Page 27

MILLIE

Mommy says I'm the fastest out there.

The lights are so bright they make the ice sparkle like a movie. I think this is the most beautiful place in the world.

My jersey's way too big on me, but at least it says "BENNETT" in big bold letters on the back, and that's the best part.

Rory helped me tie my skates in double knots—she said real players always double knot—and Sunny picked my hair up into two tight little braids that made my scalp hurt a little, but she said that means they're good.

They both said I looked adorable, and I made a face because I don't want to look adorable.

I wanna look scary.

I wanna look like Mama when she's on the ice—fast and cool and kind of like a storm in a helmet.

That's what people say about her at school.

They say she used to play hockey and that she was really good and really mean.

But she's not mean at all. Mama is the nicest person ever, and she makes pancakes shaped like animals and always lets me win at board games even when she's pretending she isn't letting me win.

But still... I wanna be like her. Big and brave and dangerous. Just a little.

Everyone's yelling and clapping from the stands, and I know Mommy is up there with Rory and Sunny. She made me take three pictures before I got on the ice, and I didn't smile in any of them on purpose because I wanted to look tough. She said I looked like a little boss. I am a boss.

The whistle blows and I take off. And oh, wow, I really am fast. The wind bites at my cheeks and my legs move without thinking and the puck is mine, mine, mine. My heart feels all fluttery and huge in my chest, and I hear someone yell, "Go, Bennett!" and I know it's for me.

People say our name like it's magic.

They talk about my mama like she's some kind of legend—like she's not the same person who helps me braid my doll's hair and makes weird voices during bedtime stories. But I like that they think she's a legend. Because she is. And I want to be one, too. Just like her.

So I skate harder.

I chase the puck like it's my best friend and my secret and my prize, and my heart's going thump-thump-thump so loud in my ears I almost can't hear the crowd anymore. I duck past a kid in blue, slide the blade of my stick right under the puck like Mama showed me, and zip it across the ice.

Goal. I know it goes in even before the buzzer sounds because I can feel it in my bones.

I throw my arms up, fists tight in the air.

I'm grinning so wide it hurts. Someone in the stands yells my name and I just know it's Rory because she always yells the loudest, even louder than the grown-ups.

I barely have time to turn before something slams into me.

I don't even see who it is. Just a blur of blue and a shoulder and then I'm off my feet. My helmet smacks the ice, and even though it doesn't hurt right away, my ears ring and the world goes fuzzy and I can't feel my elbow.

The ice isn't soft like snow right now.

It's mean when you hit it. It knocks the breath right out of me and burns my knee like it's on fire. My elbow smacks the ground too and everything goes kind of blurry for a second, like when you cry too fast and your eyes get all swimmy.

I lie there. I don't move.

And for the first time ever, I don't feel like a boss.

I feel little. And broken. And stupid.

I want to cry but my face won't work right.

"MILLIE!"

That voice. I know that voice.

Mama.

The ice shakes a little as she runs out. I don't even try to sit up because I just want her to get to me. My chest makes that hiccup-sob noise again. It's ugly. I don't care.

She's on her knees beside me in one second. "Hey, hey, my girl, I'm right here. You're okay. Can you hear me?"

I nod. Barely.

"Where does it hurt?" she asks, her hands already checking my arm, my head, everything.

"My knee. And my elbow," I whisper. "And—and my tummy feels funny. Like it's upside down."

She takes my helmet off, tucking my hair behind my ear. She's not smiling, but her eyes are soft now. Not scary-soft. Mama-soft. "That was a big hit, huh?"

I nod again. A tear sneaks out and I blink hard to stop more.

"I didn't see her coming," I whisper. "I thought I was fast enough."

"You are," she says. "You are fast enough. That hit wasn't your fault, baby. It's part of the game. Hockey's fast, and sometimes it's rough. But do you know what we do when we take a hard hit?"

I look at her, wide-eyed, sniffling. "Cry?"

She smiles, for real this time. "Well, yeah, sometimes we cry first. But then?" She leans in close so only I can hear it. "Then we get back up. Because we're Bennetts."

"Bennetts get back up," I repeat, like it's a spell.

"That's right," Mama says. "You can take a hit, baby. Not because it didn't hurt. But because you know you're strong enough to come back."

