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When he pulls into the Target parking lot, I look at him with complete bewilderment. “This is what you mean by running errands?”

Of all the places I expected Slater Castellano to take me, Target wasn’t on the list. The man who hits people for fun on the ice shops at Target?

I underestimated him.

He turns to me with that slight smirk that’s becoming dangerously familiar. “Yeah, come on.”

We get out of his expensive car—which looks ridiculously out of place among the Honda Civics and Toyota Camrys—and walk toward the store.

It feels awfully like we’re together, especially with the way people’s eyes immediately gravitate toward Slater. It has to be his height, his undeniable good looks, and that confident demeanor that screams athlete even in civilian clothes.

A woman with her teenage daughter literally stops walking to stare as we pass. The daughter whispers something that sounds like “Is that?” but Slater pays no attention to anyone. He’s completely focused, moving through the store like a man on a mission.

When he looks at me, though, his entire expression softens. The hard edges disappear, replaced by something warm and almost tender that makes my stomach flutter in ways I’m trying not to acknowledge.

“Where are we going?” I ask, because he’s walking through the store with such purpose that I feel like I’m being led somewhere specific.

We pass through electronics, past the grocery section, around clothing displays filled with spring fashions. Finally, we reach the home goods section, and he walks straight down the candle aisle.

“You love candles, don’t you?” I tease, watching him scan the shelves with unusual interest.

But he keeps walking past the vanilla and lavender scents, past the decorative holders and wax melts, until we reach the furniture section. Specifically, the furniture that comes in boxes with assembly requirements.

“We can get candles another time,” he says, stopping in front of a display of dressers. “Which dresser do you want?”

My heart stops. “Slater, no.”

“Sage, yes. Which one.”

I glare at him, my mind racing as I try to process what’s happening right now. This feels like more than just buying furniture. This feels like a turning point, maybe even a stake of claim. Like he’s marking territory in the most domestic way possible.

“When I leave, do I get to take it with me?” I ask, testing him.

His jaw clenches, and I see something flash in his eyes that looks almost like pain. “Yeah. I don’t want it staying in my house to remind me of you. So which one do you want. Black or white. Tall or short.”

The casual way he mentions not wanting reminders of me stings more than it should. But underneath the hurt, I’m touched by the gesture itself. No one has ever bought me furniture before. Hell, most of my belongings have come from thrift stores and Facebook Marketplace.

I point at the tall white one with four drawers instead of three. It’s practical and clean-looking, and it would actually solve my problem of living out of piles on the floor.

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “This is the nicest thing someone’s ever done for me.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he whispers, and there’s a promise in his voice that makes my pulse quicken.

He grabs the box in one swift movement, lifting it like it weighs nothing despite the fact that it’s probably sixty pounds of particle board and hardware.

“I can help carry it,” I offer.

“Got it. Let’s go.”

The checkout process is surreal. Slater Castellano, college hockey player hot as sin, buying me a $129 dresser from Target. The teenage cashier probably doesn’t know who he is but stammers through the transaction. This poor kid. I smile at him, knowing how intimidating someone like Slater is.

Slater loads the box into the backseat of his car. On the drive back to his house, something shifts between us. The air feels charged.

Then he reaches over and grabs my hand, folding his fingers through mine like it’s something we do now.

The simple contact sends warmth shooting up my arm and straight to my chest. His hand is warm and calloused from years of gripping hockey sticks, and the way his thumb traces small circles on my skin is soothing and electric.

I find myself thinking about relationships—real relationships, not the toxic disaster I escaped from.

Maybe they’re not just based on physical attraction and sex.

Maybe they’re built on moments like this: someone caring enough to notice what you need and taking action to provide it.

Someone holding your hand while driving and making you feel like you matter.

“I’m glad to have you as a friend,” I say, testing the word that’s starting to feel insufficient for whatever this is becoming.

He lifts our joined hands and kisses my knuckles, his lips soft against my skin. “Friends.”

But the way he says it, the way his mouth lingers on my hand, suggests that he finally understands what I need. I don’t need the all-consuming possessive relationship. I need a friend.

