Page 15

HARPER

The sky is doing that thing I love again.

I stand by the kitchen window with my camera in hand, lens pressed loosely to my eye as the snow drifts down in fat, lazy spirals.

It's not a storm-no, it's gentle. Soft. Quiet.

The kind of snowfall that mutes the city into something almost dreamlike, like the world's exhaling all at once.

I've always liked days like this. The kind of days where time stretches out and folds over itself like warm dough, where everything feels a little slower, a little softer, like you're being held without realizing it.

Click.

The shutter breaks the silence. I lower the camera and glance down at the screen, smiling to myself as the image comes into focus-powder-blue clouds, the faintest hue of pink bleeding through their edges like the sky's blushing. It's a small thing, but it feels like mine.

My hands are cold, but I don't mind. I've been going back and forth between the kitchen and the window for the past hour, alternating between baking cookies and chasing the perfect shot of the sky.

The oven beeps behind me, its warmth curling through the apartment, smelling like brown sugar and melted chocolate and home.

I pull the tray out with mitts on, set it gently on the counter, and exhale slowly. The cookies are slightly cracked at the top, edges golden, soft in the center-just how Millie likes them, that's what Lauren said.

She's coming home today. My chest squeezes a little at the thought.

She texted this morning. Just a short "I'll be there soon" message, no flair, no emojis. Classic Millie. But I could tell she was tired.

And ever since I got that text, I haven't been able to stop moving. Baking, cleaning, photographing, pacing. Anything to keep myself from thinking too hard.

Because if I stop moving, I'll remember the moment from two nights ago. The exact second I saw that girl-Jenna, whatever her name is-drive her shoulder straight into Millie's back and send her flying into the boards like she weighed nothing at all.

God. I hadn't even realized I was holding my breath until Millie hit the ice and didn't get up.

My phone slipped out of my hand. I remember that. The sharp clatter of it hitting the hardwood floor as I stared at the TV, frozen. It wasn't like watching a game anymore. It felt personal. Like someone had reached through the screen and cracked something open inside me.

Millie had just been... so Millie lately.

Stubborn and snappy and guarded, yeah-but also stupidly funny and stupidly kind in ways she doesn't even realize and in ways I'm not used to be treated.

She buys my favorite snacks even though she pretends she doesn't know what they are.

She leaves me notes with dumb doodles when I have a rough day.

She rolls her eyes like she's allergic to emotions, but she wears them all in those ocean-blue eyes.

I don't know when exactly I started caring.

Not just in the PR, let's-fake-date-to-save-your-reputation way.

I mean actually caring. About the way she gets quiet when she's thinking too hard.

About how her voice sounds rougher when she's trying not to cry.

About how she fights for the world to like her as she is and not as they want her to be.

It's dangerous. Because I know what happens when I care.

I've been here before. And Millie? She doesn't do soft.

Doesn't let people in. Not easily. Sometimes I wonder if she even knows how.

I care and I do stupid shit like running in the pouring rain for about ten minutes to my best friend's mom's house so she can call her best friend so I can speak to Millie. Fucking pathetic.

I turn back to the cookies, setting them on a plate. There's a warmth in my chest that doesn't match the heat from the oven.

I should've gone to see her. When I asked if she wanted me to come, and she said no-I should've gone anyway. Just for her. Not for the PR. Not for the press. Just for her.

But instead, I stayed. And I baked cookies. And I told myself it was enough.

The front door clicks.

Not loudly. Just a soft sound. But my body hears it before my mind does-my spine straightens, my hands still where I'm arranging cookies on the plate. The silence that follows feels heavier than it should.

The sound of boots, wet from snow, thunking against the entry mat make my heart beat fast. I don't know why I'm nervous, but fuck, I am. The rustle of a duffel bag dropped carelessly. And her voice, rough and tired and unmistakably Millie, low enough that I barely catch it: "Harps?"

I don't breathe. Fuck, I missed her.

Is that even normal?

I move before I even think, walking out of the kitchen and into the narrow hallway that leads to the door.

She's standing just inside the door, snow melting into the rug beneath her boots.

Her coat's only half-off, like she didn't have the energy to finish taking it off.

There's a hoodie underneath, wrinkled from travel, and her red hair is damp from the weather-curling around her jaw, a few strands stuck to her cheek.

Her cheeks are flushed red from the cold. Her lips a little pale. Her left shoulder is held stiff, tight, wrapped under her coat in a way that makes my stomach twist. She looks like herself and nothing like herself at the same time.