Then Mommy is there, too. She kisses my forehead and wraps her arms around both of us, pressing her cheek to mine. "And if you can't get back up by yourself," she says softly, "you don't have to. We'll help. We'll always be right here. Every single time."

"Even when I'm big?" I whisper.

"Especially when you're big," Mama says, kissing my helmet. "No matter how tall you get. You'll always be our baby."

And then Rory and Sunny are there and I don't even know how they got onto the rink because they weren't supposed to but they both drop down beside me like it's no big deal and Sunny's eyes are shiny and Rory just says, "That kid better sleep with one eye open."

Mommy mutters, "Rory," under her breath.

"I don't wanna stop skating."

Mama squeezes my fingers. "You won't," she promises. "You're a Bennett, baby. We don't stop. We just rest and come back stronger."

"So, I can skate again? Next game?"

"Of course," Mommy says. "If you're feeling good, and the doctor clears you, you'll play. Because you love it. And no bump or bruise is ever gonna take that from you."

Mama nods. "But today? Today you rest. You took your first real hit. That means you're really a hockey player now."

I sniff. "Really?"

"Really," Mama says. "And you didn't just take the hit, you made the goal first. That's a Bennett move."

They carry me off the ice like I'm a hero. My elbow still hurts and my knee's scraped and my chest still feels weird—but I'm okay. Because I'm safe. Because they're here. Because I'm a Bennett and because Mommy said I'm going to be okay— because I have them.

And I got back up.

'We don't stop. We just rest and come back stronger.'

My mama's voice echoes in my head—familiar and steady—just as I cross the threshold of my apartment, leaning into her shoulder for balance. My other hand clutches the doorframe like it might anchor me to the ground that won't stay still. Everything tilts. Everything aches.

Harper is close behind, her footsteps soft but urgent, like she's trying to match the pace of my heartbeat.

And Mom trails them both, keys still in hand, even though we're already inside.

She's always the last to come through the door.

Always making sure everyone else is in first, safe, whole.

And always making sure the door is closed. It's just who she is.

The apartment smells like clean laundry and eucalyptus—Harper's touch, probably—but it feels foreign right now. Too bright. Too sharp. Like someone turned the saturation up on the world and my brain hasn't caught up yet.

I don't think I've ever hurt like this. Not even when I broke my wrist last season or dislocated my shoulder during playoffs two years ago. This is different. Deeper. Like something inside me got knocked loose and no one knows how to put it back.

I take one slow, shaky step toward the couch and try to disguise the way my legs tremble beneath me, but it's no use.

Mama's eyes are on me. They always are. Watching me like I'm still that little girl in skates three sizes too big, trying to impress her.

Her stare is quiet, but it burns with the kind of intensity that comes from knowing every version of me—on the ice, off it, and especially when I'm hurting.

She doesn't say anything when I sit down, but I see the twitch in her jaw when I flinch. I try to swallow the sound that escapes me—try to bury it—but it slips out anyway. A hiss. A gasp. Pathetic. I hate that she hears it.

But of course she does. Mama hears everything.

She kneels in front of me like she's done a hundred times before. She doesn't care that I'm twenty-four and have fans and stats and trophies. She doesn't care that the world sees me as one of the best. To her, I'm still just Millie. Her baby. Her little girl who needs her.

She brushes my hair off my forehead gently, tucking it behind my ears like I'm five again and she's about to read me a bedtime story. Her hand is warm. Solid. Home.

"Alright, baby girl," she murmurs, her voice low and full of everything she doesn't say out loud—worry, fury, love so thick it nearly chokes me. "You're gonna be okay,"

I don't answer right away. I can't. My throat is tight, and there's a ringing in my ears that hasn't really stopped since I hit the ice.

God. The ice.

I close my eyes for a second and it's all there again.

The boards. The glare of the lights. The sound of my helmet skidding away from me, like it had somewhere better to be.

The crack of impact—like a tree splitting clean in half.

And then nothing. Not blackness. Not silence.

Just... absence. A scary kind. Like my body had shut down and forgot to ask my permission.

I thought I was going to die.

Right there. In front of the cameras. In front of my moms. In front of Harper.

And the worst part wasn't the pain. It was the stillness. The not-moving. That awful second where I thought, "This is it. This is how it ends."

