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I think back to last night. To the way Quinn looked at me in the quiet after everyone else had left. The way she stood there, nerves exposed and heart wide open.

And then she kissed me.

I wasn’t expecting it. One minute we were laughing about the haunted jockstrap, and the next, she was right there, so close I could feel the tremble in her breath.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“Me too,” I’d said.

Then she leaned in, and everything fell away—the fear, the past, the doubt.

It wasn’t a fireworks-and-choirs kind of kiss. It was tentative. Careful. But full of something truer than anything I’ve felt in years. Her lips brushed mine, soft and warm, and I didn’t move a muscle. I let her set the pace. Let her decide. And when she pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes wide and searching, I finally exhaled.

That moment is seared into me. Burned behind my eyelids.

But so is the uncertainty.

She didn’t say what it meant. And I didn’t ask. Because if I had, I’m not sure I’d like the answer.

Back at my truck, I find Beckett leaning against the driver’s side, arms folded, aviators hiding his expression.

I groan. “Do you people track me?”

“We know your haunts,” he says casually. “Besides, Abby said you were acting twitchy last night.”

“I was not twitchy.”

He shrugs. “You reorganized the snack bins. Alphabetically. That’s your version of twitchy.”

I mutter something under my breath and open the passenger side door, tossing in my thermos. Beckett doesn’t budge.

“So,” he says. “You going to tell me what’s spinning in that overcooked hockey brain of yours?”

I hesitate. “She’s staying. I should be thrilled. But I’m scared that… I don’t know. Maybe I’m still the risk. Still the guy she shouldn’t bet on.”

Beckett exhales. “Wes, she already bet on you once. She wouldn’t even be here if she wasn’t thinking about doing it again.”

I lean back against the truck, watching as a breeze rustles the early morning leaves. “It’s just—what if I mess it up again? What if I stay and still somehow lose her?”

Beckett slaps my shoulder. “Then you fight like hell not to. You show up. Every single day. You make her believe it’s different now—because it is.”

He pauses, then gives me a sidelong look. “You love her?”

“Yeah,” I say without hesitation. “I do.”

He nods like that settles something. “Then stop thinking about worst-case scenarios and start acting like a man who deserves her.”

I don’t answer right away. Because he’s right. And because I know I’ve still got some work to do.

Later that morning, I find myself in the rink lobby. The place is quiet except for the sound of skates being sharpened in the back and the hum of the soda machine.

Walking back inside I sit on the edge of the bleachers, tapping my fingers against my thigh.

She kissed me.

That kiss meant something. I know it did. But what comes next? Do I wait for her to make the next move? Do I show up at her clinic with flowers and a sign that says “Please Let Me Love You” like some kind of rom-com hero?

No. Quinn would hate that. She doesn’t want grand gestures. She wants truth. Steadiness. Presence.