here. You kids camped out for three days.”

“Connor thought the house was haunted,” I say. “Made Ryder check the basement twice.”

“You made me sleep between you,” Ryder points out. “Said you’d protect me from the ghosts.”

“I was six. I believed in protective magic.”

His mouth tips up at the corner. That almost-smile that makes my stomach flip.

Dad tells more stories. About Mom and Christmas mornings and summer barbecues. About the scrawny kid Connor brought home who never wanted to leave. His voice is warm, rich with memory, and I lean into Ryder’s shoulder without meaning to.

He shifts closer. Not obvious. Just enough that more of us is touching. Hip to shoulder to knee. Heat radiating through layers of clothing.

Around nine, Maisie climbs into Ryder’s lap. She’s already half asleep, thumb in her mouth, bunny tucked under one arm. He holds her carefully, like she’s made of glass. Something soft moves through me watching him with her. Something dangerous.

I rest my hand on his forearm. Just touching. Just there. His pulse jumps under my fingers.

Connor and Emma take Maisie up around ten. Dad follows with a yawn and a warning to bank the fire before we come up. The house settles into quiet. Just wind and snow and two people who should go to their separate rooms but don’t.

We were supposed to go somewhere private tonight. His promise of “tomorrow” still echoing from last night at the shop. But the storm had other plans. Now here we are, alone by firelight with his family sleeping upstairs. Not what either of us planned. Maybe more dangerous because of it.

I add another log to the fire. Orange light spills across Ryder’s face, catches in his dark hair, shadows the line of his jaw. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t read.

“I should go up,” I say.

“Probably.”

Neither of us moves.

The wind howls. Snow builds on the windowsills. We sit in the warm circle of firelight, and I think about all the ways this could go wrong. About Connor’s warning. About Ryder leaving in two weeks. About how much it will hurt when he goes.

“Can I ask you something?” My voice barely rises above the crackling fire.

“Yeah.”

“What really happened with your ex?”

He’s quiet for so long I think he won’t answer. Then he shifts, staring into the flames instead of at me.

“Sienna wanted the lifestyle. The money. The access.” His voice is flat, careful. “When I tried to set boundaries, she went public. Told everyone I was cold and controlling.” He pauses. “Maybe she was right about the cold part.”

“You’re not cold.” I take his hand without thinking. His fingers are warm, calloused from years on the ice. “You held Maisie for an hour tonight. You helped at the market even though you hate crowds. That’s not cold.”

He laces our fingers together. Stares at our joined hands like he’s trying to solve an equation.

“What scares you?” he asks.

The question catches me off guard. I could deflect. Could keep the conversation light. But something about the darkness and the fire and his hand in mine makes me want to tell the truth.

“Disappointing people,” I say. My voice cracks on the words. “Being too much or not enough to make someone stay.” I pull my knees up, wrapping my free arm around them. “When Mom died, I wasn’t there. I canceled that afternoon because the shop was busy. And then she was just…gone.”

“Lucy.” He shifts closer, thumb tracing circles on my palm.

“I know it’s not my fault. Everyone says that. But I keep thinking if I’d just been there…” I swallow hard. “Now everyone sees me as little miss sunshine. As the girl who’s always happy. And I’m terrified to show them anything else. What if they’re disappointed? What if being real makes them leave?”

The words hang between us. Vulnerable and raw and more honest than I’ve been with anyone in a long time.

Ryder sets down his mug. Turns to face me fully. The firelight catches in his eyes and for a moment he just looks at me. Really looks. Like he’s seeing past the smile I wear like armor.

“I like all of you,” he says. “Not just the sunshine part.”

The words hit me square in the chest. Something cracks open there; some wall I didn’t know I’d built. My throat goes tight, and my eyes burn, and I don’t know what to say to that. To someone seeing me and not running.

“You don’t know all of me,” I manage.

“I want to.”

The air between us shifts. Charges. His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb grazes my cheek, and electricity shoots through me. We’re leaning closer. So close I can count his eyelashes. Can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Can feel his breath on my lips.

“Connor would kill you,” I whisper.

“I know.”

“This is a terrible idea.”

“I know that too.”

But neither of us pulls away. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my mouth parts. His other hand slides into my hair, and I’m leaning in, and he’s leaning in, and we’re a breath apart when he stops.

Just stops. Forehead pressed to mine. Eyes closed. Breathing hard.

“Tell me to go upstairs,” he says.

“I can’t.”

“Lucy.” My name sounds like a prayer and a curse. “If I kiss you right now, I won’t be able to stop. And your brother is asleep twenty feet above us.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.” But his hand tightens in my hair. “You should care that I’m leaving in two weeks. That this can’t go anywhere. That I’ll hurt you.”

“What if I hurt you?”

His eyes open. Dark and intent and burning with want.

“Then we’ll be even,” he says.

We stay like that. Foreheads touching. Breathing each other’s air. Balanced on the knife-edge between restraint and giving in.

Finally, he pulls back. Puts six inches of space between us that might as well be six miles. His jaw is tight, and his hands are shaking, and I can see the war playing out behind his eyes.

“You should go to bed, Lucy.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a plea.

I stand on shaking legs. Wrap the blanket around my shoulders because I’m cold without him next to me. He stays on the floor by the dying fire, watching me with an expression I can’t name.

“Goodnight, Ryder.”

“Goodnight.”

I make it to the stairs before I look back. He’s still watching. Still wanting. Still holding himself in check for reasons I understand even if I hate them.

In my room, I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. My heart is hammering. My lips are tingling from a kiss that never happened. And I can hear him moving around downstairs. Hear the creak of the stairs as he finally comes up. Hear his door close.

The bathroom between our rooms feels like both a barrier and a promise.

I lie in the dark and replay every word. Every touch. The way he looked at me when he said he liked all of me. Not just the sunshine part.

Something fundamental shifted tonight. We acknowledged the want. The danger. The impossibility of this. And neither of us walked away.

I don’t know what happens next. Don’t know how to want something this badly when it’s wrapped in so many reasons why I shouldn’t. But I know I’m in trouble.

We both are.

The morning after our almost-kiss, I wake to the sound of Maisie singing Christmas carols in the hallway. My shoulder protests when I roll over, a dull ache that’s been my companion since the injury. The real pain sits lower, in my chest, where Lucy Wright has carved out space I didn’t know existed.

I should regret last night. The way I held her. The way we almost crossed a line neither of us can uncross. But lying here in the predawn gray, all I can think about is how her breath caught when my thumb traced her jaw. How close I came to tasting her mouth.

How much I want to do it again.

Downstairs, the kitchen hums with Wright family chaos. Jim’s making pancakes. Emma’s refereeing a debate between Connor and Maisie about syrup quantities. The coffee maker gurgles.

Lucy stands at the counter wrapping gifts, scissors and tape and ribbon spread around her. Green sweater, hair in a messy bun, reading glasses perched on her nose. When she reaches for the tape dispenser, the sweater rides up. I catch the curve of her lower back and have to look away before Connor notices where my attention lands.

“Morning,” I manage.

She glances up. Our eyes lock. Pink floods her cheeks and I know she’s thinking about last night. About my hands cupping her face. About how close we came before I stopped.

“Hi.” Her voice has that breathy quality that goes straight to my groin.

I take the chair diagonally from her because sitting directly across feels dangerous. Our knees still bump under the table. Neither of us moves away.

“Sleep okay?” Emma asks, pouring coffee.

“Fine,” Lucy says too fast.

“No,” I say at the same time.

Connor’s gaze ping-pongs between us. His eyes narrow. “You two are acting weird.”

“We’re not weird,” Lucy protests. She picks up her coffee mug, takes a sip, makes a face. Looks down at the floating ribbons she apparently dropped in without noticing.

“Not weird at all,” Emma says, hiding her grin behind her own mug.

Lucy fishes out the ribbons with two fingers, cheeks flaming. I focus on my pancakes before Connor’s suspicion sharpens into certainty. But I feel her gaze on me. Feel the pull like gravity.

Breakfast stretches into torture. Lucy reaches for the syrup and her sweater pulls tight. I remember how she felt pressed against me last night. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and I remember my fingers itching to do the same thing. She licks maple syrup off her thumb and I nearly choke on my orange juice.

“Uncle Ryder?” Maisie tugs my sleeve. “Can you read me a story?”

Thank god for three-year-olds and their perfect timing.

I follow her to the living room, settle on the couch with her curled against my side. She hands me a worn copy of The Snowy Day and I start reading. Her small hand rests on my arm, thumb finding her mouth as she listens.

Lucy appears in the doorway with laundry. She stops when she sees us. Something soft crosses her face. Tender and wanting and so clear that my chest tightens.

She sets the basket down and joins us on the couch, close enough that her thigh presses against mine. Neither of us acknowledges the contact. Neither of us moves away.

When the story ends, Maisie demands another. Then another. By the third book, she’s asleep against my shoulder, breathing soft and even.

“You’re good with her,” Lucy whispers.

“She’s easy.”

“She doesn’t fall asleep on just anyone.” Lucy tucks the blanket around Maisie. Her fingers brush my arm. “She trusts you.”

The words hit deeper than they should. Trust. Something I haven’t earned in a long time. Something I’m not sure I deserve.

Lucy’s phone lights up on the side table. She glances at the screen, and her expression shifts. Goes tight.

“Everything okay?”

“It’s Jessica from the hospital fundraiser board. I should…” She carefully extracts herself from the couch. “I’ll be right back.”

She disappears into the kitchen. I stay on the couch with Maisie sleeping against me, listening to the murmur of Lucy’s voice. Can’t make out words, but I hear the shift in tone. The worry.

Connor appears with two mugs of coffee. Hands me one and takes the armchair across from me.

“She likes you.” He nods at Maisie. “Kids can tell when someone’s genuine.”

“She’s a good kid.”

“Lucy’s good with her too. Natural. She’ll make a great mom someday.” He takes a sip of coffee. Studies me over the rim. “With the right person.”

The warning lands clear even wrapped in casual conversation. I meet his gaze.

“I see how you look at her, Ryder. How she looks at you.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m not blind. And I’m not stupid.”

I stay quiet. Wait for the rest.

“You’re my best friend. My brother in every way that matters. But Lucy?” His voice drops. “She’s my baby sister. And she’s already been through enough. She doesn’t need someone who’s going to leave and break her heart.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Connor sets his mug down. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re not acting like it. The way you watched her at breakfast. The way you can’t seem to stay away from her.”

He’s right and we both know it.

“She deserves better than me,” I say.

“She deserves everything.” Connor holds my gaze. “Someone stable. Someone who’s ready for what she wants. Someone who’ll stay.”

The words hit me hard. Because he’s naming every reason I’ve already listed. Every reason I should walk away.

“I’m not trying to hurt her.”

“But you will.” It’s not accusation. Just fact. “That’s what happens when you start something you can’t finish.”

Lucy’s voice drifts from the kitchen. Still on the phone. Still worried about whatever’s happening with the fundraiser.

“So what do you want me to do?” I ask. “Ignore her? Pretend this isn’t happening?”

“I want you to be honest with yourself about what you can offer.” Connor stands. “If it’s three weeks and then you disappear back to Boston, that’s not enough. Not for Lucy.”

He’s right. I know he’s right.

But the thought of walking away now, of putting distance between us, makes my chest cave in.

Connor pauses at the doorway. “I love you, man. You know that. But I love her more. So whatever this is, make sure you’re thinking about what she needs. Not just what you want.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m sitting here with Maisie asleep against my shoulder and the weight of Connor’s warning pressing down.

I know the risks. Know I’m leaving. Know Lucy deserves forever, not just three weeks of stolen moments. Know pursuing this is selfish.

But I can’t make myself care.

Once Emma comes in and takes Maise upstairs, I find Lucy in the kitchen. Her phone sits on the counter, call ended, but her face has gone pale. The gift she was wrapping lies forgotten, ribbon curling onto the floor.

“Hey.” I close the distance between us. “What’s wrong?”

“That was Emma’s friend Jessica. She’s on the board for the Pine Hollow Children’s Hospital fundraiser.” Lucy’s voice shakes. “The charity hockey game might have to be canceled.”

The words don’t compute at first. “What? Why?”

“Ticket sales are terrible. We’ve only sold fifty tickets, and we need at least three hundred to cover the rink rental and make a donation worth the hospital’s time. The cancer ward needs new equipment for the pediatric patients, and this was supposed to be the big fundraiser.” She presses her fingers to her eyes. “I organized this whole thing. I convinced the board to try it. I promised them we’d raise real money. And now it’s going to fall apart.”

The crack in her voice guts me. This matters to her. Not just the event, but proving she can do something meaningful. That she’s more than the sunshine girl who runs a cute shop.

“When’s the game?”

“December thirtieth. Ten days away.” She drops her hands. “We can’t sell two hundred fifty tickets in ten days. Not with just local players. Apparently, no one cares about watching amateurs play hockey, even for charity.”

“You need a draw.”

“We need a miracle.” She laughs, but the sound holds no humor. “If this fails, Jessica will look bad for vouching for me. The hospital loses funding they desperately need. And everyone in town will know I couldn’t deliver. That I’m all talk.”

The defeat in her voice triggers something in me. That old instinct to fix. To solve. To make the people I care about stop hurting.

“Let me make some calls.”

“Ryder, you don’t have to—”

“I know people. Give me an hour.”

Her eyes widen. Hope flickers and dies. “You can’t just call in favors for a small-town charity game.”

“Watch me.”

I pull out my phone and head for Jim’s study. Close the door. Stare at my contact list and wonder if I’ve lost my mind. Using professional connections for Lucy’s project. Calling in favors I’ve been saving. All for a woman I can’t have and a town I don’t live in.

But her face. The way she looked when she talked about disappointing people. About not mattering enough.

I dial the first number.

“Cade Sterling speaking.”

“It’s Ryder. I need a favor.”

Cade and I came up through the juniors together. We’ve been teammates in Boston for three years. He’s solid. Dependable. The kind of guy who shows up when it counts.

“Name it,” he says.

“Pine Hollow, Vermont. December thirtieth. Charity game for Pine Hollow Children’s Hospital. Cancer ward needs equipment.” I lean against the desk. “I need you to play.”

Silence. Then: “You want me to drive to Vermont between Christmas and New Year’s to play in some random charity game?”

“Yes.”

“What about your shoulder? You cleared for contact yet?”

“It’s a charity game. No checking. Light skating only.” I grip the phone tighter. “I’ll manage.”

“You sure about this?”

“I’m asking, aren’t I?”

“Why?”

Good question. Because the woman I’m falling for needs this. Because I can fix it. Because making her smile has become more important than protecting my own interests.

“It matters,” is what I say. “Kids matter. Hospital needs the money. And I’m asking.”

“You never ask for anything.” Cade sounds intrigued now. Curious. “This about that small town you disappeared to?”

“You in or not?”

“Fine. Send me details. But you owe me.”

“Done.”

One down.

I dial Alexei Petrov next. Former teammate who moved to New York three years ago. We stay in touch. He’s good people. Also owes me from that incident in Boston I never mentioned to the press.

“Ryder? The hell you calling me at nine in the morning for?”

“Remember Boston?”

Pause. “That wasn’t my finest moment.”

“I kept it quiet. Now I’m calling in that favor.” I explain the game. The hospital. The timeline. “I need you to show up and play. One game. Two hours of your time.”

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“Christmas week, man. My parents are visiting. My girlfriend’s coming with them. I can’t just bail to Vermont.”

“Bring them. Make it a long weekend. Pine Hollow’s beautiful this time of year. The inn has good food. Your girlfriend will love it.” I press harder. “And Alexei? This is me asking. When have I ever asked you for anything?”

The silence stretches. Then: “You’re in deep with someone, aren’t you? This isn’t about hockey.”

“It’s about doing the right thing.”

“Sure it is.” But he laughs. “Fine. Text me the info. I’ll make it work. But we’re even after this.”

“Even.”

Two down. That’s three NHL players counting me. More than enough star power to sell out the event.

I text both of them the details, then head back to the kitchen. Lucy’s still there, staring at her phone as if willing it to deliver good news. When she sees me, hope wars with doubt on her face.

“Well?”

“I got three NHL players to commit to the game. Cade Sterling from Boston. Alexei Petrov from New York.” I lean against the counter. “And me.”

She blinks. “You got two more NHL players to play with you. Actual NHL players agreed to come here in ten days.”

“Marketing hook writes itself. Come watch NHL players scrimmage with locals for a good cause. Ticket prices can go up. You’ll sell out easy.”

“Ryder.” She’s staring at me like I’ve performed actual magic. “How did you—why would you—”

“You needed help. I helped.”

“But these are professional favors. You can’t just waste them on—”

“Not a waste.” I hold her gaze. “This matters to you. So it matters to me.”

The words land between us. True and raw and more honest than I’ve been with anyone in months. Her eyes go bright. Shiny in a way that makes my chest ache.

“Thank you.” The words come out whispered. Soft. Then she’s moving. Crossing the kitchen in three steps and throwing her arms around me.

I catch her on instinct. Pull her close. She fits against me like she was designed for this spot, her face buried in my shoulder, her hands fisting in my shirt. I can smell her shampoo. Feel her heart beating against my chest. Every place we touch burns.

“Thank you,” she says again into my collar. “You have no idea what this means.”

“I have some idea.”

She pulls back just enough to look up at me. Her hands are still on my chest. “Wait. Your shoulder. You’re not cleared for contact yet.”

“It’s a charity game. No checking. Just light skating.”

“Ryder.” Worry creases her forehead. “What if you re-injure it? What if this sets back your recovery?”

“Then it sets it back.” The words come out before I can think better of them. “Some things are worth the risk.”

Her breath catches. We’re staring at each other, and the air goes thick with everything we’re not saying. She’s close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her eyes. Close enough to count her freckles. Close enough that all I’d have to do is tilt my head and I could taste her mouth.

Her breath catches. Her fingers curl tighter in my shirt. We’re staring at each other, and the air goes thick with everything we’re not saying. Everything we want. Everything we can’t have.

“Ryder,” she whispers.

“Lucy.”

She rises on her toes. I lean down. The distance between us shrinks to nothing.

“Hey, you two—”

Connor’s voice hits like cold water. We spring apart. Lucy stumbles back. I shove my hands in my pockets. By the time Connor appears in the doorway, we’re three feet apart and trying to look casual. Failing spectacularly.

Connor’s eyes narrow. Bounce between us. Land on Lucy’s flushed face. My probably guilty expression. The tension humming through the room.

“Everything okay here?”

“Fine,” Lucy says too brightly. “Ryder just got NHL players for the charity game.”

“Three of them,” I add, aiming for normal. “Cade Sterling, Alexei Petrov, and me.”

Connor processes this. Evaluates it against what he walked in on. Doesn’t look convinced but can’t pin anything concrete.

“That’s great.” His tone says it’s not great. Says he knows something happened. Then his expression shifts. “Wait. You’re playing? What about your shoulder?”

“It’s non-contact. Just light skating.”

“And if someone forgets it’s non-contact? If some local hero decides to take a run at an NHL player?” Connor crosses his arms. “You could blow out your recovery. Miss the rest of the season.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“For a charity game.” He’s watching me too closely. “You’d risk your career for Lucy’s fundraiser.”

The way he says it makes it clear he’s not talking about hockey anymore.

Before I can answer, he shifts his attention to Lucy. “Lucy, Emma needs you upstairs. Gift emergency with Maisie.”

“Right. Yes.” She grabs her phone. Heads for the door. Pauses to look back at me. “Thank you. Really.”

Then she’s gone and I’m standing in the kitchen with Connor blocking the exit and suspicion radiating off him in waves.

“You want to tell me what that was about?” He crosses his arms.

“She was upset about the game. I helped.”

“By calling in professional favors. For a small-town charity event.”

“It’s for sick kids. Why wouldn’t I help?”

“Because you don’t help anyone. You’ve spent two years keeping people at arm’s length. Being the cold bastard the press writes about.” He steps closer. “Now you’re making calls to save my sister’s project? Holding her in the kitchen at nine in the morning? Don’t tell me this is just about sick kids.”

He’s right. We both know it. But admitting it means facing the consequences, and I’m not ready for that fight.

“She asked. I had the connections. That’s all.”

“Bullshit.” Connor’s jaw sets. “I know you, Ryder. And I know my sister. I see how you look at each other. How careful you’re being not to touch. How awkward breakfast was.”

“Connor—”

“I meant what I said the other night. Lucy deserves someone who stays. Someone who’s not fucked up from his ex. Someone who can give her what she needs.” He holds my gaze. “You’re my best friend. You’re my brother. But if you hurt her, we’re done. All of it. The friendship. The family. Done.”

The words land like stones. Heavy and real. The warning made explicit.

“I’m not going to hurt her,” I say. The lie tastes bitter.

Because we both know that’s not true. Know that every moment I spend near Lucy, every touch, every loaded look, every almost-kiss is leading somewhere that ends with her in pieces and Connor hating me and this family I’ve found destroyed.

I know it and can’t stop anyway.

Connor holds my gaze another beat. Then shakes his head and walks out, leaving me alone with my guilt and my want and the certainty that I’m going to fuck this up.

I just don’t know how to stop.

In the study, I text Cade and Alexei the final details. Confirm hotels. Work out logistics. Do the practical things that prove I can still function like a normal human being even though my insides are shredded.

Lucy’s grateful face keeps surfacing in my mind. The way she looked at me, like I’d hung the moon. Like I was someone worth believing in. I haven’t felt worthy of that kind of trust in two years. Haven’t wanted to be.

But with her, I want to try.

That’s the dangerous part. The wanting. The hope that maybe this could work. That maybe three weeks is enough time to figure out if this thing between us is real or just Christmas magic that evaporates when I go back to Boston and reality sets in.

Three weeks until I leave. Three weeks of torture, knowing I can’t touch her the way I want. Can’t kiss her in front of her family. Can’t take her to bed and learn every sound she makes. Can’t do any of it without destroying Connor in the process.

Three weeks of this pull between us growing stronger while I pretend I can walk away clean.

I’m lying to myself. I know that. But the alternative is walking away now, before this gets worse. Before we cross lines we can’t uncross. Before I prove Sienna right about me being selfish and cold.

The smart move is to put distance between us. Stop with the loaded looks and the almost-touches. Stop making grand gestures that give her hope. Stop pretending this can end any way but badly.

But when I think about not seeing her smile, not hearing her laugh, not having her look at me like I matter, the thought makes my chest cave in.

So I stay. I let this pull me deeper. I make calls for her charity game and hold her when she’s grateful and almost kiss her in kitchens.

I stay because I’m selfish. Because I want her. Because three weeks of this feels better than walking away with nothing.

Even knowing it’s going to destroy us both.