My heart races like I'm still out there on the ice. I try to breathe through it, but it's like my lungs forgot how. They panic without me. And I can feel it again—the coldness, the ringing in my ears, the spotlight that burned down like it was trying to see through me.

Then I feel her hand. Warm. Familiar. Grounding.

"Millie," my mom says softly, her voice like a blanket warmed in the dryer. Her thumb strokes over my temple like she's trying to smooth away the fear. "You're home. You're okay. I'm here."

And somehow, that part gets through.

Her voice is skating on new ice. Smooth. Familiar. The kind that lets you move again. That reminds your muscles they were built to fly.

But I don't feel like me.

"I don't feel like me," I whisper, because I don't. Not even a little.

My body is mine, but it isn't. It's too slow, too heavy, like every part of me is underwater and my limbs can't find the surface.

My brain feels fuzzy, like it's stuck behind a pane of glass.

I keep forgetting what day it is. I lose words before they reach my mouth.

Everything feels... off. Warped. Not mine.

"You're still you," she says, with so much certainty I almost believe her. "You're just hurt. And when people get hurt, they heal. And healing doesn't make you less."

Mama's standing next to her, arms crossed tight over her chest, but it's not her usual power stance. It's something smaller. A little protective. A little helpless.

She's staring at me like she wants to burn every inch of the rink that did this to me. Or someone.

I know that look.

It means someone's about to get a call they're not ready for.

"Mom," I say softly, and she doesn't answer, just lifts her chin, jaw clenched. "You don't have to stand guard. I'm okay."

"You almost—" She cuts off and swears under her breath. "No one should ever have to watch their kid go limp like that."

My chest tightens, but not in fear. In guilt. In love. In all of it tangled up.

"I know," I say, gently. "But you've been here since yesterday. You're both exhausted. Go home. Please."

Mom gives me that soft, quiet smile she uses when she's not ready to say goodbye. "We'll be back in the morning."

Mama doesn't move. Doesn't budge. She looks like a wall built out of fire. Until—

"I'll stay with her," Harper says, quietly.

We all turn. Harper's voice is so soft I almost think I imagined it, but there she is—perched awkwardly at the edge of the loveseat, hands knotted in her lap, cheeks flushed like she wasn't planning to speak at all.

"I mean, if that's okay. I just... I can stay. So she's not alone."

Mom's face lights up instantly. "Of course it's okay."

Mama stares her down. Not cruelly, just... sharply. Like she's running a scan. Like Harper is some kind of riddle she wants to solve before she leaves her daughter in her care.

"I'll call to check in," Mama says slowly, pointedly. "Twice."

Harper nods, visibly swallowing. "Three times if you want."

That gets her a barely-there quirk of a smile from Mama, like she's almost impressed.

Mom just exhales and slides a hand through her curls, already pulling her phone out of her cardigan pocket. "Harper, sweetheart," she says, gentler, her voice a soft blanket around the moment, "you need to eat, okay? We'll order takeout. Do me a favor and eat something?"

Harper's eyes soften instantly, like she didn't expect to be folded so effortlessly into their family's orbit again tonight. "You don't need to—"

"Yeah, I will worry about you," Mom says, like it's a settled fact. "Don't fight me on this one."

I shake my head and lean a little heavier into the pillows, watching this all unfold like a play I've seen a thousand times. "You'll never win with her, Harps."

Harper glances back at me with a helpless, pink-cheeked smile. "I wasn't trying to win," she mumbles. "I was just—" she clears her throat, "—I'll help her to her room. Make her comfortable."

Simple. Innocent. No big deal.

Except Mama raises her eyebrows so high I think they're touching her hairline. Then, she narrows her eyes. "Are you gonna sleep with her?"

Harper physically startles. Grey eyes wide. "What?" she chokes out, voice almost cartoonish with panic.

Mom groans and covers her face with both hands. "Luna," she mutters, dragging out the syllables like this isn't the first time she's had to apologize for her wife's filterless moments.

Mama just shrugs, perfectly calm. "What? It's a valid question."

If she only knew.

I bury my smile under my blanket and glance at Harper, who's very clearly going through the stages of existential crisis beside me. Her whole face is red now, and she can't decide where to look—me, the door, her shoes, a different country.

"I'll sleep in my room," she says quickly, way too quickly. "Obviously."

"Obviously," Mama repeats, not looking even a little sorry.