Back at the house, he carries the box up to my room like it weighs nothing. I sit cross-legged on the floor while he unpacks all the pieces, spreading them out in organized rows. There’s something oddly endearing about watching him read the instruction manual.

“Pass me the long screws,” he says, not looking up from where he’s aligning the side panels.

I dig through the little plastic bag of hardware, finding the ones he needs. “These?”

“Yes.”

We fall into an easy rhythm—me reading the next step aloud, him executing it. There’s something so sweet about this, and I never want to forget it. So, I pull out my phone and aim it at him as he carefully lines up the drawer rails.

“Slater. Say cheese.”

He looks up at me instead of the camera, and the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. There’s something raw and unguarded in his expression, like he’s letting me see past all his carefully constructed walls.

“You should be careful of what you take pictures of,” he says, his voice lower than usual.

I cock my head to the side, intrigued. “Why is that?”

“It lasts forever.”

I inhale sharply at those words, holding his eye contact. There’s weight behind what he’s saying—an acknowledgment that whatever this is between us has permanence.

“That’s okay, right?” I ask softly. “I mean, really, no matter what happens, this time we’re spending together will exist forever regardless if there’s pictures or not. It doesn’t matter what happens in the future—right here, right now, this is happening. And nothing can change that.”

“Yeah,” he says, turning back to the dresser with the screwdriver. “Honestly… I don’t want these moments to end.”

Something in his voice makes my chest tight. I wiggle my phone playfully. “I can take more photos. Maybe some videos.”

I hit record and turn the camera toward myself. “So, Slater, the hot, notorious, arrogant hockey player,” I say with an exaggerated tone, “is building me, Sage—broke, homeless Hawthorne’s athletic PTA—a dresser because I currently have all my clothes on the ground.”

I flip the camera around to show him working, then squeeze in next to him, pressing my cheek against his. “He’s so brooding,” I mock, reaching up to squeeze his cheeks with my free hand.

He looks at me, and when our eyes meet, something electric passes between us. “So brooding,” I repeat, putting on an exaggerated pouty face.

Without warning, he leans in and kisses my lips. It’s soft and quick, but it steals my breath completely.

My eyes widen as I look back at the camera. “Brooding and wanting,” I manage to say, throwing my head back against his shoulder and laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“Always so horny,” I murmur, not caring that I’m recording this.

“Only for you,” he says, and there’s no humor in his voice.

I roll my eyes as my heart starts racing. “Okay, this video has heard enough. Any last words?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking directly into the camera. “We’re just friends.”

“That’s right. Friends,” I agree.

“Friends,” he repeats, leaning in to kiss me again.

I blush furiously, turning the camera off and tossing it onto the bed. Then I’m wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him deeply, pouring all the confusion and want and tenderness I can’t vocalize into the contact.

“Friends first,” I whisper against his mouth when we break apart. “It’s important. If we can’t be friends, this won’t go far.”

He pecks my lips gently. “Whatever you say.”

“Tomorrow we’re back to reality,” I remind him, trying to hold onto some semblance of logic.

He shakes his head, his hands finding the hem of my shirt. “Then let’s enjoy whatever this is right now.”

His hands run up my back, under my shirt, and I arch into him with a soft moan. The feeling of his calloused palms against my skin is electric, and when he presses himself against me, I can feel exactly how much he wants me.

His hands pause for the briefest second at the curve of my waist, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. His breath is hot against my neck as he leans in, lips brushing the skin just below my ear.

My fingers grip the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward until the fabric is bunched between us. He takes the hint, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside without looking.

God, he’s so damn hot—muscles tight and ridged, scars old and new mapped across his chest. I trace one absently, and he catches my wrist, his gaze burning into mine.

“You keep touching me like that,” he says, “and I’m not gonna be able to go slow.”

“Maybe we should stop then.”

I stand, leaving the room while my heart hammers against my chest. Shame and guilt rips through me as I close the bedroom door.

I walk into the living room, trying to catch my breath. I run my hands through my hair, trying to understand what is happening to me.

Because I want Slater more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, but I keep hesitating.

And it’s clear to me that the trauma I experienced is heavier than I thought.