Page 20

MILLIE

Being the youngest in a family like mine is.

.. weird.

Not hard, not lonely, not painful—just weird.

Because I had the best childhood. I mean that.

The kind of childhood people make movies about.

I had two moms who never missed a game, two sisters who treated me like I hung the moon, people who protected me with all their lives, and a house full of music and ice dates and glitter and bruises and laughter.

I was loved so much it was almost overwhelming sometimes.

But still—being the youngest in a family like mine means growing up watching everyone else already be something before you even know what you want.

Aurora is twelve years older than me. Summer's nine.

By the time I was figuring out how to do long division, they were winning championships and standing under spotlights and falling in love.

While I was still sneaking into my moms' bed after nightmares, they had their own apartments.

Their own lives. Their own rules. We were never on the same page. Not really.

But I never felt left out. Not once. I just..

. knew I was always going to be a few steps behind.

I watched them like someone watches the stars—not because I wanted to be them, but because I couldn't believe I got to live in the same universe.

I looked up to them, always. Still do.

I've never once wanted to surpass them.

I think even as a kid I knew we weren't built for the same roads.

My moms taught me that early. That it's not about comparison.

That my path wasn't supposed to look like Summer's or Aurora's.

That I could be different and still be enough.

So I found hockey. Or maybe hockey found me.

And it was messy and fast and loud and brutal and everything I didn't know I needed.

While Summer danced across a stage and Aurora carved perfect figures into the ice, I slammed into walls and skated like I had something to prove.

And I did. Not to them but to the world.

To the cameras. To the interviews. To the coaches who looked at me like I was just Luna Bennett's youngest. To the ones who said I was too reckless, too emotional, too loud, not enough.

I wanted to prove that I belonged. That I didn't have to be the most graceful or the most poised or the most beloved.

Sometimes, I forget that I'm still that little girl who used to fall asleep in the hallway outside my moms' room, because I didn't want to wake them but I didn't want to be alone either.

Maybe sometimes, I still feel a little behind.

I don't have a girlfriend. I don't have a ring or a kid who runs up to the glass after a game. I don't have someone waiting for me in the stands or someone who makes me want to leave the arena early.

I have hockey. I have an apartment that'll feel quiet again if Harper leaves. And I have this... ache in my chest I can't name most days.

But right now?

Right now, there's music playing low in the background.

The kind of playlist only my Mama would make—classic rock mixed with soft indie, like she's both stuck in her glory days and trying to stay relevant.

There's the sound of water boiling on the stove and the clink of mugs being set down.

And there's laughter. Harper's laugh. My mom's too.

The soft kind that fills a space up without overwhelming it.

It feels warm in here. I turn around just in time to see Mama open an old, massive photo album on the kitchen table, sliding it toward Harper like it's a national treasure.

"Mom, seriously?" I groan, flopping dramatically onto the couch like that might make her stop.

"Oh, come on," she says, grinning. "Let her see Baby Millie. She deserves the full experience."

Harper's eyes go wide with delight as she leans in. "Oh my god. Look at this one. Look at those cheeks. That red hair! You were adorable."

I groan louder. She turns the page. "Why are you in blue and green in literally every photo? No wonder you wear nothing but black now,"

Mama starts laughing before I can answer, one of those deep, belly laughs that shakes her shoulders. "That's because for nine months Millie was actually Noah,"

Harper blinks, looking up. "Wait. What?"

Mom glides in from the kitchen with three mugs of coffee, smirking as she hands one to Harper.

"It's true. Ultrasound said boy. Every test said boy.

So we planned for a boy. Named her. Decorated in blue.

Bought all the tiny blue onesies. Luna was already making plans to coach her to the NHL at five. "

"I was prepared," Mama says proudly. "I had her first mini stick picked out. That, of course, she still has."

Harper giggles, still flipping through the photos. "So what happened?"

"What happened," Mom says, taking a seat beside Mama, "is that I gave birth after seventeen hours of labor and the doctor shouted 'It's a girl!' and Luna almost fainted."

"I did not faint," Mama argues. "I stumbled."

"You grabbed the edge of the bed and said, 'What?!' like it was the biggest plot twist in sports history," Mom teases.

I'm biting back a smile. I've heard this story a hundred times, but something about Harper hearing it—about her being here to hear it—makes it feel new again.