Connor’s right about one thing: I am fucked up. Two years of Sienna’s manipulation left scars I’m still learning to navigate. Left me not trusting my own instincts. Not believing I deserve good things.

But Lucy makes me want to try. Makes me think maybe I’m not as broken as I thought. Maybe I’m just waiting for the right person to show me how to be whole again.

The question is whether I have the guts to let her.

Whether I can risk Connor’s friendship, her heart, and the family I’ve built here for the possibility of something real.

Whether I’m brave enough to stay when leaving is so much safer.

I don’t have answers. Just want and fear and the taste of almost-kisses that haunt me. Just the memory of her body against mine and her trust in my hands and the certainty that I’m in so much deeper than I planned.

Just a few weeks to figure out if love is worth the fallout.

Starting now.

One day after Ryder saves my charity game, I’m hiding in my shop.

Not my finest moment, but I can’t face him. Can’t be in the same room without remembering how close we came to kissing. Twice. How he risked professional favors and his own recovery to fix a problem I couldn’t solve.

How he looked at me like I mattered more than hockey.

The Frost and Ivy is quiet at seven in the morning. Just me and the books and the white lights that stay on year-round. I make coffee in the espresso machine, the familiar ritual doing nothing to calm my nerves. The scent of coffee and old books wraps around me, but today it feels suffocating instead of comforting.

This is mine. My dream. The thing I built when everyone said it was impossible.

But right now all I can think about is Ryder’s voice yesterday: “This matters to you. So it matters to me.”

My phone lights up. Emma’s name flashes.

“Where are you? Dad’s making French toast, and Maisie is asking for Aunt Lulu.”

I text back: “Shop. Had inventory to catch up on.”

Emma: “You’re avoiding him.”

I stare at the screen. Type and delete three different responses before settling on: “I don’t know what to say to him.”

Emma: “Try thank you. Or maybe just kiss him already.”

Emma: “Kidding. Mostly. Call me later?”

I set the phone face down and try to focus on work. Reorganize the new release table. Straighten shelves that don’t need straightening. Make a list of orders that can wait another week.

By ten, I’ve accomplished nothing except wearing a path in the floorboards.

The bell above the door chimes.

I look up, customer smile ready. It dies when I see Natalie.

She’s carrying two paper cups from her bakery and wearing an expression I know too well. The one that says she has questions and won’t leave until she gets answers.

“Don’t you have a bakery to run?” I ask.

“Closed on Wednesdays during December. You know that.” She sets a cup in front of me. “Also, you’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“You’ve sent exactly two texts since yesterday. Both saying you’re fine.” She drops into the reading chair across from me. “So what happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Lucy.” She says my name like a warning. “The whole town is talking about how Ryder Blackwood called in NHL players for your charity game. Jessica from the hospital board won’t shut up about it. Your event went from maybe-canceled to sold-out in twelve hours.” She leans forward. “So I’ll ask again. What happened?”

I wrap my hands around the coffee cup. Take a sip. Buy myself time.

The truth comes tumbling out anyway.

“He saved it. I was falling apart because the game was going to be canceled and I’d let everyone down. And he just… fixed it. Made a few calls and got Cade Sterling and Alexei Petrov to commit. Three NHL players, Nat. For a small-town charity game.” The words rush out faster. “He risked professional favors. He’s risking his shoulder recovery. And when I asked him why, he said it mattered to me, so it mattered to him.”

Natalie’s eyes go wide. “Wow.”

“That’s not even all of it.” I set down my coffee. “After he told me, I hugged him. And we were standing there in the kitchen, and he was looking at me like… like I was something precious. And we almost kissed. We were this close.” I hold up my fingers an inch apart. “And then Connor walked in.”

“Of course he did.” Natalie sits back. “So let me get this straight. The guy you’ve been in love with since you were fifteen just made a grand romantic gesture, almost kissed you, and you’re hiding in your shop because…?”

“Because I don’t know what it means. Because he’s leaving. Because Connor already warned him off.” I stand. Start pacing. “And because during the snowstorm we had this moment by the fire. We almost kissed. And it felt like everything was about to change. But then he pulled back.”

Natalie chokes on her coffee. “I’m sorry, what?”

So I tell her. The whole story. The almost-kiss by the fire during the snowstorm. How he pulled back, said we shouldn’t. The tension between them. Then yesterday’s charity game rescue. The hug in the kitchen that turned into almost kissing again before Connor walked in. How we haven’t been alone since. How yesterday felt like he was saying something without words.

When I finish, Natalie just stares at me.

“Let me make sure I have this right,” she says. “Three nights ago during the snowstorm, you two had an intense moment by the fire where you almost kissed. Then yesterday he called in NHL favors to save your charity game. Then almost kissed you again in the kitchen.” She leans forward. “Lucy, the man is clearly into you. What are you confused about?”

Put like that, it sounds ridiculous.

“He’s leaving, Nat. He has a whole life in Boston. The NHL, the travel, the pressure. His career. And I have this.” I gesture around the shop. “My life is here. My business. My family. How is that supposed to work?”

“I don’t know. But you won’t find out if you don’t even try.” She stands. Comes to me. Takes my hands. “Lucy, when was the last time you fought for what you wanted?”

The question catches me off guard. “What?”

“You heard me. When did you become someone who gives up before she even tries?”

“I’m not giving up. I’m being realistic.”

“You’re being scared.” Her voice is firm but not unkind. “And I get it. Your mom died. Connor became your whole world. You learned to make yourself small so you didn’t lose anyone else. But Lucy.” She squeezes my hands. “You can’t live your whole life afraid of wanting things.”

The words hit harder than I expect. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s fair. You wanted this shop. Everyone said it would fail. You fought for it anyway.” She holds my gaze. “You wanted to create something meaningful in Pine Hollow. People laughed. You did it anyway. So why won’t you fight for this?”

“Because shops don’t leave. Shops don’t break your heart.”

“No. But they also don’t make you feel the way he does.” Her eyes are fierce. “I’ve never seen you like this. Even scared and confused, you’re more alive than you’ve been in years.”

I pull my hands back. Walk to the window and stare out at Main Street. The Christmas lights twinkle. People walk past bundled in coats. Everything looks the same as it always does.

But I don’t feel the same.

“What if I want more and he doesn’t?” My voice comes out small. “What if yesterday was just him being nice? What if I put myself out there and he walks away?”

“Then you’ll survive.” Natalie comes to stand beside me. “But Lucy. What if you don’t try and spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been?”

The question settles in my chest like a stone.

“I’m terrified,” I whisper.

“I know.” She wraps an arm around my shoulders. “But you’re also brave. You just forget that sometimes.”

We stand at the window watching the town wake up. The coffee shop across the street opens. The hardware store next door flips its sign. Life continuing like it always does while my entire world tilts sideways.

“So what do I do?” I ask.

“You decide what you want. Not what Connor wants. Not what’s safe or smart or expected. What you want.” She squeezes my shoulder. “And then you fight for it.”

My phone vibrates on the counter. I glance at it. Email from my landlord. The subject line: “December 31st Deadline.”

I silence it without reading.

Natalie notices. “Everything okay with the shop?”

“Fine. Just end-of-year stuff.” The building loan. The deadline. The impossible amount I need. But that problem feels insurmountable. Ryder… Ryder I might be able to have.

“Nothing I can fix right now.”

Natalie’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t push. “So. Back to the thing you can maybe fix. What are you going to do about Ryder?”

After Natalie leaves, I pace the shop. Her words echo in my head. When was the last time you fought for what you wanted?

The answer is: never. Not really. I fought for the shop, yes. But everything else? I’ve always waited to be chosen. Waited for things to be safe before I reached for them. Made myself convenient and easy and small enough that people wouldn’t mind keeping me around.

Waited for my mom to be proud before she died. Waited for Connor to see me as an adult. Waited for customers to validate my business. Waited for Ryder to notice me.

But what has that gotten me? A string of relationships that fizzled because I was too afraid to ask for what I needed. A lifetime of wondering if people actually wanted me or just tolerated me. A constant fear that wanting too much would make people leave.

I’m twenty-seven years old. I own a business. I pay my bills. I survived losing my mother. I’m an adult.

When did I stop acting like one?

The lunch crowd comes and goes. I help customers, ring up purchases, wrap gifts in cream paper with forest green ribbon. My hands know the routine, but my mind keeps circling back to Natalie’s challenge.

Yesterday, Ryder called in professional favors for me. Risked his recovery for me. Held me like I was something precious. Almost kissed me in front of where Connor could walk in any second.

That’s not nothing. That’s not just being nice.

That’s him putting me first.

And I’ve been too scared to choose him back.

By three o’clock, I’ve made a decision.

I pull out my phone. Stare at Ryder’s name in my contacts. My thumb hovers over it.

This is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman. I can send a text to a man I’ve known my entire life.

Except it’s not that simple. Because sending this text means admitting I want something. Means putting myself out there. Means risking rejection and heartbreak and all the things I’ve spent my life trying to avoid.

But yesterday he risked his career for me. The least I can do is risk my pride.

I type before I can talk myself out of it.

“Are you awake?”

My thumb hovers over send. This is it. This is me choosing. Me fighting for what I want instead of waiting for someone else to decide I’m worth the effort.

I hit send before I lose my nerve.

The three dots appear right away. He’s typing. Stopping. Typing again.

Finally: “Yes.”

One word. But I read volumes into it. The hesitation. The question. The same uncertainty I’m feeling.

I type: “Can we talk?”

The dots appear again. Longer this time.

“When?”

My heart hammers against my ribs. This is happening. I’m doing this.

“I’m at the shop. Can you come?”

The dots stop. Start. Stop again.

Then: “Give me twenty minutes.”

I set the phone down with shaking hands. Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes to figure out what I’m going to say. How to thank him for yesterday. How to ask for what I want. How to be brave when every instinct is screaming at me to play it safe.

I flip the sign to CLOSED. Lock the door. Make myself busy straightening shelves that don’t need straightening.

The next twenty minutes are the longest of my life.

I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I’m wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, my hair pulled back in a messy bun. No makeup. I look like someone who woke up at six and has been overthinking for nine hours.

Too late to change now.

At exactly twenty minutes, I hear his truck pull into the alley behind the shop. Footsteps on the back stairs. A soft knock.

I unlock the door.

Ryder stands there in jeans and his leather jacket, hair a bit messy like he ran his hands through it on the drive over. His eyes meet mine, and everything in my chest goes tight.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” He doesn’t move. Just looks at me with an expression I can’t read. “You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.” I step back. “Come in.”

He walks past me, and I lock the door behind him. The shop feels smaller with him in it. The air thicker. I’m aware of every breath, every movement.

We stand there in the quiet. Three feet apart.

“So,” he says.

“So.” I twist my hands together. “I wanted to thank you. For yesterday. For the charity game. For…” I trail off. “For everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do. You risked favors for me. You’re risking your shoulder. You fixed a problem I couldn’t solve.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “Why?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “You know why.”

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Because seeing you hurt made me want to fix it. Because I couldn’t stand the thought of you thinking you failed.” He takes a step closer. “Because making you smile has become more important than protecting my own interests. Because the thought of you disappointed made my chest cave in.” Another step. “Because somewhere between catching you off that ladder and watching you with Maisie and listening to you talk about your dreams, I started falling for you.”

The words punch through me.

“You’re falling for me,” I repeat.

“Have been since I got here. Maybe longer.” His voice is rough. “I know the timing is terrible. I know I’m leaving. I know Connor will kill us both. But Lucy.” He closes the remaining distance. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t stop wanting you. Can’t pretend this isn’t happening.”

My heart hammers so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “I’ve been thinking about the snowstorm. About what almost happened by the fire. About yesterday in the kitchen.”

“Lucy—”

“Let me finish.” I take a breath. “I know we said we shouldn’t. I know all the reasons this is wrong. Connor. Your career. The fact that you’re leaving.” Another breath. “But I realized something today.”

“What?”

“I’ve spent my whole life waiting to be chosen. Waiting for my mom to be proud before she died. Waiting for Connor to see me as an adult. Waiting for customers to validate my shop. Waiting for you to notice me.” I meet his eyes. “I’m done waiting.”

He stares at me. Doesn’t speak.

“I want you,” I say. The words come easier than I expect. “I’ve wanted you since I was fifteen and didn’t know what to call it. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel this. I’m tired of making myself smaller so other people stay comfortable.” I step closer. “Yesterday you put me first. You called in favors and risked your recovery and almost kissed me where Connor could see.”

“I did.”

“So now I’m reaching back.” My voice shakes but I hold his gaze. “I don’t know how this works with you in Boston and me here. I don’t know what happens when you leave. But I’d rather have two weeks with you than spend the rest of my life wondering what we could have been.”

The silence stretches. He’s going to say no. Going to tell me I’m crazy. Going to walk away.

Then he closes the distance between us.

His hands cup my face. His eyes search mine. “You’re sure about this?”

“I’m terrified.” The admission comes easy. “But I’m sure.”

He searches my face. Looking for doubt maybe. For hesitation. He won’t find it. Not anymore.

“Lucy Wright,” he says. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

Then he kisses me.

It’s different from what almost happened by the fire. Slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me. His hands slide into my hair and I melt against him. I taste coffee and mint and something uniquely him. His tongue traces my bottom lip and I open for him. The kiss deepens and heat floods through me.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

“So what now?” I ask.

“Now we figure this out.” His thumb traces my bottom lip. “But we do it smart. We keep it quiet. We don’t give Connor reason to suspect. Not yet.”

“Okay.”

“And Lucy?” He tilts my chin up so I have to meet his eyes. “I don’t know what this is yet. But I know I don’t want it to end when I leave. We’ll figure something out.”

The words make my chest ache in the best way. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

He kisses me again. This time it’s hungrier. His hands slide down my sides and I press closer. Heat builds between us. The kiss deepens and I lose myself in the taste of him, the feel of his body against mine. His hands find the hem of my sweater, and I arch into his touch.

A car door slams outside.

We spring apart. Both breathing hard. My lips feel swollen. His hair is messed up from my fingers.

“I should go,” he says. “Before someone sees my truck.”

“Probably.”

But neither of us moves. We stand there wrapped in each other’s space, both reluctant to break the contact.

“And Lucy?” He tilts my chin up. “Thank you. For taking the risk. For being brave enough to fight for this.”

“Thank you for being worth fighting for.”

He kisses me one more time. Quick and hard. Then he’s gone, slipping out the back door.

I stand in my empty shop with my heart racing and my lips swollen and the taste of him still on my tongue.

I did it. I reached for what I wanted. I fought instead of waiting to be picked.

And whatever happens next—whatever complications come, whatever pain might be waiting at the end—right now, in this moment, I’m proud of myself.

I’m done being small. Done settling for crumbs. Done waiting for permission to want things.

I’m Lucy Wright. I own a business. I know my worth.

And I want Ryder Blackwood.

My phone lights up.

Ryder: “Tonight. After everyone’s asleep. I’ll be parked at the end of the street.”

The message makes my stomach flip with anticipation and nerves.

Me: “What time?”

Ryder: “10:30. Think you can sneak out?”

Me: “Yes.”

Ryder: “Good. Wear something warm.”

The words make heat pool low in my belly. Because we both know we’re done with just talking.

At dinner, I pick at my food while Connor talks about the charity game ticket sales. Emma shoots me knowing looks. Dad asks about the shop’s holiday numbers. I give answers that sound normal even though nothing feels normal anymore.

Ryder sits across from me. Our eyes meet once and the air goes thick.

After dinner, I escape to my room. Shower. Stand in my closet trying to decide what to wear. Something comfortable but also something that makes me feel confident. Brave.

I settle on jeans and a soft sweater. My warmest coat. Hair down because he seems to like it that way.

I wait in my room, reading the same page of a book three times without absorbing a word. Listen to the sounds of the house settling. Connor’s TV turning off. Emma putting Maisie to bed. Dad’s door closing.

At ten-twenty, I slip out of my room. Take the back stairs. The house is dark and quiet. My heart hammers with every step.

I ease out the front door, closing it silently behind me. The night is cold and clear. Christmas lights glow from neighboring houses. My breath makes clouds in the air.

At the end of the street, headlights flash once. I walk toward them, pulse racing.

Ryder’s truck idles at the curb. He leans over and opens the passenger door.

I climb in. The cab smells like him. Cedar and mint and winter air.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” My voice barely works.

“You ready?”

“I think so.”

He shifts into drive and pulls away from the curb. His hand finds mine across the console. Laces our fingers together. The touch says everything we’re not saying out loud.

This is happening. We’re doing this. No more pretending. No more waiting.

And whatever comes next, this is my decision.

He’s mine.

I’m his.

For the first time in my life, I’m brave enough to reach for what I want.

Lucy’s hand is warm in mine.

I pull away from the curb and head toward the edge of town, which isn’t very far at all. The cab is silent except for the heater and the sound of our breathing. She hasn’t let go of my hand. I’m not letting go of hers.

“Where are we going?” she asks. Her voice is quiet. Almost shy.

“Somewhere private.” I glance at her. “Somewhere we can be alone. Really alone.”

“We’re alone now.”

“In a truck on a public road.” I lace our fingers tighter. “I want more than stolen moments in parking lots, Lucy. I want time.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “What do you want it to be?”

The question makes my chest tight. Because I don’t know. All I know is that this afternoon at her shop, when she said she was done waiting to be chosen, something in me broke open.

“I want you,” I say. Simple. True. “For however long we have. I want to see where this goes.”

“Even though you’re leaving?”

“Especially because I’m leaving.” I take the turn toward the old logging road. “I don’t know how to make this work long-term. Don’t know if I can be what you need. But Lucy, I know I want to try.”

She squeezes my hand. “That’s all I’m asking for.”

The logging road is rough. The truck bounces over ruts and rocks. Tree branches scrape the sides. Lucy grips the handle above her door but doesn’t ask where we’re going. Just trusts me.

I don’t deserve that trust. But I’m going to earn it anyway.

A quarter mile in, I turn onto an even smaller path. The trees open up and there it is.

The old Henderson hunting cabin sits in a clearing, backed by pines heavy with snow. Small. Maybe two rooms. Wood siding weathered to silver-gray. Stone chimney. Windows dark but intact. The roof sags a bit but it’s solid.

I park and kill the engine.

“What is this place?” Lucy asks.

“Hunting cabin. Belongs to Mrs. Henderson but they haven’t used it in years.” I turn to look at her. “Connor and I used to come here when we were kids. When we needed to get away from everything. I asked her this afternoon if I could use it again. Said I needed some peace.”

“Did she believe you?”

“She just handed me the key and told me to be careful.” I trace my thumb over her knuckles. “She saw us at your shop. She knows something’s going on. But she didn’t ask questions.”

Lucy’s eyes go wide. “So the whole town will know by morning.”

“Maybe. But Mrs. Henderson likes you. And she’s known me since I was a kid. Connor and I used to hide out here when we needed space from our families.” I meet her eyes. “She gave me the key without asking too many questions. I think she gets it.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

“No. But I’m choosing to trust her.” I lift Lucy’s hand. Press a kiss to her knuckles. “Because I need somewhere we can be alone. Really alone. And this is the best I could do on short notice.”

She looks at the cabin. Then back at me. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Since you texted me this afternoon. Since I knew where this was heading.” I search her face. “Is this okay? We don’t have to stay. We can just drive around if you want. Or I can take you home.”

“No.” The word comes fast. Certain. “Show me inside.”

The cabin is cold but dry. I flip the breaker by the door and lights flicker on. There’s a woodstove in the corner with kindling already laid. A worn couch with faded cushions. A table with two mismatched chairs. A doorway leading to what looks like a bedroom.

It’s not much. But it’s private. And right now, that’s everything.

Lucy walks the small space while I get the fire going. She runs her fingers along the back of the couch. Peeks into the bedroom. Comes back to stand by the stove as flames catch and start to spread.

“This is nice,” she says. “Cozy.”

“It’s falling apart.”

“It’s private.” She turns to face me. “No one knows we’re here except Mrs. Henderson. And she’s not going to tell.”

“I hope not.”

“Even if she does.” Lucy steps closer. “Even if the whole town knows by morning. I don’t regret this.”

The words hit me square in the chest. Because she means them. I can see it in her eyes. This woman who spent her whole life playing it safe just walked into a situation that could blow up spectacularly, and she’s not running.

She’s choosing me anyway.

I close the distance between us. Frame her face with my hands. “You’re sure about this? About us? Because once we start, there’s no going back.”

“I’m sure.” She goes up on her toes. Brings her mouth close to mine. “I’ve been sure since I was fifteen years old. I’m just finally brave enough to do something about it.”

I kiss her. Slow. Deep. Trying to pour everything I can’t say into the press of my lips. She melts into me. Her hands slide up my chest and into my hair. The kiss deepens and I lose myself in the taste of her.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

“We need to talk,” I say.

“Now?” She sounds incredulous.

“Now.” I take her hand. Lead her to the couch. Sit and pull her down next to me. “Before this goes any further. Before I lose the ability to think straight. We need to be clear about what we’re doing.”

She settles into the cushions. Tucks her legs under her. Watches me with eyes that are still dark from kissing. “Okay. Talk.”

I take a breath. Try to organize thoughts that scatter every time I look at her.

“This afternoon you said you wanted me. You said you were done waiting. And Lucy, I want that too. I want you. But I need you to understand what you’re getting into.”

“I know you’re leaving.”

“In two weeks. January second.” The date sits between us like a ticking clock. “My whole life is in Boston. My career. My apartment. My team. Everything.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not good at this.” The admission burns. “Relationships. Staying. Being what someone needs. My ex proved that when she posted everything on social media. Every way I failed her. Every time I chose hockey over us. She wasn’t wrong.”

“I’m not her.” Lucy’s voice is firm. “I’m not asking you to choose between hockey and me. I know who you are. What you need.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I failed at it before.” I force myself to hold her gaze. “I’m the same guy who doesn’t know how to balance career and relationship. Who disappears into training and travel and forgets to call. Who can’t promise forever because I don’t know if I’m capable of it.”

Lucy is quiet for a moment. Then she shifts closer. Takes my face in her hands.

“Let me tell you what I need,” she says. “I need honesty. Even when it’s hard. I need you to tell me when you’re scared instead of running. I need you to try.” Her thumbs stroke my jaw. “I don’t need perfect, Ryder. I don’t need promises you can’t keep. I just need you to show up and do your best. Can you do that?”

The question lodges somewhere behind my ribs. Because she’s not asking for forever. Not asking me to be someone I’m not. Just asking me to try.

“Yeah,” I say. “I can do that.”

“Then that’s enough.” She kisses me softly. “For now, that’s enough.”

I want to believe her. Want to believe that trying is enough. That I won’t inevitably fuck this up the way I fuck everything up.

