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“I am your friend. That’s why I need your help.”

She crosses her arms tighter. “Call Shep. He’d probably do it shirtless. Or in a dragon onesie. Maybe both.”

“Oh, that’s rich. You just want to see him climb a ladder.”

“I want to see him fall off one,” she mutters. “In a funny, non-life-threatening way.”

“I can’t believe you’re bailing on me. This was your idea!”

“Technically, the water tower was my idea. You twisted it into Saran-wrapping a sign. That’s on you.”

I groan and press my forehead to her doorframe. “I just want to make him smile.”

“Girl,” she says, her voice softening, “he’s already smiling. Every time you walk in the room.”

I hate that my eyes sting at that.

“Fine,” I mumble. “I’ll do it myself.”

She sighs. “Please be careful.”

I pat her on the head. “Always am.”

She glares. “You are literally never careful.”

“Then wish me luck.”

She opens the door wider, lets me in for a hug. “Wear gloves. No fingerprints.”

I laugh into her shoulder. “I always do.”

I grab my gear and head back out into the cold.

This time, it’s just me, a ladder, and a mission.

What could possibly go wrong?

The world outside is bone-deep quiet, all the good citizens of Sorrowville tucked away in their houses after their work day while I crunch across Lynsie’s icy front walk, lugging the world’s sketchiest duffel bag. The streetlights buzz on the darker it gets like they’re in on the secret, casting my breath in little puffs as I march toward my car.

It’s ridiculous, really—risking frostbite and public humiliation just to prove a point to one hockey player who might never even know it was me. But that’s the whole deal, isn’t it? Love makes idiots of us all. I slide behind the wheel, crank the heat, and let my heart thump out a Morse code of hope and nerves all the way to Miner’s Arena. No turning back now.

The ladder groans under me like it’s just as bitter about this mission as I am about doing it alone. I ignore it. Because I have a goal. A dumb one. A heartfelt, wildly romantic dumb one.

The Saran Wrap crackles in my arms as I climb, one rung at a time, praying the wind doesn’t pick up again. The sign looms above me, letters freshly rearranged by Virgil with military precision. My message has to be better. Bolder. It’s the grand finale, the rom-com climax. The thing that finally gets Brogan to see what’s been right in front of him.

Me. Obviously.

“Okay,” I whisper to the letters as I reach the top, heart pounding. “You’ve had your moment. Time to step aside for greatness.”

I wedge the Saran Wrap into place, hands shaking partly from the cold and partly from nerves. It’s working. Kind of. Not pretty, but it’s readable. Almost.

I’m half-balanced on the top rung, fumbling with the plastic letters. It’s supposed to read, “BROGAN #29 = HOPE.” But rightnow, all I’ve managed is “BROGAN #29 = HO”—which, yeah, if I fall now, that’s exactly the legacy I’ll leave for the town rumor mill.

As if the universe just heard my thought, a nasty gust of wind blows through. That’s when the ladder shifts. Just a little. Just enough.

“Shit.”

I reach to grab the edge of the sign, but my foot slips. The world tilts. The wind howls. I flail.