"I was just surprised," Mama adds, reaching for Mom's hand without thinking. "We'd spent nine months calling her Noah."

Harper's eyes go wide. "Noah?"

I lift a brow. "Would you have dated me if I were a Noah?"

"I'm not dating you," she says way too fast—and then immediately colors. "I mean. You know."

Mom hides a smile behind her mug. Mama winks. "You'd still be cute. Even as Noah. I mean look at us,"

I throw a pillow at her.

They laugh—both of them, like the last twenty years haven't aged them at all.

Mom leans against Mama's side, her arm tucked underneath hers like it's second nature, like this is where she's always meant to be.

Mama presses a kiss to the top of Mom's head, her hand never leaving hers, and I catch Harper watching them.

Not just watching. Studying. Like she's trying to memorize it. Like she doesn't quite know what to do with the way they still look at each other after all this time.

"You two are... really cute," Harper says softly, almost under her breath.

Mama glances over, eyes soft beneath the faint laugh lines she's earned through decades of love and stubborn joy. "We've been married for twenty-nine years. Still not sick of each other."

"Not even close," Mom says, smiling over the rim of her coffee like she already knows the next thirty will be just as good.

Harper smiles too, but it doesn't fully reach her eyes. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But I do.

I always do. I find myself noticing everything about her.

It's the way her gaze lingers on my moms a moment too long, like she's trying to decode a language she doesn't speak.

Like she's watching something soft and warm and untouched by the world—and realizing she's never had it.

Or maybe that she thought she did once and was wrong.

It's subtle. Just a flicker behind her eyes. But it tugs at something in me.

Because I know she's probably thinking about him. The way she always does when the subject turns to love. Or home. Or anything that feels too permanent to be pretend.

Maybe that should make me back off.

Maybe I should be smart enough to remember that her heart's still bruised from someone else's hands. That I'm not the reason it beats faster. Not really.

But I don't back off. I can't.

I hate that he gets to live in the corners of her mind like this.

I hate that he's still a shadow in rooms she walks into, even when she's laughing, even when she's with me.

I hate that when she looks at my moms—with their quiet, ordinary, everyday kind of love—I can see the ache in her eyes.

The ache of someone who thought she had that. And didn't. She sips her coffee like it might settle something in her. Like maybe warmth will quiet the sting.

I wonder if this is the kind of love she expected from him.

Something steady. Uncomplicated. A home instead of a spotlight. Safe, not showy. The kind of love that doesn't make you question your worth every time you speak.

And that fucker couldn't give it to her. He had her—this rare, bright, endlessly interesting woman—and he still let her wonder if she was too much. Too demanding. Too needy.

It makes me sick. It makes me want to break something. It makes me want to pull her into my arms and say, He should've begged to be enough for you. And he wasn't.

I don't say that. I just sit here and watch her quietly fall apart in pieces no one else can see.

She looks back at my moms again, like maybe if she stares long enough, she'll understand how people can still look at each other like that after nearly three decades.

Like they still choose each other. Every single day.

And I wonder if she knows I've been choosing her in little ways since the moment we met.

I wonder if she feels it—in the way I lean toward her without meaning to, the way I let her into parts of me I don't show anyone, the way I listen when she talks like she's saying something sacred.

I wonder if she sees it when I hand her a cup of her favorite latte before she asks.

When I memorize the way her voice softens at night.

When I watch her smile like it's the only thing worth watching.

Even when she's thinking about him.

I don't know what to do with that.

I can flirt with her.

I can make her laugh.

I can tease her until her cheeks go pink and her hands reach for mine without thinking. But I can't un-break what he did to her. And I don't know if that means I'm too late... or just not enough.

My moms leave after a while, still laughing about something Harper said that made Mom nearly snort coffee up her nose. Mama kissed my temple on the way out like she always does—like I'm still six, dragging a hockey stick twice my size across the floor.

Now it's quiet.

Not awkward-quiet. Just..

. empty. The kind of quiet that feels louder after something warm and alive has left the room.

Harper's smile has faded, and I feel the shift before I even look at her.

She's sitting on the couch, legs tucked under her, her mug held close to her chest like a shield.

Her eyes are distant again. Not totally gone—but drifting.

I sit beside her without saying anything, letting my knee bump hers. She doesn't pull away. I watch her for a second, then say softly, "You okay?"

"Yeah," she says quickly. Too quickly. And then quieter, "I'm fine. Just... thinking."