“Connor can’t know,” I say. “Not yet.”

“I know.” She nods. “He’d lose his mind.”

“And I’m leaving January second.” The words taste bitter. “I don’t know what happens after. Don’t know if we can make this work long-distance.”

“So we don’t think about after.” She cups my face. “We think about now. About tonight. About however many days we have before you leave. And then we figure it out.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Her eyes are fierce. Clear. “I’m not asking you for forever, Ryder. I’m asking you for now. Can you give me that?”

The question lodges in my chest. Because she’s not asking for promises I can’t keep. Not asking me to be someone I’m not. Just asking me to be here. With her. For as long as we have.

“Yeah,” I say. “I can give you that.”

“Then stop talking about all the ways this might end.” She leans in. Brushes her lips against mine. “And start showing me why it’s worth the risk.”

I pull her onto my lap. She comes willingly. Straddles me with her knees on either side of my hips. I grip her waist, and she settles down against me. The position puts us at eye level. Lets me see every flicker of emotion across her face.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” I say, voice rough, “since you got in my truck. About taking my time. Doing this right. Making you feel exactly how much I want you.”

Her breath catches. “Oh.”

“Unless you want to just talk more about rules and expectations.”

“No.” She frames my face with her hands. “No more talking. Just us. Just this.”

I kiss her. Slow at first. Relearning the shape of her mouth. The way she sighs when I suck on her bottom lip. The small sound in the back of her throat when I trace her lower lip with my tongue.

She melts into me. Her hands slide from my face into my hair. Pull. The sting makes me groan and grind my hips up. She gasps at the contact. At the hard length of me pressing against her through denim.

“Ryder.” My name comes out breathless.

“What do you need?”

“More.” She rocks her hips. Seeking friction. “Everything. I want everything.”

The words nearly undo me. But I force myself to slow down. To savor this. Because I don’t know how many nights we’ll have. Don’t know when reality will crash back in.

Tonight might be all we get. I’m going to make it count.

I slide my hands under her sweater. Her skin is warm silk under my palms. I trace her ribcage, and she arches into the touch. Her breasts press against my chest, and I can feel her nipples peaked through lace.

“Can I take this off?” I ask.

“Yes.” No hesitation. “Please.”

I push the sweater up. She raises her arms, and I strip it over her head. Toss it aside. Then I’m looking at her in just jeans and a pale pink bra that does nothing to hide how turned on she is.

“Beautiful,” I say. The word doesn’t come close.

Pink floods her cheeks but she doesn’t cover herself. Just sits there in my lap, breathing hard, letting me look.

I trace the top edge of her bra with one finger. Watch her pupils widen. Then I lean down and press my mouth to the swell of her breast above the lace.

She makes a sound. High and needy.

I want to hear it again. Want to catalog every sound she makes. Want to know exactly what undoes her.

My hands slide up her back. Find the clasp of her bra. “Okay?”

“Yes.” She’s shaking. “Yes, please.”

I unhook the clasp. Push the straps down her arms. The bra falls away, and then she’s bare from the waist up. Perfect breasts with pink nipples already peaked. Rapid rise and fall of her chest. Flush spreading down from her face.

“Stop staring,” she whispers.

“Can’t.” I palm one breast. Feel the weight of it. Brush my thumb over the nipple and watch her eyes go dark. “You’re perfect.”

Before she can argue I put my mouth on her.

She bows back. One hand flies to my hair and grips. The other braces on the couch behind me. I lick and suck and worship her breasts while she rocks against me. Each roll of her hips grinds down on my cock and I’m so hard it borders on pain.

“Ryder.” She tugs my hair. “I need—”

“What do you need?”

“You. Inside me. Now.”

“Not yet.” I switch to her other breast. Give it the same attention. “Want to make you come first.”

“I already—” She breaks off when I bite down gently. “Oh god.”

I slide one hand between us. Cup her through denim. Press my palm against where I know she’s aching. She shatters.

Her whole body goes taut. Her head falls back. She bites her lip hard to keep from crying out. I watch her come undone in my lap. Feel her shaking. Hear the small whimpers she can’t hold back.

When she comes back to herself, she’s boneless against me. Her forehead rests on my shoulder. Her breath comes hot and fast against my neck.

“That was…” She can’t finish.

“We’re not done.”

She pulls back to look at me. Her eyes are glazed. Her lips swollen. “We’re not?”

“Not even close.” I stand with her still in my arms. She wraps her legs around my waist. I carry her toward the bedroom. “We’ve got all night. I’m going to take my time.”

The bedroom is small. Just a double bed with a worn quilt and a window that overlooks the trees. I set Lucy down on the edge of the bed. She reaches for me but I step back.

“Let me look at you,” I say.

“Ryder—”

“Please.” The word comes out rough. “Just let me look.”

She settles back on her hands. Lets me drink her in. Her hair falling in waves around bare shoulders. Her lips red and swollen. The way her chest rises and falls. The flush spreading down her neck.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I kneel between her legs. Rest my hands on her thighs. Look up at her.

“Last chance to change your mind,” I say.

“I’m not changing my mind.” She cups my face. “I’m here, Ryder. That’s my answer.”

The words settle into my chest like a vow. Like a promise. Like the answer to a question I didn’t know I was asking.

“Then I’m here too,” I say.

I take my time. Strip away her jeans and underwear with hands that shake. Worship every inch of skin I reveal with my mouth. Map her body until she’s writhing and gasping my name.

When I finally put my mouth where she needs me most, she comes apart so beautifully I almost lose it right there.

After, when she’s boneless and gasping, I strip off my own clothes. Cover her body with mine.

“You okay?” I ask.

“More than okay.” She wraps her arms around my neck. “That was incredible.”

“Just getting started.” I kiss her softly. Pull back to look at her. “Still want more?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “Please.”

I reach for my jeans. For the condom I’ve been carrying since this afternoon. Just hoping. Just in case.

She watches me roll it on with eyes that are dark and hungry.

“Come here,” she says.

I settle between her thighs. Line myself up. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” She rocks her hips up. “Stop asking and just—”

I slide inside.

We both freeze. Her eyes go wide, pupils blown dark with pleasure. I feel her clench around me, tight and hot, and have to grip the sheets to keep from moving. To give her time to adjust. To breathe through the overwhelming sensation of being inside her.

“Okay?” My voice doesn’t work right. Comes out rough and broken.

“Yeah.” She rocks her hips experimentally. Takes me deeper. Her breath catches, and I feel the tremor that runs through her. “More than okay. Move, Ryder.”

I do. Start slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Building the rhythm. Her hands find my shoulders, nails digging in as I angle my hips and find that spot that makes her gasp. I watch her face as she takes what she needs—the way her lips part, the flush spreading down her neck, the little crease between her brows when the pleasure gets intense.

She wraps her legs around my waist, changing the angle, and I groan against her throat. Kiss the racing pulse there. Taste salt and vanilla and her.

“There,” she breathes. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

I don’t. Keep the steady rhythm even when my muscles burn. Even when I want to go faster, harder. I wait for her, listening to the sounds she makes when I hit the right spot. The way her breathing changes. The desperate little noises in the back of her throat that tell me she’s close.

Her inner walls flutter around me. She arches up, pressing her chest against mine, and I feel the exact moment she tips over. The way her whole body goes taut, then shudders. The sound of my name breaking apart on her lips.

It pulls me under. I bury my face in her neck and let go, feeling her clench around me in aftershocks as I come. Stars burst behind my eyelids. My heart hammers so hard I think it might crack my ribs.

It’s perfect. She’s perfect. This is perfect.

And when the world comes back into focus, when I can breathe again, I know I’m in trouble.

Because this won’t be enough. However much time we have, it won’t be enough. Not even close.

After, we lie tangled together under the quilt. The fire in the other room has burned down to embers, casting the bedroom in shadow and amber light. Snow falls harder outside the window, coating the glass in white. Lucy’s head rests on my chest, her hair tickling my jaw. My fingers trace idle patterns on her bare shoulder—circles and loops and the outline of her collarbone.

Her breathing evens out. Slows. But she’s not asleep yet.

“That was…” She trails off.

“Yeah.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “What time is it?”

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up. “Just past two.”

“We should probably go back soon. Before anyone wakes up.”

“Probably.” But neither of us moves.

The real world waits outside this cabin. Connor and his warnings. My career and her business. The deadline counting down. All the reasons this won’t work.

But in here, for now, we’re safe. Just us. Just this moment.

“Ryder?” Lucy’s voice is soft.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t regret this. Whatever happens, I want you to know that.”

I press a kiss to her hair. “I don’t regret it either.”

It’s the truth. Even knowing this might end in flames. Even knowing I’ll probably hurt her. Even knowing our time is limited.

Right now, holding her, I don’t regret a single choice that led us here.

“We should go,” she finally says. “Before it gets too late.”

We dress in silence. The magic of the last few hours settles into something quieter. More real. By the time we’re in the truck driving back toward town, the world is still deep in sleep. No lights in windows. No cars on the road.

“I’ll park down the street,” I say. “We can sneak in through the back.”

“Together?”

“Together.” I glance at her. “Safer than you walking alone in the dark anyway.”

I park two houses down with the headlights off. Kill the engine. We sit there for a moment in the quiet.

“Ready?” I ask.

She nods. Takes my hand. “Ready.”

We slip out of the truck. Close the doors as quietly as possible. The house is dark when we approach. Not a single light on. Everyone asleep.

I use my key on the back door. The lock clicks. We both freeze. Listen. Nothing. No movement upstairs. No footsteps.

Inside, we pause in the mudroom. Lucy’s hand is still in mine. In the darkness I can just make out her face. Her eyes wide. A small smile playing at her lips.

This is insane. We’re sneaking into her father’s house at three in the morning like teenagers.

I love it.

I pull her close. Kiss her once. Quick and soft. She melts into me for just a second before pulling back.

“Upstairs,” she whispers.

We take the stairs slow. Careful. I know which steps creak. Third from the bottom. Seventh from the top. We avoid them both.

At the landing, we pause outside our doors. Her room. My room. The bathroom that connects them.

“Goodnight,” she mouths.

“Goodnight,” I mouth back.

She slips into her room. I slip into mine. Both doors close with barely a sound.

In bed, I stare at the bathroom door that connects to Lucy’s room. Listen to the quiet sounds of her moving around. Getting ready for bed. The water running. Then silence.

My phone buzzes.

Lucy: “We made it.”

Me: “Like a couple of professionals.”

Lucy: “Tonight was perfect.”

Me: “Yeah. It was.”

Lucy: “Goodnight, Ryder.”

Me: “Goodnight, Lucy.”

I set the phone down. Roll onto my side. Close my eyes and see her face. Feel her hands. Hear her voice saying “I’m here.”

For now, she’s mine. I’m hers. Secret or not, complicated or not, temporary or not.

And tomorrow we’ll figure out how to make this work in daylight.

But tonight was perfect.

Tonight was ours.

I wake up in my own bed with Ryder’s texts still glowing on my phone.

Last night at the cabin feels like a fever dream. His hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me like I was something precious. The way we fit together, clumsy and perfect at once.

My body still hums with the memory of it.

I roll over and stare at the bathroom door that connects to his room. He’s on the other side of that wall, maybe thirty feet away. Close enough to touch, if I were brave enough to cross that threshold in daylight.

But daylight changes things. Makes them real. Makes them risky.

My phone lights up on the nightstand.

Ryder: “You awake?”

Me: “Unfortunately.”

Ryder: “Regrets?”

The question makes my chest tight. Because no. God, no. Last night was perfect. But now we have to figure out how to exist in the same house, at the same breakfast table, pretending nothing’s changed when everything has.

Me: “None. You?”

Ryder: “Not even one.”

I’m smiling at my phone like a teenager when someone knocks.

“Lucy?” Emma’s voice through the door. “You coming down for breakfast?”

I scramble upright, shoving the phone under my pillow. “Yeah! Be right there!”

“Connor made pancakes. Better hurry before they’re gone.”

Her footsteps retreat, and I exhale. This is fine. I can do this. I can sit at a table with Ryder and Connor and Emma and act completely normal.

Except I’ve never been good at lying.

The kitchen smells like butter and maple syrup when I finally make it downstairs. Connor’s at the stove, flipping pancakes with the same focus he brings to everything. Emma’s at the table with coffee and her phone. And Ryder—

Ryder’s leaning against the counter, showered and dressed, looking completely unfair in a navy henley that makes his eyes even bluer.

He glances up when I enter. Our eyes catch. Hold. Something electric passes between us before I force myself to look away.

“Morning,” I say, aiming for casual.

“Morning.” Connor plates another pancake. “Sleep okay?”

“Great.” The lie comes too quick, too bright. “Really great.”

Emma smirks into her coffee.

I grab a mug and pour, hyperaware of Ryder behind me. When I turn to reach for the milk, we nearly collide. His hand steadies my elbow. Just that small touch—his fingers on my arm—sends heat racing through me.

“Sorry,” he says, voice low.

“It’s fine.”

We stand there a beat too long. Close enough that I can smell his soap. See the faint shadow of stubble he missed shaving. Remember exactly what that stubble felt like against my skin.

“Pancakes are ready,” Connor announces.

I step away quickly, taking my coffee to the table. Ryder follows a moment later, sitting diagonally from me. Safe distance. Appropriate distance.

Except his foot finds mine under the table.

I freeze, mug halfway to my lips. He’s looking at his plate, cutting pancakes, expression perfectly neutral. But his foot presses against mine—deliberate, warm—and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

“So what’s everyone doing today?” Emma asks.

“Shop inventory,” I say. “Year-end counts.”

“I’ll help,” Ryder offers immediately.

Connor looks up. “I thought we were going to work on the deck railing?”

“I can do both.” Ryder shrugs. “Help Lucy this morning, work on the railing this afternoon.”

“Since when do you care about bookshop inventory?”

“Since I’m trying to be useful.” Ryder’s tone stays easy. “And Lucy needs the help.”

It’s not a lie. I do need help. But Connor’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to figure out an equation that doesn’t quite balance.

“Fine,” he says finally. “But I need you after lunch.”

“Deal.”

Under the table, Ryder’s foot slides along my calf.

I focus very hard on my pancakes.

An hour later, the shop is quiet when we arrive. I flip the CLOSED sign—Sundays are my day off—and lock the door behind us.

For a moment, we just stand there. Then Ryder moves.

He backs me against the door, hands framing my face, and kisses me like he’s been starving for it. I make a sound—half gasp, half relief—and pull him closer.

“Missed you,” he breathes against my mouth.

“You saw me an hour ago.”

“Too long.” He kisses down my jaw, my neck. “Been thinking about this since breakfast. Since I woke up. Since last night.”

“We’re supposed to be doing inventory.”

“We will.” His teeth graze my pulse point. “In a minute.”

A minute turns into ten. Twenty. We end up on the couch in the back office, me in his lap, both of us breathing hard. His hands slip under my sweater—not pushing, just touching, relearning—and I arch into it.

“God, Lucy.” His voice is wrecked. “You’re killing me.”

“Good.”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of us. Then he pulls back just enough to look at me, and whatever he sees in my face makes his expression shift—hungry and tender all at once

“We should actually work,” he says, though his hands tighten on my hips like he has no intention of letting go.

“Probably.”

Neither of us moves.

“Tell me something,” I say. “Something you didn’t tell me last night.”

His expression shifts—guarded, then considering. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something true.”

He traces patterns on my lower back, thinking. “I’m scared this is going to end before it starts. That we’ll run out of time and I’ll have to leave and it won’t be enough.”

The admission lands heavy between us. I cup his face, making him meet my eyes.

“So we make the most of the time we have,” I say. “That’s all we can do.”

“Is it enough for you? Knowing I’m leaving?”

“It has to be.” I kiss him softly. “Because the alternative is not having this at all. And I don’t want that.”

“Me neither.”

We stay like that—foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air—until the tension shifts from desperate to tender. Then he kisses me once more and sets me gently off his lap.

“Inventory,” he says firmly.

“Inventory,” I agree.

We work side by side for the next two hours. It’s domestic and normal and perfect. He counts. I enter numbers. We argue about my organizational system. He makes me laugh by finding increasingly ridiculous book titles.

“Listen to this one,” he says, holding up a romance novel. “‘The Duke’s Forbidden Christmas.'”

“It’s a classic.”

“It’s absurd.”

“You’re absurd.” I snatch the book from him. “And you’re in the wrong section. This goes in historical, not contemporary.”

“They all look the same to me.”

“Philistine.”

He grins and pulls me close for a quick kiss. “Your philistine.”

The words settle warm in my chest. Dangerous words. Claiming words.

But I don’t correct him.

We finish the inventory around two. Ryder heads back to help Connor with the deck, and I spend the afternoon doing paperwork and trying not to think about tonight. About whether we’ll find another excuse to be alone. About how dangerous this is becoming.

By the time I close up the shop and head home for dinner, my nerves are strung tight with anticipation. Connor’s truck is in the driveway. So is Ryder’s. Emma’s car sits beside them, meaning we’ll all be together for another meal of carefully maintained pretense.

Dinner is easier than breakfast, though. Connor’s exhausted from working on the deck all afternoon and barely talks. Emma carries most of the conversation, telling stories about her students. Ryder and I are careful not to look at each other too much, not to let our hands brush when passing dishes.

We’re getting better at this. More practiced.

I’m not sure if that’s good or terrifying.

After dinner, Connor disappears to his room with his laptop. Emma settles in the living room with a book. I retreat upstairs, shower, and try to read in bed. But the words blur together. All I can think about is Ryder on the other side of that bathroom door.

When my phone screen illuminates the darkness hours later, I’m still awake.

Ryder: “You awake?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Ryder: “Come to my room?”

My heart hammers. We shouldn’t. It’s too risky. Connor’s just down the hall. One wrong sound, one creaky floorboard, and everything explodes.

Me: “Connor will hear.”

Ryder: “We’ll be quiet.”

Me: “That’s what we said last time.”

Ryder: “And we were. Mostly.”

I bite my lip, considering. Every logical part of me screams this is a bad idea. But the rest of me—the part that’s still humming from this morning’s kisses, from last night’s cabin—wants him too much to care.

Me: “Five minutes.”

I wait in the darkness, listening. When Connor’s snoring filters through the walls, I slip out of bed.

The bathroom door opens silently. I cross the tiled floor in bare feet, careful to avoid the creaky cabinet. His bedroom door on the other side is unlocked. I ease it open and slip inside. He closes it soundlessly behind me.

“Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi.”

Then we’re kissing again, urgent and careful at once. He walks me backward to his bed. We fall onto it together, swallowing each other’s laughter.

“We have to be quiet,” I breathe.

“I know.”

“I’m serious, Ryder. One sound—”

He kisses me silent. “I know. Trust me.”

I do. That’s the terrifying part.

We undress each other slowly, mindful of every zipper and button. His hands shake slightly when he reaches for the hem of my shirt, and I love that he’s still nervous. Still treating this like it matters. When we’re finally skin to skin, he pulls the blankets over us—warmth and privacy and a cocoon against the world.

This time is different from the cabin. Less frantic. More deliberate. We’ve learned each other now. Know what makes the other gasp. Where to touch. How to move. His mouth finds the curve of my neck, the hollow of my throat, and I arch into him. My hands map the muscles of his back, feeling them shift under my palms.

“Lucy,” he whispers against my collarbone, and the way he says my name makes me feel precious.

When he finally positions himself above me, our eyes meet in the darkness. There’s something in his expression that steals my breath—want mixed with tenderness, heat tempered by care.

“You’re sure?” he asks, even though we’ve already done this. Even though we both know the answer.

I pull him down to me instead of answering, and when he slides inside me, we both freeze—adjusting, savoring. His forehead rests against mine. Our breathing syncs. For a moment, we’re perfectly still, just feeling the connection. The weight of him. The fullness. The rightness of it.

“Okay?” he whispers.

“Perfect.”

We find our rhythm slowly, each movement controlled and careful. His hand tangles in my hair. Mine grips his shoulder. We move together like we’re learning a dance, stumbling at first, then finding the beat. When pleasure builds too high, threatening to break my silence, he covers my mouth with his hand. I taste salt on his palm. Feel his pulse hammering against my lips.

I do the same for him when his breathing hitches, when I feel him getting close. The intimacy of it—muffling each other’s pleasure, protecting this secret together—makes it even more intense. We’re partners in this. Conspirators. Two people choosing each other despite every reason not to.

When release finally crashes through me, I bite down on his palm to keep from crying out. He buries his face in my neck, his moan vibrating against my skin. We shatter together, clinging to each other like the world might end if we let go.

After, we lie tangled together, both trembling with spent adrenaline and suppressed sound.

“That was—” I start.

A door opens in the hallway.

We both freeze. Footsteps. The bathroom door closes.

Connor.

Ryder’s arms tighten around me. We don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just listen to water running, toilet flushing, footsteps retreating. Door closing.

Silence.

We wait another full minute before either of us dares to exhale.

“That was close,” I whisper.

“Too close.” But he’s grinning in the darkness.

“I should go back.”

“Not yet.” His arms tighten around me. “Just a few more minutes.”

“Ryder—”

“Please. I’m not ready to let you go yet.”

I should argue. Should insist on leaving now while it’s safe. But his bed is warm and I’m boneless with satisfaction and the risk feels worth it.

“Ten minutes,” I say.

“Deal.”

But ten minutes turns to twenty, and twenty to thirty, and somewhere in the warmth of his arms, I drift off without meaning to.

***

Something wakes me. A sound. Movement.

I open my eyes to predawn gray. Ryder’s arm is heavy across my waist. I’m still in his bed.

Panic flares. I slept through the night. I was supposed to go back.

Then I hear it again—footsteps in the hallway.

The door handle turns.

I have exactly two seconds to react. I roll off the far side of the bed, taking the blanket with me, and drop to the floor. The carpet muffles my landing, but barely. I press myself flat, heart hammering so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.

The door cracks open.

“Ryder?” Connor’s voice. “You awake?”

I hold my breath. Don’t move. Don’t even blink.

Ryder makes a groggy sound. “What?”

“Did you hear something?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. A thump. Thought it came from your room.”

“Probably just the house settling. Go back to bed.”

Silence. Connor’s considering. I can practically hear him thinking.

Then: “Yeah. Okay. Sorry.”

The door closes.

I stay frozen on the floor, blanket wrapped around my naked body, until Ryder’s hand appears over the edge of the bed.

“Coast is clear,” he whispers.

I take his hand and let him pull me up. We stare at each other in the dim light, both of us wide-eyed with panic and adrenaline.

Then we both start shaking with silent laughter.

“That was insane,” I whisper.

“That was too close.”

“I fell asleep. I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep.”