Mom sighs and leans down to kiss my forehead again. "We're going. You'll call if she needs anything?"

Harper nods. Still flustered. "Yes. Of course. I'll... I'll be here."

And she will. I already know she will.

Mama ruffles my hair with more gentleness than I expected and says, "Call us if you need backup."

"Always," I say.

They leave with the door clicking softly behind them. The silence that follows is full of everything unsaid.

Harper's still frozen, half standing, her fingers twitching like she wants to be helpful but has no idea what to do with her hands.

I tilt my head, amused. "Sleep with me?"

Her face does a thing. "Your mom ambushed me."

"She does that."

Harper exhales and crosses her arms, lips twitching. "And you let her?"

"She's scary. You try stopping her."

"I think I just did," she mutters. "By nearly dying of embarrassment."

I laugh, and it surprises both of us. It hurts. But it's real. She moves closer. Slower now. Careful. Like the quiet is sacred.

"Do you wanna go to bed?" she asks, softer this time. "I can help you get settled."

My body aches in every direction. But her voice? That doesn't ache. That feels like the first good thing in too long.

"Yeah," I whisper. "But only if you stay. Like... right here. For a while."

She nods. "Okay."

────────── ???? ──────────

I'm not allowed to go out—not allowed to go to the gym. Not allowed to go to the rink. And it's not because I'm hurt.

It's because there are reporters and fans camped outside my apartment.

The last two mornings started the same.

I open the curtains and there they are.

Tripods, lenses, microphones, faces I don't recognize trying to get a shot of mine.

Sometimes they shout things. Sometimes they're quiet, holding signs like they want something from me—something I already gave and gave and gave.

My family can't come. Harper can't go out. The police are doing absolutely nothing and I'm pretty sure my entire neighborhood hates me.

I saw one of my neighbors shaking her head yesterday when she walked her dog past the crowd. Whispered something to the man beside her. Probably about the noise. Or the mess. Or the hockey girl upstairs who's apparently single-handedly ruining the peace on their quiet little street.

I press my forehead against the cold glass of the window and stare down at them. All of them.

My phone buzzes again. Fifth notification in three minutes.

It's probably my agent. Or my coach. Or some poor PR rep who's been roped into babysitting my image while I'm stuck inside like a scandalized zoo exhibit.

Another bullet-pointed text telling me what not to say, what not to post, how to look when I eventually leave the house again—if I ever leave the house again.

And definitely another reminder about the upcoming public appearance with my "girlfriend," because that still hasn't died.

The media won't let it die.

People are obsessed. There are montages and edits and fan art.

Millions of views, likes, comments that say things like goals and she looks at you like you hung the stars.

They call us "soulmates" like they know us.

Like they've ever sat in this apartment and seen us try to untangle the mess behind our smiles.

I should be flattered. I should be grateful that people love us. That they adore us.

But they don't even know what they're loving.

It's fake.

Fake.

Fake.

I don't want to be Millie Bennett today.

I don't want to be the girl with the blood on the ice. The headline. The daughter of legends. The girl people only care about when I'm breaking or broken.

God, I just want to be left alone.

There's a soft knock at the door. Not loud. Just a brush of knuckles. Polite. Careful.

"Yeah?" I say, without moving, my voice rough from sleep and frustration.

The door creaks open.

I don't need to look to know it's her. I can feel her before I even see her. That quiet energy she carries like a pocket of calm in the middle of a storm. Harper.

She walks in slowly, almost sheepishly, like she's not sure she's allowed, like she's still asking permission even now.

She's wearing one of my old hoodies again—the navy one with the frayed cuffs and faint coffee stain near the hem.

It's way too big for her, hangs off one shoulder, and the sleeves swallow her hands whole.

Her hair's twisted up in a lazy bun that's already falling apart, loose strands curling around her cheeks and neck like they're trying to soften her sadness.

"Hey," she says, quietly. Like she's afraid I might tell her to leave.

My chest aches. Not in the injury kind of way—this is different. Deeper.

I nod once, my throat thick. "Hey."

She shifts awkwardly near the door, then tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and glances at me like she's working up to something.

"I made breakfast," she says. "Sort of. It's toast and eggs but the eggs are... egg-shaped. So. That's something."