Her eyes find mine. And for a second, everything else disappears. The snow, the hallway, the faint music playing low in the background. It all just... fades.

She's here.

She's home.

She's okay.

And I didn't realize how badly I needed her to be until right now.

We don't say anything. The silence hangs heavy, thick with unsaid things. But it's not awkward. It's something else. Charged. Fragile. Important. I step toward her slowly. She doesn't move. Just watches me like she's not sure if this is real.

And then I wrap my arms around her. I don't overthink it. I don't plan it. I just do it.

Because I missed her. And maybe that doesn't make sense but the ache is real.

I felt it when I saw her go down on the ice.

Felt it when I couldn't reach her. Felt it every second since.

She's stiff against me at first. Her arms hang by her sides, like she doesn't know what to do with them.

Like no one's touched her in a while. Like maybe she forgot what this kind of softness feels like.

But I don't let go. Instead, I press my cheek to hers. Her skin's still cold, still smells like snow and something faintly sweet-coconut or vanilla or something warmer than winter. Her breath hitches, and I feel it in my chest like an echo.

I close my eyes. "Hug me back, Mills," I whisper.

There's a beat. Then another. And just when I think she won't- Her hands come up slowly, resting at my back, hesitant.

Like she's trying to remember how.

But it's not enough.

So I stay.

My fingers find the curls at the base of her neck, damp and soft between my knuckles.

My other hand slides to the curve of her spine, holding her steady.

Not tightly, just... securely. Like I'm saying I've got you without actually saying it.

And maybe I am. Her forehead falls lightly against my temple. Her breath brushes my jaw. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. We just let it happened.

After a long moment, she exhales. "You're warm."

I smile. "You're wet."

Millie smirks, "And unfortunately, it's not for you."

I gasp, pulling back, cheeks lighting up like I've just stepped into the sun. "Amelia!"

She grins, shameless and unbothered, like she didn't just say something that made my stomach drop straight through the floor. Her eyes-blue and bright and tired-sparkle like she's proud of herself.

"What? You walked right into it."

I cross my arms, trying very hard to ignore the heat crawling up my neck. "You're lucky I made cookies."

"Please," she mutters, leaning against the wall like she might slide down it if she doesn't hold on. "I came back from the brink of death for those cookies."

"You were barely concussed."

She scoffs, then winces-tiny, barely there, but I see it. Her left shoulder dips like she's trying not to jostle it. My teasing dies on my tongue.

"Hey," I say more gently, stepping forward, hands hovering like I might catch her even though she's still upright. "Come on, sit down. You shouldn't be standing that long."

Millie opens her mouth, probably to protest, but it doesn't come. Instead, she nods-just once-and lets me guide her into the living room. Her body is heavier than it looks against mine. Not because of weight, but because of everything she's holding.

The moment she sinks into the couch, she exhales like she's been holding her breath since Toronto.

I kneel to untie her boots-something automatic, something I don't even think about until I'm already doing it. The laces are soaked, and my fingers tremble slightly as I undo them, because I remember- I remember the way she hit the boards.

The way she didn't get up. The way I yelled at the screen, like that could fix it.

I am afraid of how much I care.

She shifts as I pull off her boots, brushing snow aside. Her socks are damp too. I set everything near the door to dry, then return to her, wiping my hands on my sweater like that might clear the emotions with them.

"I missed you," I say without thinking.

Millie looks up, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Yeah?"

I nod, eyes catching hers. "Yeah."

Something flickers behind her expression. She doesn't smile. Doesn't tease. For a second, she just looks at me like I'm something she wasn't expecting. Something she's not sure what to do with.

"I missed you too," she says eventually, and it's so quiet I almost don't hear it. silence settles again. But it's a comfortable one this time. A real one. She clears her throat, "Maybe you should, eh, start coming to my games. People might get suspicious if you don't."

"Are you allowed to play?"

"Yeah- next game is home game on Saturday. I'll be good as new."

I nod slowly. "Okay. I'll be there."

She blinks. Just once. Like she's caught off guard.

Then her brows pull slightly together, not in confusion exactly, more like.

.. curiosity. Like she's trying to figure out what I really mean.

And maybe I'm not sure either. Maybe it's not just about showing face or maintaining the fake dating illusion.

Maybe I actually want to go. No cameras. No press. Just me, watching her.

She looks at me like she doesn't quite believe it.