“I know.” He pulls me down to sit on the edge of the bed. “But you’re okay. We’re okay.”

“This time.” I find my clothes scattered on the floor. Start dressing with shaking hands. “Next time we might not be so lucky.”

“So we’re more careful.”

“Or we stop.” I pull my shirt over my head. “Before we get caught. Before this blows up.”

He catches my hand. “Do you want to stop?”

No. God, no. Every cell in my body screams no.

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” I say instead. “Except you. And that terrifies me.”

He stands, cups my face. “It terrifies me too. But I’m not ready to stop. Not yet.”

“Even though it’s dangerous?”

“Especially because it’s dangerous.” He kisses me softly. “We just have to be smarter. More careful.”

“Define careful.”

“Not falling asleep in each other’s beds.”

“Good start.”

“No more late-night visits when Connor’s home.”

“Also good.”

“Finding other places to be alone.” His mouth curves. “Like the shop. The truck. The cabin.”

“Worth it.”

I should argue. Should point out all the ways this can still go wrong. Instead, I kiss him once more and slip back to my room before the house wakes up.

In my own bed, I stare at the ceiling and try to calm my racing heart.

This is dangerous. Reckless. Unsustainable.

And I don’t want to stop.

Sleep is impossible after that, so I lie there watching the sky lighten through my window. By the time I hear movement downstairs—Emma, always the early riser—I’ve rehearsed a dozen conversations about what we’re doing and how to tell Connor.

None of them end well.

I force myself out of bed and downstairs. Emma’s in the kitchen making coffee, still in her pajamas.

“Morning,” I say, trying for normal.

She turns, takes one look at my face, and sets down her mug.

“So,” she says casually, though her eyes are sharp. “How long has this been going on?”

I nearly drop my own mug. “What?”

“You and Ryder.” She leans against the counter, eyebrows raised. “Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

My face burns. “Emma—”

“Relax. I’m not judging.” She sips her coffee. “I’m just saying, you two are about as subtle as a neon sign. The way you look at each other? Please.”

“Does Connor know?”

“Connor couldn’t find a clue if it hit him in the face.” She smiles. “Your secret’s safe. But Lucy, be careful. Not because I think it’s wrong. Because Connor’s going to lose his mind when he finds out.”

“If he finds out.”

“When.” Emma’s voice is gentle but firm. “These things always come out. And when they do, you better have a plan.”

She leaves me standing there, coffee cooling in my hands, her warning ringing in my ears.

When, not if.

The clock is ticking. The question is whether we’ll end this on our terms or let it explode in our faces.

I pull out my phone.

Me: “We need to be more careful.”

Ryder: “Agreed. What changed?”

Me: “Emma knows.”

Ryder: “Shit.”

Me: “She won’t tell. But she’s right. We’re being obvious.”

Ryder: “So what do we do?”

I stare at the message, considering. We could stop. End it now before anyone else gets hurt. Before Connor finds out and everything goes to hell.

But I don’t want to stop. Not yet. Not when we’ve only just started.

Me: “We get better at hiding. And we figure out what we’re going to tell Connor before he figures it out himself.”

It’s not a solution. It’s barely even a plan. But it’s all we have.

And for now, it’s enough.

I wake before my alarm. Lucy sleeps beside me, one hand tucked under her cheek, dark hair spilling across my pillow. Morning light catches the curve of her shoulder. I trace the line of her spine with my eyes and feel content in a way I haven’t in years.

Two days of this. Only two days since the cabin, since everything changed, and already I can’t imagine waking up any other way. She snuck through the bathroom again last night after everyone went to bed. Left her book on the nightstand when she finally fell asleep. I can still smell her vanilla shampoo on my sheets. The best sleep I’ve had since before the accident.

Lucy stirs before my alarm goes off. Her eyes flutter open, and when she sees me watching, a slow smile curves her lips.

“Morning, stalker.”

“Morning.” I brush hair from her face. “You snore.”

“I do not.” She swats my chest. “Take it back.”

“Make me.”

She does. The kiss turns heated, hands wandering, until we both pull back breathless.

“We should go before someone comes looking,” she whispers.

“Breakfast?”

She grins. “My favorite place. Meet you there in twenty minutes?”

We sneak out separately—her through the front door with her purse and coat, me ten minutes later claiming I need coffee from town. By the time I reach the diner, she’s already at a corner booth, studying the menu with a small smile.

I slide in across from her, and under the table, her foot finds mine.

An hour later, after French toast and terrible coffee, we’re talking about everything. Lucy’s hands move as she describes her vision for the New Year’s window display at The Frost & Ivy.

“Winter wonderland meets cozy reading nook,” she says, stealing my bacon. “Fairy lights and fake snow and maybe some of those vintage skis from the antique shop.”

I watch her face light up the way it always does when she talks about the shop. “Sounds perfect.”

“Yeah?” She tilts her head. “Not too much?”

“Those customers are lucky to have you.”

Pink floods her cheeks. She looks down at her plate. “We’ll see if I can pull it off.”

Something hesitates in her voice. I file it away.

“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?”

“Oh.” She blinks. “Usually just family stuff at home. Watch the ball drop with Dad and whoever else is around.”

“Come to the team party.”

“The team party?” Her eyebrows lift. “In Boston?”

“Yeah. I’ll fly you out. You can stay at my place.” I pause. “As my girlfriend, if you want. Official labels and everything.”

She blinks. “Girlfriend?”

“I’d like that.” The words come easier than expected. “Unless you want casual.”

“No.” She laces her fingers through mine across the table. “I like girlfriend. You’re sure? It won’t be weird introducing me to your teammates?”

“They’ll love you.” I bring her hand to my mouth. “So you’ll come?”

“Yes. I’ll come.”

She immediately starts planning. Wants to make cookies for the team. Of course she does. I tell her about the ugly sweater tradition and watch her face light up as she plots her outfit.

Easy. Comfortable. The kind of morning I never thought I’d want.

Happiest I’ve been in five years. Maybe longer.

The thought should terrify me. We’ve only been together two days. But it doesn’t feel rushed. It feels inevitable.

By evening, I text Lucy to see if she wants dinner. Her response comes fast: “At the shop. Drowning in paperwork. Send help.”

I grab Thai takeout from her favorite place and head to The Frost & Ivy. The CLOSED sign is up, but I can see the lights on in the back office. I knock on the glass door.

She appears from the back, looking harried. When she sees it’s me, relief washes over her face. She unlocks the door and lets me in.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she says, eyeing the takeout bags.

But when I get a good look at her, my smile fades.

The shop’s back office looks like a bomb site. Papers everywhere. Her laptop shows what looks like mortgage documents. An empty mug sits on folders marked “Henderson Property Sale.” She’s cross-legged on the floor behind her desk, staring at her phone like it betrayed her.

“Hey.” I set the takeout on her desk. “You okay?”

She startles. Red-rimmed eyes. “God. Is it seven already?”

“Quarter past.”

“Shit.” She scrambles up, shoving papers. “Sorry. Lost track. Just need five minutes to…”

“Lucy.” I catch her hand. “Talk to me.”

“Nothing. It’s fine. Just organizing paperwork.” She won’t meet my eyes.

“Bullshit.”

Her jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”

“You’re a terrible liar.” I gesture at the chaos. “What’s going on?”

She almost brushes me off. Then her shoulders cave and she sinks into the reading chair. I pull over the desk chair and sit close enough that our knees touch.

“The building.” Her voice is small. “Mrs. Henderson’s selling.”

“This building?” I look around. “Your landlord is selling the shop?”

“I’ve been renting from her for two years. She wants to move to Florida, be closer to her daughter.” Lucy picks at her jeans. “She offered me first right of refusal. There’s a clause in my lease.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Would be if I had the money.” Her voice breaks. “I’ve saved almost everything. Worked every extra shift, lived at home with Dad to save on rent, put every spare dollar aside. I have a hundred and eighty-five thousand.”

The number staggers me. Two years of brutal saving.

“How much do you need?”

“Purchase price is two hundred thousand. Fair for the property, the location.” She finally looks at me. Devastation makes my ribs ache. “I’m fifteen thousand short. Option to buy expires December twenty-third. Day after tomorrow.”

“What happens if you can’t buy?”

“Developer’s already made an offer. Cash deal. He wants to convert the building to condos.” Her hands twist together. “I lose the shop. Everything I’ve built.”

I pull her against me. Let her press into my shoulder.

“The bank denied me for an additional loan,” she says into my shirt. “I’m already carrying debt from the renovation two years ago. My family can’t help. Connor’s house is mortgaged and Dad’s living on a fixed income. I’ve been trying for weeks to figure this out, but there’s nothing left to try.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s not your problem.” She pulls back, wiping her eyes. “I’ve been dealing with this since Thanksgiving. Mrs. Henderson told me then she wanted to sell. I’ve been scrambling to get the money together, trying to make the numbers work. Didn’t want to dump it on you when you just got here. You’re supposed to be on vacation, spending time with Connor, not solving my financial disasters.”

“You’re not a disaster.”

“I’m fifteen thousand dollars from losing my dream, Ryder. That feels pretty disastrous.”

I hold her while she cries. Make her eat the Thai food I brought. Let her show me the spreadsheets where every dollar is accounted for, every option already exhausted.

Later, when exhaustion finally claims her, she falls asleep in the reading chair, papers still scattered around us. I watch her for a moment—the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Then I carefully tuck the shop’s throw blanket around her shoulders and step outside into the cold December night.

The solution is clear. I have the money. More than enough. Five hundred thousand sitting in savings while I figure out life after hockey. Fifteen thousand is nothing.

But I know Lucy. Know her pride. If I offer directly, she’ll refuse. Will see it as charity. As me swooping in to save her.

So I pull out my phone and open my banking app.

Wire transfer. Same day. I type in Mrs. Henderson’s information from the papers Lucy left on the coffee table. Add a note: “Payment toward Lucy Wright’s purchase of 147 Main Street.”

The transfer goes through. Money will be in Mrs. Henderson’s account by morning.

I go back into the shop. Lucy’s still asleep, curled in the reading chair under the blanket. I settle into the chair beside her and pull out my phone to check the time. Nearly midnight.

We should get back to Jim’s house before anyone notices we’re both gone. But watching her sleep, peaceful for the first time all evening, I can’t bring myself to wake her yet.

The realization hits clean.

I’m in love with her.

Not falling. Not halfway. Completely. Lucy Wright with her impossible dreams and her stubborn pride and her way of making me feel like more than a washed-up player counting down to retirement.

My hands shake as I tuck the blanket higher. She murmurs in sleep and curls closer.

I should tell her. The words press against my teeth.

My throat locks the way it always does when emotions get too big. Same paralysis through my parents’ divorce. My sister’s wedding. Every moment that required more than showing up.

Actions are easier. So I hold her and tell myself tomorrow will be enough.

Around one in the morning, I finally wake her. She blinks up at me, disoriented, then remembers where we are. We lock up the shop and drive separately back to Jim’s house—can’t risk Connor seeing us arrive together. She goes in first. I wait five minutes, then follow.

The house is dark and quiet. I slip upstairs to my room, and a few minutes later, I hear the soft click of the bathroom door. Lucy appears, already in her sleep clothes, exhaustion and worry still etched on her face.

She crosses to my bed without a word and climbs in beside me. I pull her close, and she tucks herself against my chest with a sigh.

“Thank you for tonight,” she whispers. “For listening. For being there.”

I press a kiss to her hair. Want to tell her it’s already handled, that she doesn’t need to worry anymore. But I know she needs to discover it herself, to feel like she figured it out.

So I just hold her tighter and let her fall asleep in my arms.

Morning comes too fast. Lucy’s phone buzzes on the nightstand—Mrs. Henderson’s name flashing on the screen. Lucy’s still curled against me, warm and soft. I nudge her awake and point to her phone, watching confusion cloud her sleepy face.

“Mrs. Henderson?” She sits up, pulling the sheet with her. “Hi. Yes, I know. I’m still working on…” She trails off. Listens. Her face does something complicated. “I’m sorry, what?”

I can’t hear the other end, but I watch Lucy’s expression shift from confusion to shock to something like hope.

“Someone paid fifteen thousand dollars? To your account?” She stands. Paces to the window. “Who? You don’t know?” Pause. “Anonymous? But that doesn’t… the transfer came from where?”

Her eyes cut to me.

“Boston,” she says slowly. “The wire came from a Boston bank.”

My pulse kicks in my temples.

“Mrs. Henderson, can you give me a minute? I need to… yes. Thank you. I’ll call you back.”

She hangs up. Turns to face me. Those eyes that see everything.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

I could deny it. Should. But looking at her face, hope and fear warring, I can’t.

“Yes.”

She sucks in air. Long moment of nothing. Then she sets the phone down with care.

“How?”

“Wired it last night. Directly from my account to hers.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars.” Says it slow. Testing weight. “You just… transferred it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Voice cracks. “Why would you do that without telling me?”

“You needed it. I could help.” I stand. Keep distance. “Watching you tear yourself apart was killing me.”

“So you just fixed it? Made the problem disappear?”

“Yes.” No apology. Not sorry. “I’d do it again.”

“That’s not…” She breaks off. Blinks fast. “I don’t need you to save me.”

“I know.”

“Do you? This feels like you trying to fix my problems. Like I’m some charity case who can’t handle her own life.”

“Not what this is.”

“Then what?” She whirls. “Explain it, because I’m trying to figure out if I should be grateful or pissed, and I don’t know.”

Words press against my throat. I love you. This is what I do when I love someone. Show up. Help. Make things better because I’m shit at saying what I feel.

The words won’t come.

“I care about you.” I manage that much. “I care about your dream. This was something I could do, so I did.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars.” Her voice shakes. “Not a small amount.”

“It is to me.”

Her eyes flash. “Not to me. It’s nearly a year’s salary for most people in this town. Difference between making rent and not. It’s…” Stops. Breathes. “Too much.”

“Already done.”

“Then I’ll pay you back.”

“Lucy…”

“No.” Cuts me off. Voice firm. “If you want to help, if you really care about me and my work, you’ll let me pay you back. Not a donation. A loan. With interest.”

I want to argue. Want to tell her she doesn’t have to. That I don’t need the money. But looking at her face, that stubborn jaw and proud eyes, I realize this isn’t about money.

It’s about agency. Independence. Same strength that drew me first.

“Okay. We’ll set up a payment plan. Whatever works.”

Tension leaves her shoulders. “Thank you.”

“But Lucy?” I step closer. “Not sorry I did it.”

“I know.” She touches my face. Tears on her cheeks. “And I’m not sorry you did either. Just… need you to understand I have to do this my way. Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts.”

“Understand.”

She kisses me. Soft. Slow. Eyes wet when she pulls back.

“Thank you. For caring. For wanting to help. For seeing my dream as something worth saving.”

“Always.”

She pulls me into a hug. Holds tight. I breathe in the vanilla scent of her hair and feel the terror of it in my ribs.

New territory. Caring about someone so much the thought of losing them makes breathing hard.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of phone calls and paperwork as Lucy finalizes everything with Mrs. Henderson. I stay close, making coffee when she needs it, ordering lunch when she forgets to eat. By the time the sun sets and the last document is signed, she’s glowing with exhausted triumph.

“It’s mine,” she keeps saying, like she can’t quite believe it. “The building is actually mine.”

“You earned it.”

“We earned it.” She takes my hand. “I know you say it was nothing, but it was everything to me.”

The words stick in my throat again. The ones I should say. The ones she deserves to hear. Instead I pull her close and kiss her until we’re both breathless, until gratitude shifts into something deeper.

We barely make it through dinner at Jim’s house. Connor’s working late at the office. Emma’s at a friend’s with Maisie. Jim’s in his wood shop in the garage. The house feels empty, and the tension between us is electric.

After we clear the dishes, Lucy catches my hand and leads me upstairs. We’re being reckless—Connor could come home any minute, Jim could finish his project—but neither of us cares. Not tonight. Not when she’s looking at me like I hung the moon, when her gratitude and relief and want are written all over her face.

She pulls me into my room and closes the door. Locks it.

The click of the lock seems loud in the quiet house. She turns to face me, and there’s something different in her eyes tonight. Not just desire, though that’s there too. Something softer. Deeper.

“Come here,” she whispers.

I cross to her in two steps. She slides her hands up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair. Pulls me down for a kiss that starts gentle and builds slowly. Thoroughly. Like she’s trying to tell me something she doesn’t have words for.

This time is different from the cabin. Less frantic. More deliberate. We’ve learned each other now, and there’s a confidence in the way she touches me, the way I touch her. But underneath it all is something deeper—gratitude mixed with tenderness, relief wrapped in desire.

She tugs at my shirt and I help her pull it off. Her hands map my chest, my ribs, the muscles of my shoulders. Like she’s memorizing me. When I reach for the hem of her sweater, she lifts her arms and lets me undress her slowly. Each piece of clothing another layer of vulnerability between us.

When we’re both bare, she takes my hand and leads me to the bed. We sink down together onto the quilt Connor’s mom made years ago, and I try not to think about the risk we’re taking. Try to focus only on her.

She pulls me down for another kiss, deeper this time. Her hands slide down my back, nails scraping lightly, and I groan against her mouth. I kiss along her jaw, down her throat, tasting the salt on her skin. She arches into me when I reach her breasts, her fingers tightening in my hair.

“Ryder,” she breathes.

I take my time. Kiss every inch of skin I can reach. Learn the sounds she makes when I touch her here, kiss her there. By the time I settle between her thighs, she’s trembling.

“Please,” she whispers.

I reach for the condom on the nightstand—we’ve learned to be prepared—and she watches me roll it on, her eyes dark with want. When I settle over her again, she spreads her legs wider, welcoming me.

When I slide inside her, we both freeze. Her eyes lock on mine in the dim light filtering through the curtains. I can see everything in her face—desire and gratitude and something that looks like wonder.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For today. For caring. For seeing what this means to me.”

The words stick in my throat again. I love you. The ones I should say. The ones she deserves to hear. Instead, I kiss her and hope she feels what I can’t say. Pour it into the way I touch her, the way I move inside her.

I start slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Savoring the feel of her around me, tight and wet and perfect. She wraps her legs around my waist and tilts her hips up, changing the angle, and we both moan.

“Is this okay?” I ask, voice rough.

“More than okay.” Her hands slide down my back, nails digging in. “Don’t stop.”

I don’t. Keep the steady rhythm even as she starts to move with me, meeting each thrust. The bed creaks softly beneath us and I think about Connor, about Jim in the garage, about the risk. But then Lucy makes that sound—the desperate little gasp that means I’m hitting the right spot—and I stop thinking altogether.

I brace myself on one forearm and slide my other hand between us, finding the spot that makes her gasp louder. She bites her lip, trying to stay quiet, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Let me hear you,” I murmur against her ear. “Just a little.”

She does. Soft whimpers and breathy moans that make me want to slow down and speed up all at once. I feel her tightening around me, her breathing getting faster, and I know she’s close.

“Come for me,” I say quietly. “I want to feel it.”

Her inner walls flutter, then clench hard around me. She arches up, pressing her chest against mine, and I feel the exact moment she tips over. The way her whole body goes taut, then shudders. She buries her face in my shoulder to muffle the cry, and the feel of her coming apart around me is almost enough to pull me under.

Almost. But I want more. Want to give her more.

I wait until the aftershocks ease, then start moving again. Slow and deep. Her eyes fly open, surprised, and I see the moment she realizes I’m not done with her yet.

“Ryder—”

“Again,” I say. “Want to feel you come again.”

“I can’t—” But her body says otherwise. She’s already sensitive, already building again, and when I shift the angle just slightly, she gasps.

This time it’s faster. Her body knows what’s coming, knows what I can give her. I watch her face as the pleasure builds—the way her lips part, the flush spreading down her neck, the little crease between her brows. She’s so beautiful it makes my chest ache.

When she comes the second time, it pulls me over with her. I bury my face in her neck and let go, feeling her clench around me in waves as I empty myself inside her. The pleasure is so intense it’s almost painful, and I think I might say her name. Might say other things too.

When I can breathe again, when the stars behind my eyelids fade, I realize I’m crushing her. I try to move but she holds me tight.

“Stay,” she whispers. “Just for a minute.”

So I do. Stay buried inside her, feeling our hearts pound against each other, feeling her breath against my neck. And I know, with absolute certainty, that I’m in love with her.

Have been for a while now, probably. But this moment—her trust, her gratitude, her body still trembling beneath mine—seals it.

I’m in love with Lucy Wright, and I’m in so much trouble.

After, we lie tangled together in my bed, both of us knowing we’re pushing our luck. Connor could be home any minute. But neither of us wants to move.

“Stay,” I whisper into her hair. “Just a little longer.”

“Okay.” She presses closer, her breath warm against my neck. “A little longer.”

But we both know she’ll have to sneak back to her room soon, before anyone notices.

She settles against my chest. I hold her while our breathing evens out. While the sweat cools on our skin.

Three words press against my throat.

They don’t come.

So I hold her tighter and hope she feels what I can’t say.

Hours later, she’s asleep in my arms and I’m still awake. Staring at the ceiling. Words trapped behind my teeth.

Three simple words. Should be the easiest thing in the world.

I love you.

My throat closes every time I try. It’s the same paralysis. The same inability to translate feeling into language. I’ve been this way my whole life. Showing up instead of speaking. Doing instead of saying.

Lucy shifts. Her hand finds mine in sleep. I lace our fingers and feel the terror of it in my ribs.

I think about my parents. How Dad never said what Mom needed until it was too late. All the moments I stayed silent. The times I let actions speak when words would have been kinder.

I think about Lucy. How she looks at me like I’m worth something beyond my slapshot. How she deserves someone who can give her everything. Not just the easy parts.

The words hang in darkness. Unspoken but present.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe morning brings courage.

But deep down I know the truth. I’m not afraid of getting hurt. I’m afraid that loving her this much, needing her this much, makes me vulnerable in ways I’ve never been.

Vulnerability has never been my strong suit.

Lucy murmurs in sleep. Curls closer. I hold tighter. Press a kiss to her hair.

For now, this has to be enough.

But lying here in the dark, her warm and soft against me, I know it won’t be. Not long-term. Not when she deserves someone who can say the words as easily as he shows them.

The realization doesn’t change anything. Can’t make my throat unlock. Can’t force the words past my teeth.

So I hold her and tell myself tomorrow will be different.

Knowing it won’t be.

The town square glows with Christmas lights, and I’ve never been so aware of how far apart Ryder and I are standing.

He’s across the gazebo, talking to Mr. Peterson about the winter festival committee’s budget. I’m helping Mrs. Henderson arrange cookies on a platter, pretending I’m not tracking his every movement in my peripheral vision. We’ve gotten good at this. The casual distance. The polite nods when we pass. The careful choreography of two people pretending they haven’t memorized the taste of each other’s skin.