She doesn't look at me. Just stares at the mug like it might give her something back.

And maybe I'm reading into it—maybe I'm always reading into it—but I know that look.

I know what it means when she's quiet in that particular way, when her shoulders go a little tense and her lips press together like she's trying to hold something in.

She does this thing sometimes, like she's trying to shrink herself down. Like if she's too loud, too soft, too much, she'll tip some balance she was forced to memorize in her last relationship. Like she doesn't believe she can just exist without checking the room first.

"I think I'm just tired," she adds, eyes flicking toward the window. It's dark outside now, the city lights humming low and gold against the glass. "Long week."

"Yeah," I say, even though I don't believe that's all it is.

I let the silence stretch. And then I say, careful, "You got quiet after they left."

She finally glances at me. Her mouth pulls into a tight almost-smile. "They're... really in love. Your moms."

"They are," I say, not pretending otherwise.

She nods. Looks down at her mug again. Her voice drops. "That must've been nice. Growing up with that."

I feel it then—that sharp tug in my chest. Like a string's being pulled that I didn't know was connected to her.

"It was," I say quietly. "It is."

She nods again like she doesn't want to ruin it by saying too much.

But I can feel the ache in her. I can see it in her posture, in the way she keeps her eyes down.

I know she's not looking for me to fix anything.

But I want to.

I want to take every piece of that hurt she's carrying and throw it in the ocean.

I want to tell her that she never has to earn softness.

That she's allowed to be loved without conditions.

Without effort. Just because she breathes.

"Hey," I say again, softer this time, like the quiet might help her stay with me.

I reach out, fingers brushing hers. She doesn't flinch.

Just lets me find the edge of her hand and gently tug it away from the mug.

Her fingers are cold—colder than they should be.

I hold them anyway, like maybe I can warm her up from the outside in.

"You don't have to talk about it," I tell her, voice low. "But you're allowed to be sad, Harps. You can talk to me, you know? I'm here. You're allowed to pretend you're over him if that's—"

"I am over him," she says, interrupting me.

"I just... I'm angry, Millie."

She says it like a confession, like she's not sure she's allowed to be.

But she is. God, she is.

"I'm not sad.

I'm mad. At myself," she continues, voice hitching at the edge.

"For believing in a fairy tale. For thinking I was someone important in his life.

For giving him all of me and thinking that meant he'd give something back.

I gave him the best I had and now it feels like I have nothing left in me. "

I squeeze her hand. "You are important, Harper."

She shakes her head like that word tastes wrong in her mouth.

"He never made me feel like that. I was just..

. a trophy. A pretty thing he could bring to dinners and weddings and events.

I was supposed to stand beside him in pictures and let him talk over me.

Smile and nod. Laugh at the right time. Wear the right dress.

Say the right thing."

Her voice is trembling now.

But she keeps going, like it's been sitting on her chest for years and tonight she finally can't carry it alone.

"I had to be the perfect woman for his perfect little world of men in suits who all thought they were gods.

He'd squeeze my hand if I talked too long.

Touch the small of my back like it was some warning.

He never said anything cruel, not out loud, but.

.. god, Millie. He made me feel small."

Her voice cracks then.

A quiet, sharp thing. "And I'm just seeing it now.

Really seeing it. Six years with him and it only took one month living with you to realize—"

She breaks off. I don't push. I wait.

Her eyes lift slowly, wide and shining in the dim light of my apartment, and when she speaks again, her voice is almost a whisper.

"—to realize I never felt safe with him."

My chest tightens. Because she says it so simply. So honestly. And it guts me.

I feel something dangerous rise in me then. Slow and hot and furious.

I want to find him. I want to shove him against a fucking wall and make him feel one ounce of what he made her carry for years.

I want him to see the way she flinches at the idea of taking up space.

I want him to see her now—unlearning the cage he built around her—and know that he doesn't get to touch her life anymore.

Not even in memory.

I shift closer, enough that our knees are pressed together and her hand is completely in mine now. I cover it with my other one, grounding her there, wrapping her up like I can hold the tremble still.

"You don't have to be small here," I say quietly.

"Not for me. Not ever."

She looks at me, eyes wet but not falling, like she's not sure how to believe that yet.

"I mean it," I say, and I tilt my head a little, meet her gaze head-on.

"Talk as long as you want. Take up every inch of space in this apartment.