I want to see her like that again. Not like this, standing a little too still in a dim hallway, still healing and fragile around the edges. I want the version of her I saw on the screen-fast, fearless, fierce. The one who moved like the rink was hers and everyone else was lucky to be there.

That version? She was magnetic. Maddening. And ridiculously hot. I don't say any of that, of course.

Instead, I smirk and wet my bottom lip with the tip of my tongue before biting down gently, feeling a heat rise in my cheeks before I let the words slip out, "But your excuse for people to get suspicious is cute," I tease, slow and deliberate.

"Just admit it-you only want me to wear your jersey with your name on the back. "

That gets her. Millie's lips twitch. Then she blinks-slow, like she's registering the words-and a slow, dangerous smile unfurls on her face.

Her whole posture changes: she shifts a little closer, turns more toward me, her arm brushing against mine, her thigh warm where it presses lightly into my leg.

Her eyes flick down to my mouth before coming back up to meet mine.

"Oh, absolutely," she says, voice low and thick with flirt. "You in my jersey? Harps, I think about that more than I should."

I choke on a laugh, the sound bubbling out of me way too fast, and I shove at her arm half-heartedly. "You're such an asshole," I say, but I can't stop smiling.

"An asshole who wants you in my jersey," she says, like it's the simplest, most obvious fact in the world.

She leans in just enough that I can see the glint of amusement in her eyes-and something else too.

Mischief, confidence, heat. She knows what she's doing.

She knows what she's doing to me.

I swallow hard. My throat is suddenly dry. I hate that she sees it. She definitely sees it. The way her smirk grows just a fraction more smug, like she's won some invisible game we weren't even officially playing.

I fold my arms across my chest and tilt my head. "Bold of you to assume I'd wear your number."

Millie raises her brows. "Please. You'd look so good in thirteen."

The way she says it makes something flip in my stomach. I raise my chin, playing it cool. "Mm. Debatable."

Her eyes flash. "You saying you wouldn't wear it to bed?"

My mouth goes dry. Shit. I wasn't ready for that one.

I try not to show it. I swallow, shift slightly where I'm curled on the couch beside her, and smirk. "I'm saying I'd wear it better than you," I shoot back, voice low.

Her head tilts like she's assessing me, like she's surprised I pushed back-pleasantly surprised.

Then her mouth pulls into a grin, slow and wicked, and she bites her bottom lip like she's trying to contain it, but failing miserably.

And God help me, she's so smug. So sure of herself.

But not in an arrogant way. It's worse than that. It's magnetic.

"Oh yeah?" she says, her voice raspier now. "That's... dangerously hot of you."

I blink. "Dangerous how?"

Millie leans in just a fraction-not enough to touch, just enough to make the air between us feel too thin. Her voice drops, deliberate, like the pause between lightning and thunder. "Wouldn't want to be responsible for what might happen if I saw it."

It's not the words. It's how she says them. Low. Smooth. Like heat curling around a match before the strike. Like we both know this is a game, but neither of us remembers when we started playing it.

And suddenly my whole body is aware of itself.

The way my thigh is pressed to hers. The way the blanket's too warm now, clinging to my legs.

The way her voice slipped under my skin like it knew the way.

My stomach twists in a way I don't have a name for.

My chest tightens. My skin prickles. That slow heat crawling up my neck isn't embarrassment-it's arousal.

Want, sharp and inconvenient. I clench my jaw and try to focus on something-anything-that isn't the way her eyes are dragging over my face like she's memorizing it.

I force a laugh, but it comes out soft and shaky, barely covering the way I shift my legs, subtly pressing them together. God. What is wrong with me?

She doesn't let me off the hook. Her fingers tap gently on the couch beside me, like she's deciding whether to close the distance. "You're blushing."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Shut up."

Her grin widens, and she leans back just enough to give me space, but not without brushing her shoulder against mine on the way. "You're kind of fun when you're flustered," she says, her voice lighter.

She sits back, finally giving me room to breathe. The air feels colder without her warmth pressed against my side. My body protests the distance instantly, like it had already grown used to the closeness. And isn't that terrifying.

"So," she adds casually, stretching her legs out like she owns the whole couch, "where are my cookies, Lane?"

That snaps me out of whatever spell I'd just fallen into.

"Right. Yes. Cookies." I shoot up from the couch so fast it's clumsy, like I've been yanked up by invisible strings. My foot catches slightly on the edge of the rug and I nearly stumble. "I can do cookies. I know where the cookies are. That's a thing I can do."