It's such a Harper thing to say, and for a second I feel the corners of my mouth twitch like they might smile. I don't let them. Not yet.

"Do you, um..." she rubs the back of her neck, her voice even smaller now, "I can bring them here and leave you alone."

Her words barely reach me over the buzzing in my head, over the weight that's settled on my ribs these last few days—this awful, sticky heaviness I can't name. But I look at her.

Her eyes are red. Puffy. She's been crying.

Something in my stomach twists hard.

"No," I say. It comes out fast. Sharper than I mean it to. I take a breath. "No. You can stay. Please."

Harper exhales, like she's been holding her breath the entire time. She walks over slowly and sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress too much, like I'm fragile. Breakable. Glass girl. But I'm not glass. I'm concrete cracking under pressure.

"You okay?" I ask, even though I shouldn't.

She opens her mouth like she's going to lie, then closes it again. Shakes her head, faintly.

"I just didn't sleep much," she says. "I was... I'm just tired."

But I know that look. I've seen it on myself. In mirrors, in hotel bathrooms, in quiet locker rooms when I didn't think anyone was watching. She's been crying. And not the kind of crying that comes easy. The kind that leaves your ribs sore and your voice thin and frayed.

I want to ask her what's wrong. I want to ask who made her cry.

But I already know.

Isaiah.

His name curls cold in the back of my throat.

I shouldn't have heard it, but I did. Last night, when I woke up and the bed was empty and her voice was a soft whisper through the hallway.

She was on the phone, saying things she probably thought I wouldn't hear.

Her voice cracking like something was breaking in her chest. And then his name—just once. But once was enough.

I look at her now and it's like I'm looking through glass. I feel something folding up inside me, quiet and careful, like origami. Like retreat.

She's still in love with him. Or something close enough that it hurts to think about.

And me? I'm just... this. A placeholder. A headline. A story.

The Bennett daughter with the messy season and the perfect fake girlfriend.

My sisters warned me once—years ago—about people like this.

Not Harper, specifically, but people who smiled too easily at our name.

Who wanted to get close not because of who I was, but because of what I came from.

Famous blood. Famous name. I always wanted to believe the best in people.

That they wanted me for me. But sometimes they only wanted the front-row seat to the legacy.

And now there's Harper. Sweet, gentle Harper, who looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world—but still cries over someone else.

I shouldn't feel this bruised by something we both agreed wasn't real.

She shifts closer and rests her hand on the blanket near my hip—not quite touching me, just close enough to make me feel it.

The heat of her skin through the fabric, the careful way she moves like she's not sure if she's allowed to.

Her thumb rubs softly along the seam of the comforter, nervous maybe, or just thoughtful.

I shift back, just a little. Not enough to be obvious. Not enough to hurt her. Just... enough to breathe.

She doesn't say anything about it. Doesn't move away either.

"Are you okay, Mills?" she asks gently, almost a whisper.

I nod without looking at her. Lie. "Yeah. Don't worry about me."

"I care about you."

My throat tightens.

She says it like it's a fact. A quiet, steady thing. Not performative. Not part of the script we keep up for the rest of the world. Just real. Honest. And I hate how much I want to believe it.

But I can still hear her voice in the hallway. Muffled, shaky. Saying his name.

It keeps replaying in my head like a song I didn't ask to hear.

I know people carry their exes in strange little corners of their hearts, like photographs they're not ready to delete.

And Harper... she's tender. The kind of person who doesn't just unlove someone because the calendar changed.

So yeah, maybe I should've known this wasn't some clean break for her.

Maybe I was naive to think I could matter in a way that wasn't just timing and opportunity.

The fake dating thing was supposed to help my reputation. That's how this started. A few public smiles, some handholding, coordinated posts. Just enough to make people forget the drama, the media storm, the fists, the bruises.

The world bought it.

They love us.

And now I'm here. Stuck in my own apartment. Trapped under layers of pain and public image and something deeper—something that feels way too close to hope.

"You've been crying," I say suddenly, softer than I mean to.

She goes still beside me.

Her eyes are rimmed red, lashes clumped together like she cried herself dry and didn't bother trying to hide it.

Her cheeks are pale under the faint smudges of sleep and worry.

She doesn't deny it. Doesn't scramble for an excuse.

She just blinks at me, lips parted like maybe she was about to speak and changed her mind.