“More gingerbread on this side, dear,” Mrs. Henderson says, and I nod, moving cookies I don’t see.

Ryder’s laugh carries across the square. My stomach flips.

I steal a glance. He’s looking at me over Mr. Peterson’s shoulder, and the heat in his eyes makes my breath catch. Then Mr. Peterson turns, and Ryder’s expression smooths into polite interest, nodding along to whatever story the older man is telling.

Everything changed at the cabin. Then he saved the charity hockey game, then he saved my shop, and I’m still processing what it means that he’d do that for me. These stolen moments feel like torture when we have to pretend in public.

“I need more cocoa from the kitchen,” I say. Mrs. Henderson waves me off, already distracted by someone asking about the recipe.

I slip through the crowd toward the community center. The kitchen is blessedly empty, quiet compared to the celebration outside. I lean against the counter, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The door opens.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say without turning around. I’d know those footsteps anywhere.

“Neither should you.” Ryder’s voice is low, amused. “Yet here we both are.”

I turn. He’s leaning against the door, arms crossed, that crooked smile playing at his lips. The overhead fluorescent light should make him look washed out. Instead, it just highlights the sharp line of his jaw, the way his sweater pulls across his shoulders.

“Someone might notice we’re both gone,” I manage.

“Let them.” He pushes off the door, crossing to me in three strides. “I’ve been watching you all night. Smiling at everyone but me. Laughing at jokes that aren’t funny. Staying on the opposite side of the room like we’re strangers.”

“We agreed—”

“I know what we agreed.” His hand finds my hip, thumb tracing small circles that make me forget why staying apart seemed important. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

I should step back. Someone could walk in any second. But his other hand cups my face, and I’m leaning into his touch before I can stop myself.

Something flickers in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or fear. Then his mouth is on mine, stealing thoughts and breath and reason. The kiss tastes like desperation, like borrowed time, like all the words we can’t say in public.

Footsteps echo in the hallway.

We break apart. Ryder moves to the sink, running water like he’s washing his hands. I grab a box of cocoa mix, clutching it to my chest as the door swings open.

Natalie stops, eyes darting between us. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hey.” My voice only shakes a little. “Just grabbing more cocoa.”

“Right.” She doesn’t move. “Ryder, Jim was looking for you. Something about the bonfire permits?”

“On it.” He dries his hands, walks past me without a glance. But his fingers brush mine as he takes the towel, so quick anyone else would miss it.

I feel it everywhere.

Natalie waits until his footsteps fade. “You two are not as subtle as you think.”

My heart stops. “I don’t—”

“Relax.” She pulls mugs from the cabinet. “I’m not going to say anything. But Lucy? You should tell Connor before he figures it out himself. Trust me.”

She leaves me standing there, clutching cocoa mix, my pulse hammering in my throat.

I make it through the rest of the celebration on autopilot. Smile at the right moments. Laugh at the right jokes. Stay far enough away from Ryder that no one could possibly suspect. The celebration ends around ten. We all help clean up—Connor and Ryder carrying tables, me and Natalie collecting trash. Playing our roles. Pretending everything is normal.

“I’ll drop these off at the community center,” Connor says as we pack the last box into his truck. “You two head back. Tell Dad I’ll be there in twenty.”

Ryder nods. “Will do.”

I turn away before Connor can see my face.

The house is quiet when we get back. Dad’s already in his room, light off. Emma and Maisie went to bed an hour ago. Ryder and I exchange a brief glance in the hallway before heading to our separate rooms, maintaining the fiction.

But I don’t go to sleep.

I wait until I hear Connor’s bedroom door close. Until Maisie’s settled in her room. Until the house falls quiet except for the furnace humming and my heart pounding.

Then I slip through the bathroom, knock softly on his door.

He opens it immediately. Like he was waiting.

“Hi,” I whisper.

His hand closes around my wrist, tugging me inside. The door clicks shut, and then I’m pressed against it, his mouth on mine, hands in my hair. This kiss is different from the one in the kitchen. Deeper. More honest. Like we can finally stop pretending.

“Missed you,” he murmurs against my lips.

“You just saw me.”

“Too long.”

I laugh, and he swallows the sound, kissing me until I’m dizzy. Until the only thing keeping me upright is him, his body warm and solid against mine.

When we finally break apart, I notice the wrapped presents on his desk.

“Is one of those mine?”

“Maybe.” He’s smiling, that rare full smile that transforms his whole face. “Want to do gifts now?”

“It’s almost midnight. Technically Christmas Eve.”

“Close enough.”

He hands me a flat package wrapped in silver paper. I settle on the edge of his bed, suddenly nervous. I’ve never been good at receiving gifts. Never know what my face should do.

“Open it,” Ryder says, sitting beside me.

The paper tears easily. Inside is a book—old, leather-bound, the spine soft with age. I recognize it immediately.

“Pride and Prejudice?” I breathe.

“First edition. Well, first American edition.” He’s watching me carefully. “You told me once it was your favorite. That you read it every year.”

I did tell him that. Years ago, probably. I am shocked that he remembered this.

I open the cover. Inside, in his slanted handwriting: For Lucy—who makes anywhere feel like home. R

My vision blurs. “Ryder, this is—I can’t—”

“There’s more.” He pulls a small, flat box from his pocket.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a key.

“That’s to my apartment in Boston.” His voice is quiet. Careful. “I want you to have it. For when you visit. Or… whenever you want. However long you want.”

I stare at the key. It’s just metal—brass, slightly tarnished, ordinary. But what it represents makes my chest tight.

He’s giving me access. Permission. A place in his life beyond Pine Hollow.

“You mean it?” I whisper.

“Every word.” He takes my hand, thumb tracing my knuckles. “I know I’m leaving next week. I know this is complicated. But Lucy, I don’t want this to end. I want to figure out how to make this work. Long distance, visits, whatever it takes. I want you in my life.”

The shop. The loan. The payment plan we hammered out yesterday so I could keep my pride and my dream. He’s already proving he means it.

I set the book and key carefully on the nightstand. My hands are shaking.

“Your turn,” I manage.

I retrieve the album I stashed in my room earlier, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Simple. Nothing fancy. I hand it to him, heart in my throat.

He unwraps it slowly. Stops when he sees the cover—brown leather, embossed with his initials.

“Lucy…”

“Open it.”

He does.

The first page is a photo from years ago—him and Connor in their hockey jerseys, arms slung around each other, gap-toothed grins. College days, when everything was simpler.

He turns the page. Another photo: him and Maisie building a snowman, her tiny hands in his large ones. Then him and Connor at Thanksgiving, loading plates. Him at the kitchen table with Dad, playing chess. Him and Emma, decorating Christmas cookies, his expression soft in a way I rarely see.

Page after page of proof. Of the family he chose. The life he built here, even as he prepared to leave it.

The second-to-last page is a photo I took last week: Ryder and Maisie reading by the fire, her tucked against his side, both absorbed in the story.

He traces the image with one finger. Doesn’t speak.

The final page is a recent photo of us at the Christmas market. Natalie took it when we weren’t looking—Ryder’s arm around my shoulders, me laughing at something he said, both of us caught in a moment of unguarded happiness.

Proof that we existed. Together. That this was real.

“You made this.” His voice is rough. “You made this for me.”

“I wanted you to have something to remember us by. All of us. When you’re in Boston and it gets lonely.” I’m babbling now, nervous. “I know it’s not much compared to a first edition book, but—”

He kisses me. Hard and desperate and grateful. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright.

“No one has ever given me something like this.” He flips back through the pages, drinking in every photo. “No one has ever… Lucy, this is the best gift I’ve ever received.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He sets the album beside my book, then pulls me into his lap, arms tight around me. “Thank you. For making me part of your family. For this.”

I bury my face in his neck. He smells like pine and winter and home.

We sit like that for a long time, wrapped around each other, the weight of leaving pressing down on both of us. His hand strokes my back in slow, soothing circles. I focus on his heartbeat, steady against my cheek.

“I love you,” I whisper.

The words fall into the space between us like stones into water.

I feel him freeze. Every muscle in his body going rigid. The hand on my back stops moving.

The silence stretches. One breath. Two. Three.

Oh.

Oh no.

I pull back to look at him. His eyes are wide, something like panic flickering in their depths. His throat works but no sound comes out.

He’s not going to say it back.

The realization hits like ice water. I knew he might not be ready. I told myself I was okay with that. That saying it was enough, that I didn’t need to hear it returned.

But sitting here, watching him struggle for words he can’t find, I realize I’m not okay. Not even close.

“You don’t have to say it back.” I try to smile. My face feels stiff. “I just… I needed you to know.”

“Lucy—” His voice cracks.

“It’s okay. Really.” I slide off his lap, putting distance between us. My legs feel shaky. “I know you’re not there yet. I’m not trying to pressure you. I just…”

I can’t finish. Don’t know what I’m trying to say.

He reaches for me. I let him pull me back against his chest, but it feels different now. There’s a hollow space where the words should be. A silence that echoes.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair.

“Don’t be.” I force brightness into my tone. “I meant it. I love you. That requires nothing from you.”

Liar. I want everything from him. I want him to say it back, want him to stay, want him to choose me over Boston and his career and all the logical reasons he should leave.

But I can’t ask for that. I won’t.

His arms tighten around me. “Lucy, I—”

“It’s okay,” I say again. If I say it enough times, maybe it will become true. “Really. I promise.”

We sit in the heavy quiet, holding each other. I try not to feel the absence of words. Try not to notice how carefully he’s breathing, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter.

Maybe I will.

“Stay?” he asks finally. Voice rough. “Tonight?”

I should say no. Should go back to my room, put space between us until this ache in my chest fades.

But I nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

We move to the bed together, a tangle of limbs and unspoken feelings. He makes love to me slowly. Tenderly. Like I’m something precious he’s afraid to break. His hands map my body with reverence, his mouth following. He whispers my name like a prayer, over and over, until it’s the only word I hear.

I try not to cry.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, his heartbeat slowing beneath my palm. He holds me tighter than usual, face buried in my hair. I keep my breathing even, pretending to drift off even as my mind races.

I love you, I told him. Three words I’ve never said to anyone outside my family. Three words that felt inevitable and terrifying and true.

And he couldn’t say them back.

I understand why. He’s leaving soon. Long distance is hard. He doesn’t want to make promises he can’t keep. Maybe he thinks not saying it will hurt less when he goes.

Or maybe he just doesn’t feel it.

That thought makes my chest ache worse than anything.

His breathing evens out. Sleep claims him, but his arms stay locked around me. Like even unconscious, he’s afraid I’ll leave.

I won’t.

I trace patterns on his chest, memorizing this. The weight of him beside me. The way our bodies fit. The sound of his breathing, deep and steady.

I love you, I think at him. I love you, and it’s okay that you can’t say it back. I can love you enough for both of us.

But lying in the dark, wrapped in his arms, I’m not sure that’s true.

Sleep comes eventually, fitful and uneasy. When I wake, sunlight is streaming through the window and Ryder’s lips are on my shoulder.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs against my skin.

I stretch, smiling despite the lingering ache in my chest. “What time is it?”

“Early. Six, maybe.” He props himself on one elbow, looking down at me. “I wanted to give us a little time before everyone wakes up.”

Before we have to pretend again. Before we go back to being just friends in front of my family.

“Smart man.” I reach up, tracing the line of his jaw. He leans into my touch, eyes closing.

He looks younger like this. Softer. Less guarded.

I love you, I think. Wonder if I’ll ever say it again.

“We should probably—” I start.

A knock echoes from down the hall. Connor’s voice, muffled: “Lulu? Time to wake up. Christmas morning!”

We both freeze.

“He’s at my door,” I whisper.

Another knock. “Lucy? You awake?”

Ryder and I stare at each other. My room is empty. My bed obviously slept in but unoccupied. If Connor opens the door—

“I’m up!” I call, trying to sound groggy. “Give me a minute!”

Silence. Then footsteps moving away.

I let out a breath. “That was close.”

“Too close.” Ryder sits up, running a hand through his hair. “You should—”

The footsteps stop. Right outside Ryder’s door.

Connor’s voice, closer now: “Ryder? You awake, man?”

“Yeah,” Ryder calls. His eyes meet mine. “Just getting dressed. Be out in a second.”

“Cool. I’ll wake Maisie.”

The footsteps retreat again. I wait until I hear Connor’s door open and close before I exhale.

“I need to get back to my room.” I slip out of bed, searching for my clothes. “Before—”

“Lucy.” Ryder catches my wrist, pulling me back for a kiss. It’s soft. Sweet. Almost apologetic. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” I whisper back.

I pull on his t-shirt from last night, grab my leggings, and slip back through the bathroom to my room. I close the door on my side just as I hear Maisie’s excited squeal from down the hall.

Close. Too close.

I change quickly, then pause in front of my mirror. My reflection looks the same as always—same brown eyes, same unruly hair. But I feel different. Like I’m carrying something fragile inside me, something that might break if I’m not careful.

I love you.

I said it. I can’t unsay it. Can’t pretend I don’t feel it just because he couldn’t return it.

But I can pretend it doesn’t hurt.

Ten minutes later, dressed and composed, I take a deep breath and head downstairs. The living room is chaos—wrapping paper everywhere, Maisie squealing over each present, Emma making coffee, Dad documenting everything with his phone. Connor and Ryder are on the couch, laughing about something, easy and comfortable like they’ve always been.

I slip into the room, settling on the floor beside Maisie.

“Lucy!” She launches herself at me, showing me a new doll. “Look what Santa brought!”

“She’s beautiful.” I hug my niece, breathing in her little-kid smell—shampoo and candy canes and innocence.

Over her head, my eyes meet Ryder’s. He smiles, small and private. For me.

I smile back.

We can do this. Pretend everything is normal. Hide this beautiful, complicated thing between us until he leaves and distance makes it easier.

Or destroys us completely.

But that’s a problem for later. Right now, it’s Christmas morning, and my family is happy, and Ryder is here. I’ll take what I can get.

***

Later, after presents are opened and breakfast is eaten, I slip outside for air. The morning is cold, bright, perfect. Snow covers everything, turning Pine Hollow into a postcard.

The front door opens behind me.

“You okay?” Connor asks, coming to stand beside me.

“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Just needed a minute. It’s a lot in there.”

“Maisie’s pretty wound up.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You’ve seemed different lately. Happier, maybe. But also… I don’t know. Sad?”

My heart skips. “I’m fine, Connor.”

“You sure? Because if something’s wrong, you can tell me. You know that, right?”

I look at my brother—solid, dependable Connor who’s spent his whole life protecting me. Who would do anything for the people he loves. Who trusts Ryder completely and has no idea his best friend has been sleeping with his sister.

“I know,” I say. “But I promise. I’m okay.”

He studies me for another moment, then nods. “Okay. But Lucy? Whatever it is, whenever you’re ready—I’m here.”

He goes back inside.

I stay on the porch, watching the sun climb higher, and wonder how much longer we can keep this secret.

Wonder what will happen when it finally comes out.

The day passes in a blur of family time and forced normalcy. Dinner with everyone gathered around the table. Board games with Maisie. Connor and Ryder watching hockey highlights while I help Emma clean up. Every moment feeling both precious and fragile, like something that could shatter at any second.

That night, long after everyone else has gone to bed, I lie awake in my room, staring at the ceiling.

I can’t sleep. My mind won’t stop spinning. The memory of Ryder’s silence when I said I loved him sits heavy in my chest. The key to his apartment burns in my pocket where I tucked it after getting dressed this morning. In a few days we’ll go to the team’s New Year’s Eve party together—our first real public appearance as a couple, even if we haven’t told Connor yet. And then—

And then he leaves for good.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand. A text from Ryder: You awake?

I type back: Yeah. Can’t sleep.

Me neither. Meet me outside? Need some air.

I should say no. Should stay in bed where it’s safe. But my feet are on the floor before I can think better of it.

I slip on leggings under my sleep shirt, grab a hoodie, and pad through the silent house. The stairs creak under my weight, and I freeze, holding my breath. Nothing. No doors opening, no voices. The house stays quiet.

Ryder’s waiting by the front door, already in his jacket. His eyes meet mine in the darkness, and something passes between us. Understanding, maybe. Or desperation.

We slip outside together.

The cold hits like a slap, sharp and clean. The driveway is empty, the street quiet. Christmas lights glow from neighboring houses, but ours is dark except for the porch light someone left on. Our breath comes out in white puffs, hanging in the air between us.

“Hey,” he says. Soft. Intimate.

“Hey.”

We stand there, a foot of space between us that feels like miles. I want to close it. Want to press against him and feel his warmth and forget about Boston and distance and all the ways this could fall apart.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Ryder says. His voice is rough with something I can’t name. “About earlier. About what you said.”

My chest tightens. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” He steps closer. Close enough that I can see the conflict in his eyes, the way his jaw is tight with tension. “Lucy, I—”

He stops. Shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it.

“I’m not good at this. At saying what I feel. But you need to know—what we have, it matters. You matter. More than anything has mattered in a long time.”

It’s not I love you. But it’s something. Maybe it’s all he has right now.

“I know,” I whisper.

“Do you?” He reaches for me, his hand finding my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Because I’m terrified I’m going to mess this up. That I already am messing it up. And the thought of hurting you—”

I kiss him before he can finish. Before he can spiral into all the reasons this is complicated. His mouth opens under mine, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat through my whole body despite the cold.

The kiss deepens. His hands find my waist, pulling me flush against him. I can feel his heart pounding through his jacket, can taste the mint of his toothpaste, can feel the desperate edge to the way he holds me. Like I might disappear if he lets go.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his breath warm on my face.

“Lucy,” he murmurs. Just my name, but the way he says it sounds like a promise.

“I know,” I say again. Because I do. I know he’s scared. I know he’s leaving. I know this is messy and complicated and probably a terrible idea.

But right now, standing in the cold with his arms around me and his mouth still tingling from his kiss, I don’t care.

He kisses me again. Slower this time. Sweeter. Like he’s memorizing the taste of me, the feel of me against him. My hands find their way into his hair, and he groans, pulling me closer still.

I lose track of time. Could be seconds or minutes or hours. All I know is him—the solid warmth of his body, the way his hands map my spine, the sound of his breathing mixing with mine in the frozen air.

That’s when the front door slams open.

The kiss ends when Connor slams the front door so hard the windows rattle.

Lucy pulls back first, her breath catching against my mouth. I turn toward the house as the porch light blazes on, flooding us in white light. My hand is still at the small of her back, her fingers tangled in my shirt. The heat of her body burns through the thin fabric, and I can taste her ChapStick, feel the rapid flutter of her pulse under my thumb where it rests against her spine. I should let go, step away, make this look like anything other than what it is.

Connor stands on the porch in sweatpants and a Bulldogs hoodie, his face a mask of fury I’ve never seen directed at me. Not when I forgot his birthday. Not when I missed his championship game. This is something else.

“Are you kidding me?” His voice cracks on the last word.

Lucy’s hand drops from my chest, leaving a cold spot where her palm pressed. “Connor, let’s just—”

“Don’t.” He points at her, then at me. “Don’t you dare try to explain this.”

The door opens behind him. Emma appears in her bathrobe, Jim right behind her. Great. Perfect. The whole family gets to witness this.

“What’s going on?” Emma’s gaze moves from Connor to us, and I watch the moment she understands. Her expression shifts from confusion to alarm—we’ve been caught, and she knows how badly this could go.

“Ask them.” Connor’s laugh is bitter. “Ask them how long they’ve been sneaking around.”

My throat closes. “Connor, I know how this looks—”

“You know how it looks?” He comes down the steps, and I move in front of Lucy. Her hand finds the back of my jacket, gripping the leather. His eyes track the movement, track the way her body aligns with mine even now. “You’re protecting her now? That’s rich.”

“I’m not—” I start, but he’s not listening.

“How long?” Connor demands. “How long have you been lying to me?”

Lucy moves beside me, her shoulder brushing mine, the contact sending heat through my jacket. “We weren’t lying. We just—”

“Just what? Just waited until you were sure before telling me? Just wanted to make sure he was going to stick around before getting me involved?” Connor’s voice rises. “Or maybe you knew exactly what I’d say, so you figured you’d hide it until Christmas and ruin that too.”

The words slice through me. Jim puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder, but he shrugs it off.

“Connor.” Emma’s voice is gentle but firm. “Let’s go inside and talk about this in a calm way.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Connor looks at me, and the hurt in his eyes makes my chest ache. “What’s the plan, Ryder? Long distance for a few months until you get bored? Or are you just killing time until you go back to Boston?”

Every doubt I’ve been carrying crystallizes in his words. Every reason I should have kept my distance, thrown back in my face by the person who knows me best.

“It’s not like that,” I say, but my voice sounds hollow even to me.

“Then what is it like?” Connor steps closer. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re using my sister for entertainment while you’re stuck in Vermont. And when you leave—because you know you’re leaving—she’s the one who’ll be destroyed.”

“That’s not fair,” Lucy says. Her voice shakes, and I feel it in the tension of her grip on my jacket. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Connor turns to her. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him? You’re in too deep, Lucy. And he’s got one foot out the door.”

The truth of it twists in my gut. I want to argue, want to tell him he’s wrong, but the words won’t come. Because he’s not wrong. Not about Boston, not about leaving. I am going back. That was always the plan.

“Connor, that’s enough.” Jim’s voice carries authority now. “This isn’t the time or place.”

“When is the time?” Connor asks. “After he’s gone and she’s heartbroken? After he’s back to his real life and this was just a nice little detour?”

I should say something. Defend us. Defend what we have. But my mind is blank, every argument dying before it reaches my lips. Because what can I say? That I haven’t thought about this scenario? That I don’t wake up some nights in a cold sweat, terrified of hurting her? That Connor isn’t voicing every thought that’s been eating me alive?

“Ryder.” Lucy’s hand finds mine, her fingers threading through mine with the same ease they did an hour ago when we were alone in my room, when I had her pressed against the door and she made those sounds that drove me wild. “Say something.”

I look at her face, tilted up toward me, trusting me to fix this. To make it right. And I’ve got nothing.

“I don’t—” I start. Stop. Try again. “I never meant for this to happen.”

Wrong words. I know it the second they’re out of my mouth. Lucy’s hand goes rigid in mine, her fingers still warm but no longer soft.

“You never meant for what to happen?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“For us. For this.” I gesture between us, hating myself. “I knew it was complicated. I knew Connor would—I should have been more careful.”

“More careful.” Her voice is flat. “You mean you should have stayed away from me.”

“That’s not what I—”

“That’s what you mean.” She pulls her hand from mine, and the loss of contact is worse than Connor’s words. “Connor’s right. You’re halfway out the door.”