Her laughter follows me into the kitchen-loud, unfiltered, real. It's so loud it fills the space behind me, and something about that makes my cheeks burn hotter.

I grip the counter like it's going to save me from collapsing into a puddle of nerves and hormones.

Jesus Christ. I need a cold shower.

────────── ????──────────

Steam clings to the mirror, fogging up the corners of the glass as I rub a towel through my hair.

It's still damp, curling slightly at the ends where the waves naturally settle just above my shoulders.

My skin is warm, freshly scrubbed, and I feel.

.. softer, maybe. Looser.

I pull on a clean set of pajamas.

Nothing fancy. Just a gray T-shirt that falls loosely over my chest, thin from years of wear, and a pair of soft cotton shorts.

They're pale blue and hit mid-thigh, the drawstring dangling as I walk barefoot out of the bathroom.

The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the TV. The lights are off except in the kitchen, where I go to get water. I open the cabinet, grab a glass, fill it at the tap. The cold hits my palm and the edge of the glass when I sip, and that's when I glance into the living room.

And stop breathing. Millie is on the couch. Fucking hell.

She's curled up against a pillow, half-reclined, eyes fixed on the screen. But I don't see the movie. I don't even know what's playing. I only see her.

The pajama set she's wearing is cream-colored and dusted with tiny blue flowers.

It's thin, delicate, and probably meant for nights when no one's supposed to be watching.

The top dips low in the front, gathered with a drawstring that looks like it's holding on for dear life, skimming over her chest like it was made just for her.

Ruffled cap sleeves cling to the tops of her arms, and the hem ends just above her waist-just enough to show a sliver of skin where the shorts sit dangerously low on her hips.

The fabric looks soft, and for one insane second, I wonder what it feels like under my fingertips. Her legs are bare. Smooth. Long. One is tucked under the other, and her whole body looks so casual, so completely unbothered by what it's doing to me.

My throat goes dry. I blink, shake my head like that's gonna help. It doesn't. She shifts slightly, and her eyes meet mine.

I freeze mid-sip. Her gaze drags down, slow and unhurried, then comes back up. She doesn't smile. She just looks at me like she already knows what I'm thinking, like she's waiting to see if I'll say it out loud.

I see the slight smirk forming on her lips, and instantly, my skin warms like I've stepped too close to the sun. I drag the edge of my tongue over my bottom lip, swallowing hard.

"Hey, what're you doing?"

My voice is thin. Barely holding. I clutch the glass tighter than necessary. Trying to act normal while you're dressed like that. "Uh, nothing. Water. Thirsty."

Her eyes glitter with mischief. "You're thirsty?"

The way she says it-low and teasing, wrapped in heat-makes something flutter painfully in my stomach. Why are my cheeks hot? Why does that word sound suddenly illegal coming out of her mouth?

"Yeah," I say quickly, awkwardly. "Water."

She presses her lips together like she's trying not to laugh, the corners twitching with effort. "Huh," she murmurs, voice all lazy amusement. "You like Marvel?"

"What?" I blink, because my brain's still stuck somewhere between her thighs and the way her pajama top dips at the collarbone.

"Marvel," she repeats, tilting her head like she's not fully aware of the effect she's having on me. Except she is. She absolutely is. "The movies. Superheroes. Do you like them?"

I realize, with slow horror, that I haven't moved at all. I'm still standing in the kitchen with the damn glass in my hand like I've forgotten how to function. My feet are rooted to the floor, knees slightly locked, like every part of me is bracing against something I don't even understand yet.

"I, uh..." I place the glass down on the island, carefully, like it might shatter if I move too fast. I close my eyes for a second and take a breath, but it doesn't help. She's still there in my periphery, all long legs and soft skin and sleepy eyes. "I guess. I've watched some with Audrey."

Millie grins-lazy and pleased. "Wanna watch one with me? Are you busy?"

"No," I say too fast.

Her face falters, and I panic. "No, I mean yes-wait, not like yes I'm busy, but yes I want to watch one with you. I'm not busy. God." I drag a hand through my damp hair and mutter under my breath, "I'm a fucking mess."

She laughs. Loud and unfiltered. It echoes softly through the apartment, and I hate how much I love the sound.

I make my way into the living room, trying to pretend I'm chill, but my heart's hammering in my chest like it knows something I don't. I spot the other end of the couch and head there-safe distance, reasonable gap. I plop down and tuck one leg under the other, giving her space.

Too much space.

She glances sideways, her smirk returning, but this time it's a little slower, more dangerous. "Wow," she says. "Leaving all that space for Jesus?"