"You don't have to tell me," I murmur, even though I want her to.

"I'm just... not ready yet," she says gently. Not cruel, not distant. Just... honest.

I nod, settling back into the pillows.

We sit there in silence for a long minute. Her hand still hovers near my hip, motionless now. Like she forgot it was there or like she's hoping I won't notice.

"Sometimes I feel like..." I trail off. Swallow. Start again. "Like I knew this would happen."

She glances over. "What?"

"Fame," I say. The word tastes tired on my tongue.

"I mean, I was born into it. When your moms are Luna and Mia Bennett, it's not really a surprise.

My moms really tried to protect me—us, you know?

There's not a single real picture of me as a baby or a toddler online.

If there is, it's blurry or cropped or watermarked.

They wouldn't let anyone have anything. They loved us.

All of us. But they couldn't stop the world from wanting more.

"

Harper's brows pull together softly.

"I just didn't know it'd be like this.

I feel like an animal," I admit. "A trained thing behind glass.

I can't leave my apartment, Harps. I can't go to the rink.

The rink, my safe place. I can't play for six games.

And it's not even the pain that's killing me.

It's that I feel like I don't belong in my own life anymore.

I just wanted to play hockey, not be haunted by people. "

She shifts closer again—barely a breath of movement—but it's enough to feel. The mattress dips beneath her knee, the air between us warmer now. Her voice comes low and thick, like something caught in her throat.

"You do."

My eyes flick to hers before I can stop myself.

She's looking at me. Like she's not just seeing me curled up in a hoodie and wrapped in blankets and hiding under the weight of a world that won't stop watching.

She's seeing me. The part I don't give away.

The part I don't even like admitting is there.

"You belong," she says. "Not because of your last name.

Or your number. Or the people outside with cameras.

You belong because you're you. And that's... more than enough. "

My chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts.

Because it sounds real. Too real. And it hits something I've spent years trying to armor over. Something soft and stupid and aching.

I hear her voice again in my head. From earlier. Muffled through the wall. Shaky. Quiet. Saying his name like it still means something to her.

It knocks the wind out of me in a way I hate. Makes my stomach twist and my heart fold in on itself.

I shift upright, just slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around me. Not to push her away. Not really. But to brace. To protect. To remind myself what this is—what it was supposed to be.

"Harper..." I start, voice quieter than I mean it.

Her eyes flick to mine—wide, soft, like she's bracing for something.

And God, she looks tired. Not just physically.

It's the kind of tired that lives behind the eyes.

Her lashes are wet like she's wiped them too many times.

Her mouth opens a little, but no sound comes out right away. She's waiting for me to speak.

I swallow the knot in my throat.

"You don't have to stay here all day," I say, and it comes out more careful than I meant it to. Careful, because I mean the opposite. "You probably have people to talk to. People who..." I trail off, looking at the floor instead of her.

"People who what?"

I don't answer.

She exhales, scooting forward slightly on the bed, fingers curling around the edge of the blanket like she's afraid to touch me without asking.

"Millie."

I hate how my heart still stutters when she says my name like that.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says quietly.

I give a short, awkward shrug. "You could. I wouldn't blame you."

That makes her eyebrows knit, like I just said something that hurt her. "Where is this coming from?"

I shake my head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Doesn't matter."

"It does."

I let silence answer her. Let the pause stretch long and stiff between us.

I don't want to ask. I don't. But the memory's still sitting there, sharp-edged and whispering. Your voice. Cracked. Saying his name.

"I, uh... I heard you last night. Talking on the phone. "

She freezes. And just like that, something changes between us—like the thread holding us this close suddenly frays.

She looks down at her lap. Her hands twist together. "Oh," she says. "But—"

I nod too fast. "It's fine."

"It's not what you think—"

"It's okay, really," I cut in, and I even manage a small smile.

"You don't owe me anything. This whole thing—it was supposed to be a few press appearances and a fake post or two.

We're just..." I wave vaguely in the air between us, where the warmth still lingers.

"It's what we agreed. A few fake dates to help me and you did.

You helped me. I'll help you. A deal is a deal.

"You think I'm still in love with him."

I don't answer. I don't need to. The question is a little too accurate. She sighs and looks away.

I shift back again, just barely, but it feels like a whole inch. My shoulder touches the cool edge of the pillow instead of her arm. "I just don't want to be someone in the middle of something that isn't over."