“Lucy, no.” I reach for her, but she steps back. The space between us feels like miles. “I’m just trying to be realistic. I’m going back to Boston. That’s not new information.”

“But you acting like this—us—is a mistake? That’s new.” Her eyes shine in the porch light. “I thought we were figuring this out together.”

“We are. I just—” I run a hand through my hair, wishing I could feel her fingers there instead, the way they tangled in it when I kissed down her throat. “I don’t have all the answers, okay? I don’t know how this works. I don’t know how to do this without someone getting hurt.”

“So your solution is to hurt me now instead?”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“By agreeing with Connor? By standing here saying you never meant for us to happen?” Lucy’s voice breaks. “I don’t need protection. I need you to fight for this.”

But I can’t fight. Not with Connor staring at me like I’m a stranger. Not with Emma and Jim watching this train wreck unfold. Not with every worry Connor voiced settling into my bones like truth.

“Maybe Connor’s right,” I hear myself say. “Maybe I’m not thinking straight. Maybe I need some space to figure this out.”

The words hit her hard. Lucy takes another step back, and I want to close the distance, want to pull her against me and feel her heartbeat and remember what this felt like before Connor ruined it.

“Space,” she repeats.

“Just for tonight. To let everyone cool down.” I’m digging the hole deeper with every word, but I can’t stop. “I could stay at the inn. Give the family time to—”

“To what? Talk about what a mess I am?” Lucy’s laugh is sharp. “Or maybe to convince me that you’re right. That this was all a mistake.”

“That’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want, Ryder?” She spreads her hands, and I remember how those hands felt on my chest, my shoulders, my face. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you want an easy out. And I just handed you one.”

I look at Connor, at his Dad, at Lucy. My mind is static, every thought fragmenting before it forms. I should stay. I should fight. I should tell Connor he’s wrong and Lucy she’s right and that I’m all in no matter how terrifying it is.

Instead, I say, “I’ll get my stuff.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Lucy stares at me like she’s never seen me before. Maybe she hasn’t. Maybe this is who I am—the guy who runs when things get hard.

“Lucy—” I try, but she’s turning away.

“Don’t.” She doesn’t look back. “Just go.”

She walks past Connor, past her Dad, into the house. The door closes behind her with a quiet click that sounds louder than Connor’s slam. I can still feel the shape of her body against mine, still taste her on my lips, and it makes leaving worse.

I stand there, rooted to the driveway, my heart pounding against my ribs. This is the wrong choice. Everything in me knows it. But my feet move toward my truck.

“Ryder.” Jim’s voice stops me. “Think about what you’re doing.”

I do think about it. I think about Lucy’s face when I said I never meant for this to happen. I think about Connor’s accusation that I’m just killing time. I think about Boston and distance and all the ways this could go wrong.

“I need to clear my head,” I say.

Jim’s expression is disappointed but not surprised. Like he expected this. Like everyone expected this except Lucy.

Connor says nothing. He just watches me with that same look of betrayal, and I know I’ve confirmed every doubt he had about me and his sister.

I get in my truck. Start the engine. The dashboard clock reads 12:58 AM.

The drive to the inn takes eight minutes. I don’t remember any of them.

The night clerk gives me a key card and points toward the elevator. The room is generic and beige and smells like industrial cleaner. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the wall.

My pulse still races from the confrontation, from the kiss before it, from Lucy’s hands in my hair and her body pressed against mine and the taste of her I can’t shake. My jacket still carries her perfume—vanilla and something warmer—and I should take it off but I don’t.

The buzz of my phone makes me check it. Connor: Don’t come back tomorrow.

Then another text, this one from Emma: Call me when you’re ready to talk.

Nothing from Lucy.

I check my email without thinking. There’s one from Greg with the subject line “Boston timeline.” I don’t open it. Can’t open it. Not tonight.

Instead, I lie back on the stiff hotel comforter and watch the ceiling fan turn. I’ve ruined Christmas. I’ve hurt Lucy. I’ve proven Connor right. And worst of all, I did what I always do—I chose safety over risk. Distance over intimacy. Running away over staying.

The thought stops me cold. When did Lucy become the person I think about first thing in the morning and last thing at night? When did her happiness become more important than my own? When did the thought of leaving her become worse than any Chicago crowd or career setback?

I grab my phone, pull up her contact. My thumb hovers over the call button. What would I even say? That I’m sorry? That I panicked? That Connor’s words hit every insecurity I have and instead of fighting through them, I ran?

I put it down.

The room is too quiet. Too empty. Too far from where I want to be, which is back in that driveway with my hand at Lucy’s spine, kissing her like Connor never interrupted. Or better yet, in her room with the door locked and her body warm against mine, the way it was before everything went to hell.

I close my eyes and see her face when I said I needed space. The way her expression shuttered. The way she walked away without looking back, her shoulders rigid with hurt I put there.

I’ve been alone plenty of times in my life. After Dad died. During the worst of my depression. Through every winter in Boston when the ice felt like my only friend. But I’ve never felt as lonely as I do right now, in this beige hotel room on Christmas night, knowing that the best thing in my life is five miles away believing I chose leaving over her.

Because maybe I did. Maybe Connor was right. Maybe I am halfway out the door, just waiting for the excuse to finish the exit.

My phone sits silent on the nightstand. Outside, the first light of dawn starts to creep around the curtains. Somewhere, families are waking up to new Christmas presents and coffee and that lingering Christmas morning magic. And I’m here, alone with my jacket that smells like her and my mouth that still remembers the shape of hers.

I think about Lucy sleeping across the hall from Connor, not sleeping at all. I think about Emma and Jim trying to salvage some kind of Christmas morning. I think about Connor, vindicated and furious and right about me all along.

The ceiling fan keeps turning. The sky keeps lightening. And I stay where I am, paralyzed by the same thing that brought me here in the first place. The worry that I’m not enough. That I’ll hurt her worse later if I don’t end it now. That Connor’s right and Lucy deserves someone who can stay.

Someone who isn’t me.

I grab the phone one more time. Open a new message to Lucy. Type: I’m sorry.

Delete it.

Type: I was wrong to leave.

Delete that too.

In the end, I send nothing. Because what’s the point? The damage is done. Christmas is ruined. And I’ve proven what kind of man I am—the kind who runs when it matters most.

The fan keeps turning. The light keeps growing. And I lie there, alone, with nothing but my jacket that smells like vanilla and the memory of her hands in my hair and the taste of her I can’t forget.

The house smells like cinnamon and pine, but all I can taste is ash.

I’ve been awake since four this morning, lying in my childhood bed and staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars I stuck to the ceiling when I was twelve. They’ve faded over the years, barely visible even in the dark, but I know exactly where each one is. I used to make wishes on them. Used to believe that wanting something hard enough could make it real.

I don’t know what I believe anymore.

My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark. I’ve checked it seven thousand times since last night. No new messages. No missed calls. Nothing from Ryder since he left.

Since he chose Connor over me. Since he said he needed space and walked away without looking back.

The rest of me keeps replaying every moment, searching for the exact second when I became too much. When he realized what Connor already knew. That I’m the kind of person people leave.

Downstairs, Dad’s already started breakfast. I can hear the coffee maker brewing, the sound of bacon sizzling in the cast iron pan Mom used to use. The normalcy of it hollows me out.

Emma’s in the kitchen when I get there, still in her pajamas. She takes one look at my face and immediately pours coffee into my favorite mug.

“Rough night?” she asks quietly.

I accept the coffee and wrap both hands around it. “Something like that.”

Connor emerges from the guest room as I’m setting the table. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second before sliding away. The silence between us feels like something with teeth.

We eat Dad’s attempt at Mom’s famous morning casserole. Usually I have seconds. Today, each bite tastes like cardboard, but I force it down anyway because Dad keeps glancing at my plate with worry written all over his face.

After we finish coffee and breakfast, Emma and I end up in my room, sprawled across my bed like we used to do in high school.

“Want to talk about it?” Emma asks eventually.

“Connor hates me.”

“Connor doesn’t hate you.” Emma sets down her phone. “But he was way out of line last night.”

“He thinks I’m a mess. That I make terrible choices.” The words scrape out of me.

“He’s not wrong though, is he?” The question tumbles out before I can stop it. “I mean, look at my track record. Tyler, who cheated on me for six months before I figured it out. Brad, who forgot my birthday three years in a row. And now Ryder, who left without looking back.”

“Lucy, stop.”

“Maybe Connor’s right. Maybe I am the common denominator. Maybe I just pick men who are going to leave because some part of me knows I’m not worth the trouble of staying for.”

“Stop.” Emma sits up, her voice sharp. “Stop it right now.”

She glares at me with an intensity that would be scary if I didn’t know it came from love.

“Connor is being a judgmental jerk,” she says. “And Ryder left after Connor ambushed you both. You don’t even know what he’s thinking.”

“He hasn’t texted me.”

“Maybe he needed time to cool down. Maybe he’s trying to respect family time. Maybe a thousand things that have nothing to do with you not being enough.”

Dinner is strained. Dad tries to keep conversation flowing with stories about work and questions about our jobs. Emma jumps in with updates about her office, about anything and everything that might fill the silence.

Connor says almost nothing.

I push food around my plate and try to look engaged. Emma kicks me under the table when I space out during one of Dad’s stories.

“Lucy’s been distracted all day,” Connor says. It’s the first full sentence he’s directed at me since yesterday.

Everyone goes quiet.

“Just tired,” I say lightly.

“Right. Tired.” His tone suggests he doesn’t believe me. “Nothing to do with your hockey player boyfriend?”

Emma’s fork clatters against her plate. “Connor.”

“What? We’re all thinking it.”

Dad sets down his wine glass with deliberate care. “That’s enough.”

“Is it though?” Connor’s looking at me now, really looking at me. “Because I’m the only one who seems concerned that Lucy’s making the same mistakes she always makes.”

The words hit like a slap.

“Connor James Wright,” Dad says sharply.

But he’s not done. “She falls fast, gets in over her head, ignores everyone who tries to warn her. Then when it falls apart, we all have to pick up the pieces.”

My face burns. Emma’s gone very still beside me.

“What pieces?” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “When have any of you had to pick up my pieces?”

“Every time.” Connor’s jaw is tight. “Every time you call crying about some guy who didn’t work out. Every time you show up here heartbroken and confused.”

“I don’t mean to be a burden,” I manage.

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s exactly what you said.” The words crack. “You think I’m a problem. You think I’m too much.”

“Lucy, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You know what? You’re right.” I push back from the table. “I do fall too fast. I do ignore red flags. But at least I try. At least I put myself out there. At least I risk getting hurt instead of playing it so safe that nothing can touch me. When was the last time you did something that scared you, Connor?”

His face goes pale.

“That’s what I thought.” I grab my phone from the table. “Excuse me.”

I make it to my room before the tears start. Angry tears, frustrated tears, tears that have been building since yesterday and won’t be held back anymore.

My phone lights up. For one wild second, I think it might be Ryder. But it’s Natalie.

Natalie: How’s the family chaos treating you?

Me: Can I call you?

Natalie: Always.

She answers on the first ring. “What happened?”

I tell her everything. Connor catching us kissing in the driveway. The fight, his accusations that Ryder’s just using me, that I’m making the same mistakes. The way Ryder froze up, said he needed space, and left. His words at dinner earlier, the way everyone looked at me like I was something fragile that might shatter. I tell her about the silence since Ryder left, about the creeping certainty that Connor’s right and I’ve done it again.

“Okay,” Natalie says when I finally run out of words. “First of all, your brother is being an ass.”

“He’s trying to protect me.”

“He’s trying to control you. There’s a difference.”

“But what if he’s right? What if I am making another mistake?”

“Lucy.” Natalie’s voice goes firm. “Do you remember how Ryder looked at you that first night he was here?”

“I guess?”

“He couldn’t take his eyes off you,” Natalie says. “Even when you were being prickly and defensive. He watched you like you were the only person in the room.”

Something loosens in my ribs.

“That’s not how someone looks at a mistake,” she continues. “That’s not how someone looks at a person they’re planning to leave. And I’ve seen you two together now, Lucy. Multiple times. The way he listens when you talk. The way you light up around him.”

“But he left.”

“He left after your brother cornered you both and said awful things. That’s not the same as choosing to leave you.”

I close my eyes. “Then why hasn’t he called?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he needed to think. Maybe Connor got in his head. But you know what I do know? That man is gone for you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that. Lucy, I’ve been your best friend for fifteen years. I have never, not once, seen someone look at you the way Ryder looks at you.”

The memory surfaces. Ryder’s face above mine in the lamplight. The way his expression shifted between hunger and something softer, something that looked almost like reverence.

“Really?” I whisper.

“Really. So maybe Connor’s right that you fall fast. Maybe you do ignore red flags sometimes. But you know what else? You love with your whole heart. You give people the benefit of the doubt. You believe in second chances and happy endings.”

“That sounds like a terrible personality trait.”

“That sounds like the best personality trait.” Natalie’s voice softens. “Don’t let your brother or anyone else convince you that loving fully is a weakness. It’s not. It’s the bravest thing you do.”

When we finally hang up, I feel wrung out but steadier. I check my phone one more time. Still nothing from Ryder.

But Natalie’s right. One day of silence doesn’t mean anything.

Or maybe he’s done.

The thought sends a spike of panic through me, but I breathe through it. I’ve survived heartbreak before. I’ll survive it again if I have to.

There’s a soft knock on my door. “Lucy?” Emma’s voice. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

She slips inside and sits on the edge of my bed. “Connor feels terrible.”

“Good.”

“Lucy.”

“What do you want me to say, Em? That it’s fine? That he didn’t mean it?”

“He thinks you’re fearless,” Emma says. “And it scares him.”

“That’s the same thing Natalie said.”

“Because it’s true. Connor needs control. He needs plans and predictability. You’re the opposite. You dive in headfirst. You feel everything intensely. You take risks.”

“You make it sound like a good thing.”

“It is a good thing.” Emma’s expression is fierce. “Lucy, you’re the bravest person I know. You moved here after a bad breakup. You built a life from scratch. You took a chance on something uncertain because it felt right.”

“But what if it doesn’t work out?” I ask. “What if I’m wrong about Ryder?”

“Then you’ll deal with it,” Emma says simply. “But at least you’ll have tried. At least you’ll have gone after something that made you happy instead of staying small to make other people comfortable.”

I think about that. About all the times I’ve made myself smaller, quieter, less.

“Now here’s what you’re going to do,” Emma continues. “Tomorrow, you’re going to text Ryder and ask if he’s okay. Not accusatory, not needy, just checking in.”

“And if he doesn’t respond?”

“Then you’ll deal with that too. But Lucy?” Emma waits until I’m looking at her. “Stop waiting for other people to decide if you’re worth fighting for. You are. You always have been. And anyone who doesn’t see that doesn’t deserve you.”

The words hit something deep. How many times have I waited for someone else to choose me? To decide I was worth the effort, worth the risk, worth staying for?

When I wake the next morning, Connor’s already gone. Left early for a work thing, Emma tells me when I come downstairs. Translation: he couldn’t handle facing me.

Part of me is relieved. Part of me is hurt all over again.

Dad gestures to the kitchen table. “Sit with me for a minute?”

“I want to apologize,” Dad says once I’m settled. “For the other night. For not shutting Connor down sooner.”

“Dad, you don’t have to say anything.”

“I do.” His voice is firm. “What Connor said was inappropriate and hurtful.”

My throat goes tight.

“Lucy, you have always been the bravest of my children. You feel things deeply. You love completely. You take chances that scare the rest of us. And yes, sometimes you get hurt.” Dad reaches across the table and takes my hand. “But you’ve never let that stop you. You’ve never let heartbreak turn you bitter or cynical. That takes courage, sweetheart. Real courage.”

“Connor thinks it makes me reckless.”

“Connor thinks anything he can’t control is reckless.” Dad’s smile is wry. “Don’t let anyone, not Connor, not anyone, convince you that’s something to apologize for.”

The tears spill over. Dad squeezes my hand and waits while I swipe at my face.

“Thanks, Dad,” I manage.

Dad brings over a plate of pancakes with chocolate chips and whipped cream, trying to make them the way Mom used to. “Eat. Everything’s better with pancakes.”

He’s not wrong.

Around noon, I retreat to my room and pick up my phone. Stare at it for a long moment. Then I open my messages and type:

Me: Hey. I know the other night was a lot. I just wanted to check in. Hope you’re okay.

I read it three times. Delete “Hope you’re okay,” replace it with “We should talk.” Delete that too. Put “Hope you’re okay” back.

Finally, before I can overthink it anymore, I hit send.

The message delivers. I watch the screen for a minute, then two, then five.

Nothing.

It’s fine. He’s probably busy. He’ll respond when he can.

And if he doesn’t? If this is his way of ending things?

Then I’ll deal with it. I’ll hurt, I’ll cry, I’ll let myself feel it all. And then I’ll move forward.

Maybe it’s time I start believing in me too.

I spend the afternoon with Emma, watching movies and avoiding the tension. We make it through two episodes of some cooking competition show before my willpower breaks and I check my phone again.

Still nothing.

“Stop,” Emma says without looking away from the TV.

“Stop what?”

“Whatever spiral you’re in. Stop.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“Lucy. I’m practically your sister. I’ve watched you spiral since you were twelve. I know your spiral face.”

Later that evening, I find myself back in my room. The sun’s setting early, painting everything in shades of gold and pink.

I think about everything that’s happened. Connor’s words at dinner. Dad’s encouragement at breakfast. Natalie’s fierce certainty that Ryder cares about me. Emma’s reminder that I’m brave.

I think about Ryder’s silence. About all the ways I’ve been trying to interpret it.

And I think about what I want.

Not what Connor wants for me. Not what’s safe or logical.

What I want.

I want Ryder. I want what we’ve been building these past weeks, the easy conversations and the charged silences, the way he listens and the way he laughs at my terrible jokes.

But more than that? I want to stop apologizing for wanting things. Stop making myself smaller to fit into other people’s comfort zones. Stop waiting for someone else to decide if I’m worth choosing.

I deserve someone who fights for me the way I fight for them. Someone who shows up, even when it’s hard. Someone who doesn’t make me wonder if I’m too much or not enough.

And if Ryder can’t be that person? If whatever’s keeping him silent right now is a sign of bigger problems?

Then I’ll walk away. It will hurt. But I’ll survive.

Because I’m done settling for people who won’t fight for me.

I grab my phone one more time. No new messages. No missed calls.

I take a breath and type:

Me: I need to know where we stand. Not today, not right now while you’re dealing with whatever you’re dealing with. But soon. We need to have a real conversation about this. About us. Because I’m not doing this halfway anymore.

I read it three times. My finger hovers over the send button.

Then I hit it.

The message delivers. I watch it sit there, those two little checkmarks confirming he’ll see it whenever he looks at his phone.

The pounding in my ribs isn’t anxiety. It’s something else. Something that feels almost like power.

I’ve said what I needed to say. I’ve asked for what I deserve. Now it’s up to him to decide if he can meet me there.

And if he can’t?

Then at least I’ll know I tried. At least I’ll know I fought for what I wanted instead of waiting for someone else.

I set my phone aside and curl up under my covers. Outside, the stars are coming out, real ones this time. They’re bright and cold and constant.

I used to make wishes on stars. Used to believe wanting something hard enough could make it real.

Maybe I still do.

But tonight, I’m not wishing for Ryder to come back. I’m not wishing for Connor to understand me or for everything to work out.

Tonight, I’m wishing for courage. For strength. For the ability to keep choosing myself, even when it’s hard.

And somehow, that feels like the bravest wish of all.

Three days alone in this inn room and I swear I can still smell her.

Vanilla and old books. The scent clings to the pillow she left in my room which I grabbed before I left. I hate myself for taking it. Hate myself more for pressing my face into it at night when I can’t sleep, which is every night now.

The room is nothing. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige curtains that don’t quite block the streetlights. Generic art of covered bridges and fall foliage. A bed I don’t use and a mini-fridge stocked with water bottles I can’t taste. I’ve stayed in worse. I’ve stayed in palaces. Doesn’t matter. Every place feels the same when you’re running.

Physical therapy at dawn in this cramped space. Push-ups between the bed and dresser. Shoulder rotations that pull but don’t break. Ice packs from the front desk that I press against joints that don’t hurt anymore because the real pain isn’t physical. The routine gives me something to do besides replay Christmas on an endless loop. Connor’s face when he caught us in the driveway. The kiss I couldn’t hide. Lucy’s hand dropping from my chest. The sick feeling in my gut when I walked away three hours later.

My phone screen shows sixteen missed calls. Greg, my agent. My sister asking if I’m alive, then getting pissed when I don’t respond.

And Lucy. Two texts from yesterday that I’ve read at least fifty times but can’t bring myself to answer.

The first one: Hey. I know the other night was a lot. I just wanted to check in. Hope you’re okay.

So gentle. So her. Reaching out even after I walked away.

The second, hours later: I need to know where we stand. Not today, not right now while you’re dealing with whatever you’re dealing with. But soon. We need to have a real conversation about this. About us. Because I’m not doing this halfway anymore.

I’ve typed and deleted responses forty-seven times. Every version sounds wrong. Too much or not enough. Excuses when she deserves honesty. Promises I’m not sure I can keep.

So I’ve said nothing. And my silence is its own answer, isn’t it? The coward’s way out.

I silence the phone and watch the notifications pile up like evidence of every bridge I’m burning.

The photo album sits on the dresser. Brown leather, worn at the edges where her hands held it.

I haven’t opened it since that night. Can’t. Because every time I look at those photos I see what I threw away, and the weight of it makes it hard to breathe.

But I grab it anyway. Flip it open with shaking hands because apparently I enjoy torture.

Photos from the past two weeks. Me with the Wright family. Decorating the tree, building snowmen with Maisie, game nights around the dining table. Me at the Christmas market helping Lucy with her booth. At the food bank boxing donations. Candid moments I didn’t know she was capturing.

And us. A few photos of us together, carefully mixed in with the family shots. The look on my face in those pictures makes something twist in my chest. Like I’d already decided without admitting it.

She’d been documenting what I was too scared to claim. Proof that I had a home here. Proof that I belonged.

I close the album. Press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.

My shoulder protests when I pull on my jacket. Good. Physical pain is easier than this hollowed-out feeling in my chest. I grab my keys and head out, knee solid when I test it. My body is ready for whatever I ask. My head is a disaster.

Downtown Pine Hollow looks like a Christmas card. Lights strung between streetlamps, wreaths on doors, people ducking in and out of shops carrying bags and wearing smiles. I keep my hood up and head down, just driving. No destination. Just movement because staying still means thinking.

Then I see her truck.