Laugh loud. Cry if you need to. Wear the wrong dress. Say the wrong thing. I want all of it."

She exhales then, sharp and shaky, and her bottom lip wobbles just for a second before she presses it together. "You're gonna make me cry."

"Then cry," I say gently. "I've got you."

She looks at me for a long moment like she's trying to memorize my face, or maybe just convince herself that I mean it. I do. I mean it more than I've meant anything in a long time.

She leans in slightly—just an inch, but my heart stutters anyway. Her hand tightens around mine, and I feel the tension still buzzing under her skin like a wire that's finally been cut but hasn't stopped sparking.

"You shouldn't have to work so hard just to feel seen, Harper."

She swallows. "I didn't even realize I was."

God, that hurts. Her voice is so soft it barely touches the air, but it slams into me like a blade. Sharp. Precise. Wounding.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, voice cracking on the edges like it's the only thing she knows how to say when she starts unraveling.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I say instantly, and it comes out rougher than I mean it to.

Like my anger's not even at her, just at everything that came before me.

At the version of her that had to carry silence like armor.

At the version of her that learned shrinking was safer than taking up space.

She gives a watery chuckle, blinking through tears. "You hated me a month ago."

"I didn't," I breathe. "I just... didn't know you."

My fingers brush over hers again. "Now, I do. And I see you. All of you."

Her head tilts up, slowly, like she doesn't quite believe me. Like she's waiting for the punchline, for the joke. But I'm not laughing. I couldn't if I tried.

She's so close now.

So close our knees are still touching, heat moving between us in slow waves.

So close that when she looks up at me, her lashes sweep against my cheek.

So close our noses are practically brushing, soft skin on softer skin.

So close I can count the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose like stardust. So close I can feel her breath on my lips—shaky, warm, uncertain.

I don't move.

I can't.

Because if I do, I'll close the final inch between us, and I don't think I'll come back from it.

My heart pounds in my ears, fast and stupid.

She doesn't even touch me and I feel like I'm already burning alive.

I don't remember the last time I was this attracted to someone—not just their body or their smile, but them.

The quiet parts. The broken parts. The parts she hides from everyone but doesn't know how to hide from me.

And maybe that's what scares me most.

Because she's still healing. And I know how slow that process is. I know how messy it can get. And if I let myself fall—really fall—I'm going to shatter every bone in my body on the way down. Including the one I keep swearing I don't have anymore: my heart.

Her eyes drop to my mouth, just for a breath, then flicker back to mine. "What do you see?" she whispers, voice barely audible, but it sends a shiver through me anyway.

My hand moves before I can stop it, cupping her cheek so gently like she might break beneath my touch. My thumb brushes her cheekbone—just once, soft and reverent—and I don't think I've ever touched someone like this before. Like I'm scared they might disappear if I'm too rough with the truth.

"I see..." I swallow hard, dragging my gaze across every inch of her face, the curve of her jaw, the rise and fall of her chest. "I see a smart girl.

A woman who was manipulated and controlled and who's still standing.

"

My voice drops, low and trembling. "Someone who's trying to step back into the world the way she was always meant to be seen.

And it's not easy, I know that. But you're doing it.

You're doing it, Harps."

She watches me like I'm building something she doesn't know how to trust yet.

"You're so bright," I whisper. "You don't even notice it, but every time you walk into a room, people look.

Not because you're with me, not because you're anyone's date or sidekick or pretty thing to show off.

They look because you're you."

She blinks, a tear slipping silently down her cheek.

I catch it with my thumb.

"You're beautiful," I say, and it's not even about her face.

It's in the way she listens. The way she tries.

The way she looks at people like they might matter more than she ever could.

"You're smart, and you matter so much, baby. I promise."

Her bottom lip trembles, and she leans into my touch.

Just a fraction. Just enough to make the world feel like it's stopped moving.

No one's ever said this to her before.

I can see it in the way her whole body softens, like it's bracing for the impact of kindness, like it might hurt more than the silence ever did.

I want to say more. Want to tell her she deserves a hundred people telling her how extraordinary she is every day.

Want to tell her I'd do it for the rest of my life if she let me.

But I don't.

This is the time for being here.

With her.

Her hand slips into mine again. Our fingers twine together so naturally it almost aches. And I sit there, holding every inch of what she gives me, knowing exactly how rare it is.

And how much I already never want to let go.