She flinches. Her lips part like she wants to say something else, but I don't let her.

"I've been there before," I murmur. "People pretending.

Wanting things from me because of my name.

Because of who my moms are. I've had girls pretend to care just to get into parties my family hosts.

Just to say they knew the Bennetts. My sisters warned me—I was too trusting.

Too nice. And I kept thinking the next one would be different.

I just... I've been taken advantage of my whole life.

I don't feel like going through that again.

"

I look at her then, finally, and she's watching me with something like heartbreak in her face.

"So I get it," I whisper. "If you're still in love with him.

But please don't make me believe this is more than it is if it's not. "

Harper doesn't say anything right away. She just blinks—once, slowly—like she's processing the words in real time, like they sting in a place she didn't expect to get touched.

Then, suddenly, she sits up a little. Her posture shifts, alert, awkward.

"I can move out," she says.

I blink. "What?"

"I just..." She rubs her hands over her thighs, eyes darting toward the floor, then the wall, anywhere but me.

"If you think I'm taking advantage of this—of you—I can go.

I don't want you to feel like I'm staying here because of your name or your injury or your.

.. your family. Or because people like us online. I swear that's not why I—"

"Harper," I cut in, sharper than I mean to, and she flinches.

God. I sit up too, the blanket falling from my shoulders, and I press my palm to my forehead like I can push the tension out of my skull.

"That's not what I meant."

She looks at me, hesitant, guarded. "It sounded like you don't trust me."

"I didn't mean you," I say, softer now. "I meant... I meant it's hard for me to know when someone actually wants me. The real me. Not the player, not the last name, not the legacy. Just me."

Her shoulders drop a little. Her brow furrows, and her voice gets quiet again. "I do want you."

The air between us shivers.

I don't know what to do with that. Not when I still remember hearing her voice through the wall. Not when I'm still haunted by that name on her tongue. I look away, toward the window. The snow's still falling in slow, lazy spirals, like the sky forgot it's supposed to stop.

She moves again, closer this time, like she can't help it.

Like the space between us is too loud. "I'm not using you, Millie.

"

I nod, but it's stiff. My fingers curl in the sheets.

"I wouldn't do that," she says, and her voice breaks a little, like she's holding something else back.

"I know what people say about me. I know how this started.

But I'm not here because of the cameras or your name or what people think. "

"Then why are you here?" I ask, before I can stop myself.

Her breath catches.

"I... I'm here because I want to. I'm choosing you, Millie. I don't give a fuck about the cameras, the fame, the people— I care about you."

The words sit in my chest like a stone.

I feel the bed shift as she reaches out. Her fingers graze mine, hesitant, like she's giving me every chance to pull away. I don't.

"I like being near you," she whispers.

I let my gaze drift to her again—her red-rimmed eyes, her lips parted like she wants to say more, her short hair falling loose around her face. She's beautiful in a way that makes me ache. In a way I'm afraid of. Because it would be so easy to fall. Too easy.

"I heard you crying, Harps" I say, before I can stop myself. "You don't have to lie to me. Confuse me. Just... I know. I understand"

She stiffens. There's a pause—long, heavy—and I wait for her to say it. I miss him. I still love him. I don't know what I want. But she just shakes her head and looks away, jaw tight.

"It's really not what you think," she says quietly.

Then explain it to me, Harper.

I pull my hand back gently. She doesn't chase it.

Instead, she sits there for a long time, her hands curled in her lap, her breathing uneven. Then, softly:

"Do you want me to leave?"

I look at her. I look at the way her hoodie sleeves are bunched around her fists.

The way her knees are tucked under her like she's making herself small.

The way her body leans toward mine even though I've done everything to make her think I don't want her to.

And I think about what it would feel like if she really left.

If she took her warmth and her shyness and my stupid, oversized hoodie and walked out of my apartment and never looked back.

"No," I say, voice barely above a whisper. "Stay with me,"

Keep choosing me a little longer.

She looks up at me, startled. Like she didn't expect me to say it. Then, slowly, she moves again. Settles beside me with the kind of care people use when something might break. Not touching—just close enough that our shoulders almost graze.

I lie back again. So does she. And this time, when her fingers brush the edge of mine under the blanket, I let them stay there.