Forest green. Dent in the back bumper from when she backed into a snowbank trying to park. Parked outside the rink with the bed full of boxes.

I slow. Pull into a spot three rows back where I can see but stay hidden.

The side door to the rink opens and Lucy emerges carrying a stack of posters. Natalie’s with her, arms full of decorations. They’re laughing about something. Setting up for the charity game. The event I helped save. The event I’ll have to attend tomorrow and pretend I’m fine.

Lucy looks tired. Even from this distance, I can see the shadows under her eyes, the way her smile doesn’t quite reach where it should. She’s wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, hair in a messy bun, and she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Natalie says something. Lucy shakes her head. Her shoulders curve inward slightly, a posture I’ve never seen on her. She’s always so straight. So strong. So steady.

I did this. Put that exhaustion in her face. Made her shoulders bow.

My hands grip the steering wheel. Every muscle in my body screams to go to her. Walk across this parking lot, take the boxes from her hands, tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I was wrong. Tell her I love her and I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this.

But fear roots me to the seat. What if she won’t listen? What if I make it worse? What if the best thing I can do for her is stay away?

Lucy bends to pick up a poster that fell. The wind catches her hair and she tucks it behind her ear with hands I’ve held. Kissed. Watched grip my sheets when I was making her come.

My chest physically aches. Like someone reached in and squeezed. I’ve had injuries that hurt less than this.

She straightens. Turns slightly toward where I’m parked. For one terrible second, I think she sees me. But her gaze slides past without recognition, and somehow that’s worse.

Natalie touches her arm. Lucy nods. They go back inside.

I sit in my truck for another twenty minutes. Engine running. Heat blasting. Hands still gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

This is the moment something breaks.

Not dramatic. Not like in movies. Just a quiet crack in the foundation I’ve been standing on since I was eighteen and my father told me greatness required sacrifice.

I can’t watch her from a distance anymore. Can’t hide in this inn room pretending I need space. Can’t keep running.

I drive back and the room feels smaller. Suffocating. I pour whiskey I don’t drink. Stare at the album I shouldn’t open. Do it anyway.

My phone rings at four in the afternoon. Greg’s name flashes.

I answer this time. “Yeah.”

“Finally.” He sounds equal parts relieved and irritated. “Three days, Ryder. We need to talk about Boston.”

I press my palm against my eyes. “Not now.”

“Yes, now. They need an answer by January second. Five-year contract, guaranteed money, first-line minutes. Everything you’ve worked for.”

Everything I’ve worked for.

This should be the moment I’ve been waiting for. The dream. Security. Proof that the sacrifice was worth it. Proof that I’m good enough.

But all I can think is: that’s three plus hours from Lucy.

“What if I don’t sign?” The words come out before I can stop them.

Silence. Then Greg laughs, sharp and humorless. “Don’t sign with Boston? Are you serious?”

“What happens if I explore other options?”

“Other options?” His voice climbs. “You’re talking about turning down one of the best contracts I’ve seen in a decade. For what? You’re twenty-eight. You have maybe five good years left if your shoulder holds. Where else are you going to get a deal like this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jesus, Ryder.” He exhales hard. “Is this about the girl?”

I don’t answer.

“Look,” Greg says, softer now. “I get it. You’ve made connections there. But this is your career. What you’ve sacrificed everything for. Don’t let one person derail that. Your father wouldn’t have—”

“Don’t.” The word comes out harder than I intend. “Don’t bring him into this.”

Pause. “I’m just saying, he taught you better than this. He taught you that greatness requires focus. Dedication. Not getting sidetracked by—”

“He died alone.” My voice is flat. “My father died alone in a hospital room because everyone who loved him gave up trying. My mother left. My sister barely spoke to him. I was in playoffs, too important to visit. He’d have understood, I told myself.”

Silence on the line.

“That’s what his choices got him. A career full of accolades and a funeral with twelve people.”

“Ryder—”

“I need to think about this.” I’m already standing, pacing the small room. “Can you stall them?”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. A few days.”

Greg sighs. “I’ll try. But they’re not going to wait forever. And if you turn this down, there might not be another offer like it.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re about to make the biggest mistake of your career.”

Maybe. Or maybe I already made it three days ago when I walked away from the only person who’s ever made me want something more than hockey.

I end the call. Throw the phone onto the bed.

The room is too quiet. I can hear my own breathing, ragged and uneven. Can hear the couple arguing in the room next door, the ice machine humming down the hall, the sound of my own cowardice echoing off beige walls.

Five years in Boston. Guaranteed money. First-line minutes.

Everything I thought I wanted.

But when I close my eyes, all I see is Lucy’s face when I told her I needed space. The way her expression went blank. Empty. Like I’d confirmed every fear she’d ever had about being chosen last.

The album sits on the bed where I left it. I pick it up again. Look through the pages one more time.

There I am. Caught in moments I didn’t know mattered. Looking at her off-camera in half the shots, my expression giving away everything I was trying to hide.

She saw it before I did. Saw us before I was ready to admit we were an “us.”

And I walked away four days later.

I close the album. My hands shake.

My father died alone. That’s the truth I’ve been avoiding for years. He pushed everyone away—my mother, my sister, me. Chose his pride over connection. Chose being right over being loved.

I’ve been following his pattern exactly. Keeping distance. Running when things get hard because staying requires courage I’ve never had to show on the ice.

Lucy asked what I was running from. I said my career. But that’s a lie I’ve told so long I almost believed it.

I’m running from the same terror my father ran from: letting someone matter more than the game. Building something that isn’t measured in points and wins.

I open my phone. Pull up Lucy’s contact. Her profile picture is from the food bank—laughing at something off-camera, flour on her cheek, eyes bright.

Her two texts sit there, unanswered. Waiting.

Hope you’re okay.

We need to have a real conversation about this.

I should respond. Should tell her something. Anything. But every word I type feels inadequate.

I try: I’m sorry. I need to talk to you.

Delete it.

Type: Can we meet?

Delete that too.

Type: I love you. I was scared and I fucked up and I love you.

My thumb hovers over send for thirty seconds before I delete that one as well.

What do I say? How do I respond to her kindness with anything less than the truth? How do I explain that I’ve been terrified since the moment I met her? That she makes me want things I’ve never let myself want? That loving her feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there’s ground below?

And how do I admit that I’ve been reading her messages for twenty-four hours and haven’t had the courage to answer?

I put the phone down. Stand. Pace the small room like a caged animal.

The charity game is tomorrow. I’ll see her there. Have to face her. Have to look her in the eye and see what I’ve done.

The question isn’t whether I love her. I know the answer to that. Have known it for weeks. Fell for her somewhere between catching her when she fell off that ladder and watching her light up the Christmas market, between late nights in her shop and quiet mornings building snowmen with Maisie.

The question is whether love is enough to undo the damage. Whether she’ll even give me the chance to try.

I look at the album one more time. At Lucy’s face in every photo. At the evidence of someone who saw me—really saw me—and chose me anyway.

She was trying to tell me. Trying to show me there was another path. One that didn’t require sacrifice. One that included both the dream and the girl.

I was too scared to see it.

But I see it now. Clear as the ice I’ve spent my life on. Clear as the truth I’ve been running from.

I’m in love with her. And I’m done running.

The decision settles in my chest. Heavy and terrifying and absolutely right.

I grab my phone. Text Greg: I’m ready to talk. Call me when you can. I know what I want.

The options I’m thinking about have nothing to do with negotiating terms. Everything to do with asking if there’s any way to make this work without leaving Pine Hollow. Without leaving her.

I send it before I can overthink.

Then I sit with the album in my lap and wait for dawn, fear wrapped around my ribs.

I don’t know if Greg can find a solution. Don’t know if Lucy will forgive me for the silence. For reading her texts and not responding. For making her wait while I figured out what she already knew.

But I know I have to try.

Because the alternative—spending the rest of my life running from the only person who ever made me want to stay—is something I can’t survive.

Morning comes slow. I haven’t slept. Haven’t moved from the chair by the window. Watched the sky go from black to gray to the pale gold of winter sunrise.

Greg responds at six: Call me at nine. We’ll figure something out.

Figure something out. Like this is just another contract negotiation. But it’s not. It’s my entire life. The choice between the path I’ve always walked and the one I’m terrified to try.

I open the album one more time. Stop on that last photo. The way I’m looking at her in that picture—that’s not something I can fake. Not career ambition or physical attraction or temporary connection.

That’s the truth I’ve been too scared to admit.

And I hurt her. Because I was too much of a coward to choose her when it mattered.

Tomorrow at the charity game, I’ll see her. And somehow I have to find the words to tell her that I’m done being my father’s son. Done choosing safety over everything that matters.

I set the album down. Head for the shower. Start figuring out what to say.

If she’ll give me the chance to prove it.

I’m reorganizing the holiday display for the third time this morning when Emma finds me crying behind a tower of gift baskets.

Not delicate tears either. The ugly kind, where my nose runs and my face gets blotchy and I can’t catch my breath. I’ve been holding it together for three days. Smiling at customers. Answering questions about the charity game. Pretending I’m fine when every part of me aches.

“Oh, honey.” Emma’s arms come around me before I can wipe my face. “How long have you been here?”

“Since six.” My voice comes out thick. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She guides me to the reading nook and disappears. Returns with coffee from next door and one of Natalie’s chocolate croissants. Waits until I’ve taken a bite before speaking.

“Have you talked to him?”

I shake my head. Swallow past the tightness in my throat. “He left. He gets to decide what happens next.”

“Lucy.” Her tone shifts, gentle but unyielding. “When have you ever waited for someone else to decide your worth?”

The question hits hard. I set down the croissant, hands trembling.

“What am I supposed to do? Chase after him?”

“No. Tell him what you need. Not what you’ll settle for. What you actually need.” She leans forward. “You spent your whole life making yourself smaller so other people would be comfortable. Your dad who didn’t know how to connect with you. Your exes who wanted the sunshine version but couldn’t handle anything real. Even Connor sometimes.”

My eyes burn with fresh tears. “What if Connor was right? What if I was just convenient?”

“Do you really believe that?”

I think about the way he touched my face when I told him I loved him. The photo album he kept by his bed. How he gave me fifteen thousand dollars for my building without hesitation. And how he saved the charity hockey game.

“No,” I whisper.

“Then stop acting like you do.” Emma’s voice turns fierce. “When are you going to fight for yourself?”

All these years, I’ve been waiting. For some guy to decide I was worth the effort. For Ryder to choose me without making him face what he’s running from.

But I’ve been choosing him all along. Choosing to love him when it was complicated. When it frightened me. When Connor said I was making a mistake.

I’ve been brave about everything except demanding what I deserve.

“I need to talk to him.” The decision feels final. “Not to beg. To tell him I’m worth fighting for.”

Emma’s smile is proud. “There she is.”

I finish the coffee. My hands steady. My breathing evens.

“The charity game is tomorrow. He’ll be at the rink today, practicing.”

“Then go.” Emma stands, pulls me up with her. “Whatever happens, you’ll be okay.”

She’s right. I’ve survived worse than heartbreak.

But god, I hope I don’t have to.

***

The drive takes ten minutes. I rehearse what I’ll say. Discard options. Start over. By the time I pull into the rink parking lot, my palms are damp on the wheel.

His truck is here. Black and pristine. My pulse kicks.

The rink is quiet. I push through the double doors. Ice and old wood and the chemical tang of zamboni exhaust.

The overhead lights are on. I hear skate scrape before I see him.

Ryder’s alone on the ice, moving through drills with mechanical precision. Stop. Turn. Sprint. Stop. His movements are fluid despite the injury. Beautiful the way only athletes can be.

I make my way to the stands. Sit in the front row and watch. He hasn’t noticed me yet. Lost in the rhythm. There’s something meditative about it, the way he moves.

Or maybe he’s just avoiding thinking.

He completes another lap and finally looks up. Sees me. His body goes still. For a long moment we just stare at each other across the ice.

Then he skates over. Stops at the boards in front of me, breathing hard. His hair is damp with sweat. His gray eyes cautious, guarded. The way they were when we first met, before he let me in.

“Lucy.” My name comes out rough. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.” My voice doesn’t shake. “Can you take a break?”

He hesitates. Then nods and skates to the bench. I meet him there. He sits to unlace his skates while I stand, because sitting feels too casual for what I’m about to say.

“I’ve been thinking,” I start. My hands twist together. I force them still. “About us. About what happened on Christmas.”

“Lucy, I’m sorry—”

“Let me finish.” The words come out sharper than I intended. I soften them. “Please.”

He nods. Leans back against the boards, hands braced on the bench. Waiting.

I take a breath. This is it. The moment where I either shrink back into the version of myself that’s safe and agreeable, or I step forward into who I’m becoming.

“I love you.” The words land between us. Clean and true. “I’m not taking that back. I’m not apologizing for it. I know it’s complicated and messy and probably terrible timing. But it’s the truth.”

His eyes are dark. Storm-cloud gray. He doesn’t speak.

I push on. “I spent my whole life trying to be good enough, useful enough, pleasant enough for people to choose me. I’m done.”

“Lucy—”

“I know my worth now.” The words come out strong. Final. “And I’m worth fighting for. I won’t beg you to love me back. I won’t shrink myself to make you comfortable. I won’t wait around hoping you’ll decide I’m enough.”

His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists against the bench.

“Either you see my value or you don’t. Either you’re brave enough to try or you’re not.” I take a step back. “But I’m done letting other people—even you—decide whether I’m worthy of love.”

“That’s not fair.” His voice is strained. “You know that’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re choosing fear over me.”

He drops his head. Runs his hands through his hair, that gesture he makes when he’s overwhelmed. “I can’t give you what you need. I don’t know how to do this. How to be what you deserve.”

The words hurt. But they also make everything clear.

I’ve said what I came to say. Laid myself bare. Demanded my worth.

Now I need to mean it.

“Okay.” I step back. My eyes burn but I won’t let the tears fall. Not yet. “Then there’s nothing left to say.”

I turn to leave. Make it three steps before his voice stops me.

“Wait.”

I pause. I don’t turn around. I can’t look at him and hold myself together.

“Lucy, please. Just wait.”

The desperation in his voice pulls me back. I face him. He’s standing now, skates abandoned on the bench. His hands are at his sides, fingers curled into fists.

“I’m terrified,” he says. The admission comes out raw. “Terrified of hurting you. Of being like my dad. Of building something that matters and watching it fall apart because I don’t know how to stay.”

“You’re not your father.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “You get to choose who you are. Every day, you get to choose.”

“I know.” He takes a step towards me. Then another. “And I’m choosing you. I’ve been choosing you since the moment you fell off that ladder and looked at me like I was something more than just another hockey player passing through.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“I love you.” The words tumble out. “I’ve probably loved you for years. Since you showed up with terrible Christmas puns and looked at me like I was not just Ryder Blackwood, the defenseman. Just Ryder.”

The tears I’ve been fighting spill over. “Then why did you leave?”

“Because I’m an idiot.” He closes the distance between us. Cups my face in his hands. “Because I got scared. Because when Connor said those things, all I could hear was my dad’s voice. All the ways he justified leaving. And I thought maybe Connor was right. Maybe I was using you. Maybe I would end up hurting you worse if I stayed.”

His thumb wipes away a tear. “I spent three days trying to convince myself I was doing the right thing by staying away. That you deserved better than a guy who’s going to be in Boston most of the year. Who doesn’t know how to do relationships. Who’s so scared of becoming his father that he almost became him anyway.”

“What changed?”

“You did.” His voice drops. “You came here. You demanded your worth. You were brave enough to walk away.” He leans his forehead against mine. “You’re the bravest person I know, Lucy. You see me. All of me. The broken parts, the scared parts, the parts I don’t show anyone. And you love me anyway.”

“I do love you.”

“I love you too.” He kisses me softly. “You’re worth fighting for. You’re worth everything. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it. I’m sorry I ran.”

“You came back.”

“I’ll always come back.” He pulls me closer. “I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know exactly how we make this work with Boston and the distance. But I know I want to try. I know you’re worth fighting for.”

“We’ll figure it out.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “Together.”

“Together,” he agrees. “I’m done being scared. Done running. You’re mine and I’m yours, and we’ll face whatever comes next as a team.”

He kisses me again, deeper this time. I melt into him, into the warmth and solidity of his body, into the promise of this moment.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathless. “What about Connor?”

“I’ll talk to him.” Ryder’s jaw sets. “He’s my best friend, but you’re my future. If he can’t accept that, we’ll deal with it. But I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not pretending this isn’t real.”

“He’ll come around. Eventually.”

“Maybe.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “But even if he doesn’t, I’m not letting you go. I’ve spent too many years putting other people’s expectations ahead of what I want. What I need. And I need you.”

“I need you too.”

We stand there for a moment, holding each other. The rink is quiet except for the hum of the overhead lights and our breathing.

“My room at the inn,” he says. “We’ll have privacy there. I want you in a bed where I can take my time. Where I can show you what it means when I stop holding back.”

Heat floods through me. “Yes.”

He grabs his skates and we head for the door. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together.

At his truck, he pulls me close. Kisses me hard against the driver’s side door. “I love you,” he murmurs against my lips. “And I’m going to spend the rest of the day proving it.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“Good.” He opens my door. “Follow me there?”

I nod. Get in my car. Watch him climb into his truck.

As I follow him through Pine Hollow’s streets, something settles in my chest. Peace. Hope. The knowledge that I fought for myself and won.

Whatever happens—Connor’s reaction, the charity game, the logistics of long distance—we’ll handle it. I know we will.

Because I finally chose myself. And he chose me back.

That’s all that matters.

***

His bedroom is warm. I barely register the details before he’s on me, backing me toward the bed with hungry kisses.

“I’ve been thinking about this for three days,” he says against my mouth. “About all the ways I wanted to touch you.”

“Touch me now.” My voice comes out breathy.

He does. Strips me with hands that know exactly what they’re doing. Lays me back on the bed and follows me down.

“I love you,” he says, settling between my thighs. “And I’m done being careful. Done holding back.”

“I don’t want you to hold back.” I reach up, cup his face. “I want all of you.”

He searches my eyes for a long moment. Then he nods and kisses me, and it’s nothing like before. It’s demanding and possessive and hungry.

His hand slides down my body. Cups me through my panties. I gasp into his mouth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

His fingers slip beneath the fabric. Find me wet and ready. He groans.

“You’re soaked.”

“I’ve been thinking about this too.” I arch into his touch. “About your hands on me.”

He rewards me by sliding two fingers deep. I cry out, head falling back.

“That’s my girl.” He kisses down my throat while his fingers work me. “So responsive.”

“More,” I gasp.

“Not yet.” He pulls his hand away and I whimper at the loss. “First I’m going to taste you.”

He hooks his fingers in my panties and drags them down my legs. Then he spreads my thighs and settles between them, and when his mouth finds me, I see stars.

He doesn’t hold back. Doesn’t go slow or careful. He devours me until I’m writhing beneath him, hands fisted in his hair, thighs shaking.

“Ryder,” I gasp. “I’m going to—”

“Do it.” He sucks hard. “Come for me.”

I shatter. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me while he works me through it.

When I finally come down, he kisses his way up my body. His lips are wet when he kisses me.

“That’s one,” he says against my mouth. “I’m going to make you come at least two more times before I’m inside you.”

He does. Takes me apart with his hands and mouth until I’m boneless and gasping. Until I’m begging for him.

When he finally strips off his clothes and rolls on a condom, I’m trembling with need.

He settles between my thighs. Notches himself at my entrance. Pauses.

“Look at me,” he says.

I meet his eyes.

“I love you,” he says. “And you’re mine. I’m going to make sure you feel it.”

Then he drives into me and I cry out at the stretch, the fullness, the way he fills me completely.

“Move,” I gasp.

He does. Sets a rhythm that has me gasping, nails digging into his shoulders. He hooks my knee over his elbow, changes the angle, and hits that spot inside me.

“There,” I cry.

“I know.” He drives harder. “I know exactly where you need it.”

“Touch yourself,” he orders. “I want to feel you come around me.”

I slide my hand between us. Find my clit. Circle it in time with his thrusts.

“That’s it.” His voice is rough. “So beautiful like this.”

I’m close. So close. The pressure builds and builds.

“Ryder,” I gasp. “I’m—”

“Do it.” He drives harder. “Come for me.”

I shatter. The orgasm rips through me. He manages three more thrusts before he follows, spilling with my name on his lips.

We collapse together. Both gasping. Sweat-slicked and trembling.

“You okay?” he asks.

“More than okay.” I turn my head to look at him. “That was perfect.”

He pulls out carefully. Then he’s pulling me against him, tucking me into his side.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Whatever challenges we face, we face them together.”

“Together,” I agree.

I close my eyes. Let myself sink into the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.

Tomorrow will bring complications. Connor’s grudging acceptance. The charity game. The conversation about Boston and how we make this work long distance.

But tonight, we have this. Each other. And for now, that’s everything.

I’m reorganizing the holiday display for the third time this morning when Emma finds me crying behind a tower of gift baskets.

Not delicate tears either. The ugly kind, where my nose runs and my face gets blotchy and I can’t catch my breath. I’ve been holding it together for three days. Smiling at customers. Answering questions about the charity game. Pretending I’m fine when every part of me aches.

“Oh, honey.” Emma’s arms come around me before I can wipe my face. “How long have you been here?”

“Since six.” My voice comes out thick. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She guides me to the reading nook and disappears. Returns with coffee from next door and one of Natalie’s chocolate croissants. Waits until I’ve taken a bite before speaking.

“Have you talked to him?”

I shake my head. Swallow past the tightness in my throat. “He left. He gets to decide what happens next.”

“Lucy.” Her tone shifts, gentle but unyielding. “When have you ever waited for someone else to decide your worth?”

The question hits hard. I set down the croissant, hands trembling.

“What am I supposed to do? Chase after him?”

“No. Tell him what you need. Not what you’ll settle for. What you actually need.” She leans forward. “You spent your whole life making yourself smaller so other people would be comfortable. Your dad who didn’t know how to connect with you. Your exes who wanted the sunshine version but couldn’t handle anything real. Even Connor sometimes.”

My eyes burn with fresh tears. “What if Connor was right? What if I was just convenient?”

“Do you really believe that?”

I think about the way he touched my face when I told him I loved him. The photo album he kept by his bed. How he gave me fifteen thousand dollars for my building without hesitation. And how he saved the charity hockey game.

“No,” I whisper.

“Then stop acting like you do.” Emma’s voice turns fierce. “When are you going to fight for yourself?”

All these years, I’ve been waiting. For some guy to decide I was worth the effort. For Ryder to choose me without making him face what he’s running from.

But I’ve been choosing him all along. Choosing to love him when it was complicated. When it frightened me. When Connor said I was making a mistake.