"I-" My voice squeaks. I clear it, mortified. "It's comfortable."

"It's lonely." Her legs shift, stretching slightly, one knee brushing the cushion closer to me. "Don't worry, I don't bite."

I arch a brow, trying to cling to some version of composure. "I'm not worried."

"Liar," she says, sing-song, all teeth and trouble. "You act like sitting next to me is gonna kill you."

It might.

I'm pretty sure it might.

But she doesn't push. Just presses play, the movie flickering to life on the screen. For a few seconds, it's just background noise, colors and explosions and sound while I pretend to watch.

But I can feel her next to me. Even with the space.

The faint scent of her lotion, the low heat radiating from her skin.

I glance sideways-just for a second-and her profile is lit up by the light of the TV.

Her lips are slightly parted, focused, completely unaware of the riot she's causing in my bloodstream.

Or maybe not. Because after a moment, she looks over at me.

And she doesn't say anything. Just holds my gaze.

Daring me.

And something in me gives.

I shift. Inch by inch. Closer. And she notices-of course she does-but says nothing.

Her smile grows, just barely. Our thighs don't touch.

But they could. And suddenly I don't remember a single thing about Marvel movies.

Only the way my heart is tripping, the heat crawling up the back of my neck, and how badly I want to lean in just a little further.

My breath comes shallower as I finally settle beside her.

Not touching, but close. Too close. Her skin is warm like a campfire, and now I'm burning-cheeks, chest, stomach, everything.

I grip the throw pillow in my lap tighter, trying to pretend it's for comfort and not because I need something between us. Something safe.

"You scared of superheroes, Harps?" she murmurs, her voice low, teasing.

"No," I say, and it comes out far too soft.

She tilts her head toward me. "Then why do you look like you're about to spontaneously combust?"

I laugh, but it's a nervous, helpless sound. "Maybe I'm just... hot."

She lifts a brow, slowly. "Well, that makes two of us."

I stare at her. At the way her hair's fallen loose over one shoulder, at the delicate blue flowers scattered across her shirt, how the soft fabric shifts with every breath she takes.

Her bare thigh is just a few inches from mine, and my fingers twitch against the couch cushion like they want to do something reckless.

Millie grins wider, like she knows. Of course she knows. "I'm kidding," she says, but she's not. Not really. "Mostly."

"You're insufferable."

"I'm not."

"You're half-naked."

"I'm wearing shorts and a T-shirt." she grins, "You're totally flustered."

God. I am.

I want to hide my face, and instead I find myself smiling-because I like this. I like her. Something about her makes me feel alive and seen and thrown completely off my axis all at once. She's bold, and it's terrifying, and I don't want her to stop.

She turns back toward the screen, and the silence stretches again, but now it's full of something else. The kind that curls behind your ribs and waits.

I try to focus on the movie. I do. But my mind is still reeling. And eventually, when the tension in the room simmers just a little lower, my thoughts drift back to everything else.

To the real world. To the thing I've been carrying for days now.

I don't know why I speak, not really.

Maybe because she's the first person who's made me laugh in a long time.

Maybe because the noise in my head has been too loud and her presence quiets it just enough.

Or maybe because I trust her more than I should.

"My friend's getting married," I say suddenly.

Millie hums beside me. "Exciting?"

"Yeah," I murmur. "I mean... she's not really my friend. Or she was. She's, uh, Isaiah's friend."

She glances at me again, brow lifted like she's waiting for the but. I sigh. "I'm supposed to go. And I said I'd bring someone."

"You got someone in mind?"

I don't answer right away. My eyes stay on the screen, even though I couldn't tell you a single thing that's happening. "I... haven't really dated since him."

Her voice is quieter now. "Right."

"Yeah."

Silence again.

But not awkward. Just... heavy. "I've got a wedding to go to, a party to throw for them and a very beautiful woman sitting next to me in tiny flower pajamas and I can't feel my legs."

Millie blinks. And then she grins-slow and lazy. "You think I'm beautiful?"

"I think you're trouble."

She shifts closer. Just an inch. "I could be both."

God help me, I believe her. And for the first time, I let myself smile without apology. "You wanna come to the wedding with me?"

Her brows shoot up. "You know, for the PR. I can't exactly go to a wedding with another person if you wanna sell this with me."

She grins like the cat that got the cream. "Oh, definitely. For the PR." she chuckles and my heart skips a beat.

I think I'm the one in trouble here.