I’ve been brave about everything except demanding what I deserve.

“I need to talk to him.” The decision feels final. “Not to beg. To tell him I’m worth fighting for.”

Emma’s smile is proud. “There she is.”

I finish the coffee. My hands steady. My breathing evens.

“The charity game is tomorrow. He’ll be at the rink today, practicing.”

“Then go.” Emma stands, pulls me up with her. “Whatever happens, you’ll be okay.”

She’s right. I’ve survived worse than heartbreak.

But god, I hope I don’t have to.

***

The drive takes ten minutes. I rehearse what I’ll say. Discard options. Start over. By the time I pull into the rink parking lot, my palms are damp on the wheel.

His truck is here. Black and pristine. My pulse kicks.

The rink is quiet. I push through the double doors. Ice and old wood and the chemical tang of zamboni exhaust.

The overhead lights are on. I hear skate scrape before I see him.

Ryder’s alone on the ice, moving through drills with mechanical precision. Stop. Turn. Sprint. Stop. His movements are fluid despite the injury. Beautiful the way only athletes can be.

I make my way to the stands. Sit in the front row and watch. He hasn’t noticed me yet. Lost in the rhythm. There’s something meditative about it, the way he moves.

Or maybe he’s just avoiding thinking.

He completes another lap and finally looks up. Sees me. His body goes still. For a long moment we just stare at each other across the ice.

Then he skates over. Stops at the boards in front of me, breathing hard. His hair is damp with sweat. His gray eyes cautious, guarded. The way they were when we first met, before he let me in.

“Lucy.” My name comes out rough. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.” My voice doesn’t shake. “Can you take a break?”

He hesitates. Then nods and skates to the bench. I meet him there. He sits to unlace his skates while I stand, because sitting feels too casual for what I’m about to say.

“I’ve been thinking,” I start. My hands twist together. I force them still. “About us. About what happened on Christmas.”

“Lucy, I’m sorry—”

“Let me finish.” The words come out sharper than I intended. I soften them. “Please.”

He nods. Leans back against the boards, hands braced on the bench. Waiting.

I take a breath. This is it. The moment where I either shrink back into the version of myself that’s safe and agreeable, or I step forward into who I’m becoming.

“I love you.” The words land between us. Clean and true. “I’m not taking that back. I’m not apologizing for it. I know it’s complicated and messy and probably terrible timing. But it’s the truth.”

His eyes are dark. Storm-cloud gray. He doesn’t speak.

I push on. “I spent my whole life trying to be good enough, useful enough, pleasant enough for people to choose me. I’m done.”

“Lucy—”

“I know my worth now.” The words come out strong. Final. “And I’m worth fighting for. I won’t beg you to love me back. I won’t shrink myself to make you comfortable. I won’t wait around hoping you’ll decide I’m enough.”

His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists against the bench.

“Either you see my value or you don’t. Either you’re brave enough to try or you’re not.” I take a step back. “But I’m done letting other people—even you—decide whether I’m worthy of love.”

“That’s not fair.” His voice is strained. “You know that’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re choosing fear over me.”

He drops his head. Runs his hands through his hair, that gesture he makes when he’s overwhelmed. “I can’t give you what you need. I don’t know how to do this. How to be what you deserve.”

The words hurt. But they also make everything clear.

I’ve said what I came to say. Laid myself bare. Demanded my worth.

Now I need to mean it.

“Okay.” I step back. My eyes burn but I won’t let the tears fall. Not yet. “Then there’s nothing left to say.”

I turn to leave. Make it three steps before his voice stops me.

“Wait.”

I pause. I don’t turn around. I can’t look at him and hold myself together.

“Lucy, please. Just wait.”

The desperation in his voice pulls me back. I face him. He’s standing now, skates abandoned on the bench. His hands are at his sides, fingers curled into fists.

“I’m terrified,” he says. The admission comes out raw. “Terrified of hurting you. Of being like my dad. Of building something that matters and watching it fall apart because I don’t know how to stay.”

“You’re not your father.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “You get to choose who you are. Every day, you get to choose.”

“I know.” He takes a step towards me. Then another. “And I’m choosing you. I’ve been choosing you since the moment you fell off that ladder and looked at me like I was something more than just another hockey player passing through.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“I love you.” The words tumble out. “I’ve probably loved you for years. Since you showed up with terrible Christmas puns and looked at me like I was not just Ryder Blackwood, the defenseman. Just Ryder.”

The tears I’ve been fighting spill over. “Then why did you leave?”

“Because I’m an idiot.” He closes the distance between us. Cups my face in his hands. “Because I got scared. Because when Connor said those things, all I could hear was my dad’s voice. All the ways he justified leaving. And I thought maybe Connor was right. Maybe I was using you. Maybe I would end up hurting you worse if I stayed.”

His thumb wipes away a tear. “I spent three days trying to convince myself I was doing the right thing by staying away. That you deserved better than a guy who’s going to be in Boston most of the year. Who doesn’t know how to do relationships. Who’s so scared of becoming his father that he almost became him anyway.”

“What changed?”

“You did.” His voice drops. “You came here. You demanded your worth. You were brave enough to walk away.” He leans his forehead against mine. “You’re the bravest person I know, Lucy. You see me. All of me. The broken parts, the scared parts, the parts I don’t show anyone. And you love me anyway.”

“I do love you.”

“I love you too.” He kisses me softly. “You’re worth fighting for. You’re worth everything. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it. I’m sorry I ran.”

“You came back.”

“I’ll always come back.” He pulls me closer. “I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know exactly how we make this work with Boston and the distance. But I know I want to try. I know you’re worth fighting for.”

“We’ll figure it out.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “Together.”

“Together,” he agrees. “I’m done being scared. Done running. You’re mine and I’m yours, and we’ll face whatever comes next as a team.”

He kisses me again, deeper this time. I melt into him, into the warmth and solidity of his body, into the promise of this moment.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathless. “What about Connor?”

“I’ll talk to him.” Ryder’s jaw sets. “He’s my best friend, but you’re my future. If he can’t accept that, we’ll deal with it. But I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not pretending this isn’t real.”

“He’ll come around. Eventually.”

“Maybe.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “But even if he doesn’t, I’m not letting you go. I’ve spent too many years putting other people’s expectations ahead of what I want. What I need. And I need you.”

“I need you too.”

We stand there for a moment, holding each other. The rink is quiet except for the hum of the overhead lights and our breathing.

“My room at the inn,” he says. “We’ll have privacy there. I want you in a bed where I can take my time. Where I can show you what it means when I stop holding back.”

Heat floods through me. “Yes.”

He grabs his skates and we head for the door. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together.

At his truck, he pulls me close. Kisses me hard against the driver’s side door. “I love you,” he murmurs against my lips. “And I’m going to spend the rest of the day proving it.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“Good.” He opens my door. “Follow me there?”

I nod. Get in my car. Watch him climb into his truck.

As I follow him through Pine Hollow’s streets, something settles in my chest. Peace. Hope. The knowledge that I fought for myself and won.

Whatever happens—Connor’s reaction, the charity game, the logistics of long distance—we’ll handle it. I know we will.

Because I finally chose myself. And he chose me back.

That’s all that matters.

***

His bedroom is warm. I barely register the details before he’s on me, backing me toward the bed with hungry kisses.

“I’ve been thinking about this for three days,” he says against my mouth. “About all the ways I wanted to touch you.”

“Touch me now.” My voice comes out breathy.

He does. Strips me with hands that know exactly what they’re doing. Lays me back on the bed and follows me down.

“I love you,” he says, settling between my thighs. “And I’m done being careful. Done holding back.”

“I don’t want you to hold back.” I reach up, cup his face. “I want all of you.”

He searches my eyes for a long moment. Then he nods and kisses me, and it’s nothing like before. It’s demanding and possessive and hungry.

His hand slides down my body. Cups me through my panties. I gasp into his mouth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

His fingers slip beneath the fabric. Find me wet and ready. He groans.

“You’re soaked.”

“I’ve been thinking about this too.” I arch into his touch. “About your hands on me.”

He rewards me by sliding two fingers deep. I cry out, head falling back.

“That’s my girl.” He kisses down my throat while his fingers work me. “So responsive.”

“More,” I gasp.

“Not yet.” He pulls his hand away and I whimper at the loss. “First I’m going to taste you.”

He hooks his fingers in my panties and drags them down my legs. Then he spreads my thighs and settles between them, and when his mouth finds me, I see stars.

He doesn’t hold back. Doesn’t go slow or careful. He devours me until I’m writhing beneath him, hands fisted in his hair, thighs shaking.

“Ryder,” I gasp. “I’m going to—”

“Do it.” He sucks hard. “Come for me.”

I shatter. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me while he works me through it.

When I finally come down, he kisses his way up my body. His lips are wet when he kisses me.

“That’s one,” he says against my mouth. “I’m going to make you come at least two more times before I’m inside you.”

He does. Takes me apart with his hands and mouth until I’m boneless and gasping. Until I’m begging for him.

When he finally strips off his clothes and rolls on a condom, I’m trembling with need.

He settles between my thighs. Notches himself at my entrance. Pauses.

“Look at me,” he says.

I meet his eyes.

“I love you,” he says. “And you’re mine. I’m going to make sure you feel it.”

Then he drives into me and I cry out at the stretch, the fullness, the way he fills me completely.

“Move,” I gasp.

He does. Sets a rhythm that has me gasping, nails digging into his shoulders. He hooks my knee over his elbow, changes the angle, and hits that spot inside me.

“There,” I cry.

“I know.” He drives harder. “I know exactly where you need it.”

“Touch yourself,” he orders. “I want to feel you come around me.”

I slide my hand between us. Find my clit. Circle it in time with his thrusts.

“That’s it.” His voice is rough. “So beautiful like this.”

I’m close. So close. The pressure builds and builds.

“Ryder,” I gasp. “I’m—”

“Do it.” He drives harder. “Come for me.”

I shatter. The orgasm rips through me. He manages three more thrusts before he follows, spilling with my name on his lips.

We collapse together. Both gasping. Sweat-slicked and trembling.

“You okay?” he asks.

“More than okay.” I turn my head to look at him. “That was perfect.”

He pulls out carefully. Then he’s pulling me against him, tucking me into his side.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Whatever challenges we face, we face them together.”

“Together,” I agree.

I close my eyes. Let myself sink into the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.

Tomorrow will bring complications. Connor’s grudging acceptance. The charity game. The conversation about Boston and how we make this work long distance.

But tonight, we have this. Each other. And for now, that’s everything.

I’m reorganizing the holiday display for the third time this morning when Emma finds me crying behind a tower of gift baskets.

Not delicate tears either. The ugly kind, where my nose runs and my face gets blotchy and I can’t catch my breath. I’ve been holding it together for three days. Smiling at customers. Answering questions about the charity game. Pretending I’m fine when every part of me aches.

“Oh, honey.” Emma’s arms come around me before I can wipe my face. “How long have you been here?”

“Since six.” My voice comes out thick. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She guides me to the reading nook and disappears. Returns with coffee from next door and one of Natalie’s chocolate croissants. Waits until I’ve taken a bite before speaking.

“Have you talked to him?”

I shake my head. Swallow past the tightness in my throat. “He left. He gets to decide what happens next.”

“Lucy.” Her tone shifts, gentle but unyielding. “When have you ever waited for someone else to decide your worth?”

The question hits hard. I set down the croissant, hands trembling.

“What am I supposed to do? Chase after him?”

“No. Tell him what you need. Not what you’ll settle for. What you actually need.” She leans forward. “You spent your whole life making yourself smaller so other people would be comfortable. Your dad who didn’t know how to connect with you. Your exes who wanted the sunshine version but couldn’t handle anything real. Even Connor sometimes.”

My eyes burn with fresh tears. “What if Connor was right? What if I was just convenient?”

“Do you really believe that?”

I think about the way he touched my face when I told him I loved him. The photo album he kept by his bed. How he gave me fifteen thousand dollars for my building without hesitation. And how he saved the charity hockey game.

“No,” I whisper.

“Then stop acting like you do.” Emma’s voice turns fierce. “When are you going to fight for yourself?”

All these years, I’ve been waiting. For some guy to decide I was worth the effort. For Ryder to choose me without making him face what he’s running from.

But I’ve been choosing him all along. Choosing to love him when it was complicated. When it frightened me. When Connor said I was making a mistake.

I’ve been brave about everything except demanding what I deserve.

“I need to talk to him.” The decision feels final. “Not to beg. To tell him I’m worth fighting for.”

Emma’s smile is proud. “There she is.”

I finish the coffee. My hands steady. My breathing evens.

“The charity game is tomorrow. He’ll be at the rink today, practicing.”

“Then go.” Emma stands, pulls me up with her. “Whatever happens, you’ll be okay.”

She’s right. I’ve survived worse than heartbreak.

But god, I hope I don’t have to.

***

The drive takes ten minutes. I rehearse what I’ll say. Discard options. Start over. By the time I pull into the rink parking lot, my palms are damp on the wheel.

His truck is here. Black and pristine. My pulse kicks.

The rink is quiet. I push through the double doors. Ice and old wood and the chemical tang of zamboni exhaust.

The overhead lights are on. I hear skate scrape before I see him.

Ryder’s alone on the ice, moving through drills with mechanical precision. Stop. Turn. Sprint. Stop. His movements are fluid despite the injury. Beautiful the way only athletes can be.

I make my way to the stands. Sit in the front row and watch. He hasn’t noticed me yet. Lost in the rhythm. There’s something meditative about it, the way he moves.

Or maybe he’s just avoiding thinking.

He completes another lap and finally looks up. Sees me. His body goes still. For a long moment we just stare at each other across the ice.

Then he skates over. Stops at the boards in front of me, breathing hard. His hair is damp with sweat. His gray eyes cautious, guarded. The way they were when we first met, before he let me in.

“Lucy.” My name comes out rough. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.” My voice doesn’t shake. “Can you take a break?”

He hesitates. Then nods and skates to the bench. I meet him there. He sits to unlace his skates while I stand, because sitting feels too casual for what I’m about to say.

“I’ve been thinking,” I start. My hands twist together. I force them still. “About us. About what happened on Christmas.”

“Lucy, I’m sorry—”

“Let me finish.” The words come out sharper than I intended. I soften them. “Please.”

He nods. Leans back against the boards, hands braced on the bench. Waiting.

I take a breath. This is it. The moment where I either shrink back into the version of myself that’s safe and agreeable, or I step forward into who I’m becoming.

“I love you.” The words land between us. Clean and true. “I’m not taking that back. I’m not apologizing for it. I know it’s complicated and messy and probably terrible timing. But it’s the truth.”

His eyes are dark. Storm-cloud gray. He doesn’t speak.

I push on. “I spent my whole life trying to be good enough, useful enough, pleasant enough for people to choose me. I’m done.”

“Lucy—”

“I know my worth now.” The words come out strong. Final. “And I’m worth fighting for. I won’t beg you to love me back. I won’t shrink myself to make you comfortable. I won’t wait around hoping you’ll decide I’m enough.”

His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists against the bench.

“Either you see my value or you don’t. Either you’re brave enough to try or you’re not.” I take a step back. “But I’m done letting other people—even you—decide whether I’m worthy of love.”

“That’s not fair.” His voice is strained. “You know that’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re choosing fear over me.”

He drops his head. Runs his hands through his hair, that gesture he makes when he’s overwhelmed. “I can’t give you what you need. I don’t know how to do this. How to be what you deserve.”

The words hurt. But they also make everything clear.

I’ve said what I came to say. Laid myself bare. Demanded my worth.

Now I need to mean it.

“Okay.” I step back. My eyes burn but I won’t let the tears fall. Not yet. “Then there’s nothing left to say.”

I turn to leave. Make it three steps before his voice stops me.

“Wait.”

I pause. I don’t turn around. I can’t look at him and hold myself together.

“Lucy, please. Just wait.”

The desperation in his voice pulls me back. I face him. He’s standing now, skates abandoned on the bench. His hands are at his sides, fingers curled into fists.

“I’m terrified,” he says. The admission comes out raw. “Terrified of hurting you. Of being like my dad. Of building something that matters and watching it fall apart because I don’t know how to stay.”

“You’re not your father.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “You get to choose who you are. Every day, you get to choose.”

“I know.” He takes a step towards me. Then another. “And I’m choosing you. I’ve been choosing you since the moment you fell off that ladder and looked at me like I was something more than just another hockey player passing through.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“I love you.” The words tumble out. “I’ve probably loved you for years. Since you showed up with terrible Christmas puns and looked at me like I was not just Ryder Blackwood, the defenseman. Just Ryder.”

The tears I’ve been fighting spill over. “Then why did you leave?”

“Because I’m an idiot.” He closes the distance between us. Cups my face in his hands. “Because I got scared. Because when Connor said those things, all I could hear was my dad’s voice. All the ways he justified leaving. And I thought maybe Connor was right. Maybe I was using you. Maybe I would end up hurting you worse if I stayed.”

His thumb wipes away a tear. “I spent three days trying to convince myself I was doing the right thing by staying away. That you deserved better than a guy who’s going to be in Boston most of the year. Who doesn’t know how to do relationships. Who’s so scared of becoming his father that he almost became him anyway.”

“What changed?”

“You did.” His voice drops. “You came here. You demanded your worth. You were brave enough to walk away.” He leans his forehead against mine. “You’re the bravest person I know, Lucy. You see me. All of me. The broken parts, the scared parts, the parts I don’t show anyone. And you love me anyway.”

“I do love you.”

“I love you too.” He kisses me softly. “You’re worth fighting for. You’re worth everything. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it. I’m sorry I ran.”

“You came back.”

“I’ll always come back.” He pulls me closer. “I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know exactly how we make this work with Boston and the distance. But I know I want to try. I know you’re worth fighting for.”

“We’ll figure it out.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “Together.”

“Together,” he agrees. “I’m done being scared. Done running. You’re mine and I’m yours, and we’ll face whatever comes next as a team.”

He kisses me again, deeper this time. I melt into him, into the warmth and solidity of his body, into the promise of this moment.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathless. “What about Connor?”

“I’ll talk to him.” Ryder’s jaw sets. “He’s my best friend, but you’re my future. If he can’t accept that, we’ll deal with it. But I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not pretending this isn’t real.”

“He’ll come around. Eventually.”

“Maybe.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “But even if he doesn’t, I’m not letting you go. I’ve spent too many years putting other people’s expectations ahead of what I want. What I need. And I need you.”

“I need you too.”

We stand there for a moment, holding each other. The rink is quiet except for the hum of the overhead lights and our breathing.

“My room at the inn,” he says. “We’ll have privacy there. I want you in a bed where I can take my time. Where I can show you what it means when I stop holding back.”

Heat floods through me. “Yes.”

He grabs his skates and we head for the door. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together.

At his truck, he pulls me close. Kisses me hard against the driver’s side door. “I love you,” he murmurs against my lips. “And I’m going to spend the rest of the day proving it.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

“Good.” He opens my door. “Follow me there?”

I nod. Get in my car. Watch him climb into his truck.

As I follow him through Pine Hollow’s streets, something settles in my chest. Peace. Hope. The knowledge that I fought for myself and won.

Whatever happens—Connor’s reaction, the charity game, the logistics of long distance—we’ll handle it. I know we will.

Because I finally chose myself. And he chose me back.

That’s all that matters.

***

His bedroom is warm. I barely register the details before he’s on me, backing me toward the bed with hungry kisses.

“I’ve been thinking about this for three days,” he says against my mouth. “About all the ways I wanted to touch you.”

“Touch me now.” My voice comes out breathy.

He does. Strips me with hands that know exactly what they’re doing. Lays me back on the bed and follows me down.

“I love you,” he says, settling between my thighs. “And I’m done being careful. Done holding back.”

“I don’t want you to hold back.” I reach up, cup his face. “I want all of you.”

He searches my eyes for a long moment. Then he nods and kisses me, and it’s nothing like before. It’s demanding and possessive and hungry.

His hand slides down my body. Cups me through my panties. I gasp into his mouth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

His fingers slip beneath the fabric. Find me wet and ready. He groans.

“You’re soaked.”

“I’ve been thinking about this too.” I arch into his touch. “About your hands on me.”

He rewards me by sliding two fingers deep. I cry out, head falling back.

“That’s my girl.” He kisses down my throat while his fingers work me. “So responsive.”

“More,” I gasp.

“Not yet.” He pulls his hand away and I whimper at the loss. “First I’m going to taste you.”

He hooks his fingers in my panties and drags them down my legs. Then he spreads my thighs and settles between them, and when his mouth finds me, I see stars.

He doesn’t hold back. Doesn’t go slow or careful. He devours me until I’m writhing beneath him, hands fisted in his hair, thighs shaking.

“Ryder,” I gasp. “I’m going to—”

“Do it.” He sucks hard. “Come for me.”

I shatter. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me while he works me through it.

When I finally come down, he kisses his way up my body. His lips are wet when he kisses me.

“That’s one,” he says against my mouth. “I’m going to make you come at least two more times before I’m inside you.”

He does. Takes me apart with his hands and mouth until I’m boneless and gasping. Until I’m begging for him.

When he finally strips off his clothes and rolls on a condom, I’m trembling with need.

He settles between my thighs. Notches himself at my entrance. Pauses.

“Look at me,” he says.

I meet his eyes.

“I love you,” he says. “And you’re mine. I’m going to make sure you feel it.”

Then he drives into me and I cry out at the stretch, the fullness, the way he fills me completely.

“Move,” I gasp.

He does. Sets a rhythm that has me gasping, nails digging into his shoulders. He hooks my knee over his elbow, changes the angle, and hits that spot inside me.

“There,” I cry.

“I know.” He drives harder. “I know exactly where you need it.”

“Touch yourself,” he orders. “I want to feel you come around me.”

I slide my hand between us. Find my clit. Circle it in time with his thrusts.

“That’s it.” His voice is rough. “So beautiful like this.”

I’m close. So close. The pressure builds and builds.

“Ryder,” I gasp. “I’m—”

“Do it.” He drives harder. “Come for me.”

I shatter. The orgasm rips through me. He manages three more thrusts before he follows, spilling with my name on his lips.

We collapse together. Both gasping. Sweat-slicked and trembling.

“You okay?” he asks.

“More than okay.” I turn my head to look at him. “That was perfect.”

He pulls out carefully. Then he’s pulling me against him, tucking me into his side.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Whatever challenges we face, we face them together.”

“Together,” I agree.

I close my eyes. Let myself sink into the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.

Tomorrow will bring complications. Connor’s grudging acceptance. The charity game. The conversation about Boston and how we make this work long distance.

But tonight, we have this. Each other. And for now, that’s everything.