Page 39

MILLIE

I know I'm in trouble the second the plane touches down in Vancouver.

It's the kind of cold that bites at your skin through your clothes—sharp and unforgiving, like the city knows I'm returning to a mess I didn't have time to care about.

March in Vancouver is always fickle. Nothing like Florida.

Rain clings to everything, the air is wet and heavy, and patches of old snow still line the curbs like the city can't quite decide if it wants to thaw yet.

I don't blame it. I don't know how to thaw either.

I haven't checked my phone since we landed in Florida.

There are texts—dozens, maybe hundreds. My agent.

My coach. Julian. The team group chat. PR.

Media. I'm trending on Twitter. I know that much from the brief, nervous scroll I did two nights ago while Harper was in the shower, just long enough to see my name attached to the word fake over and over again.

Someone leaked it. Or guessed. I don't know which is worse.

Fake girlfriend. Fake relationship. Fake storybook romance. And the thing is—I don't care. Not really. Not in the way I should. Because all I've cared about for the past eleven days is Harper.

I glance to my right, and she's there beside me.

Small in her seat, hunched slightly under my hoodie like she's still trying to disappear.

Her knees are drawn up. Her short hair is flat against her head from the flight.

Her eyes are blank, glassy, tired. Her hand is wrapped around mine under the blanket.

She hasn't said more than ten words since we left Florida.

I stayed because I couldn't leave her. Because she didn't ask me to stay, but she also didn't tell me to go—and that silence felt more like a plea than anything else.

I stayed for the quiet moments in that stuffy hotel room when she would cry so hard she couldn't speak.

I stayed for the mornings when she barely moved.

I stayed for the funeral, the wake, the ashes, the way she looked like someone trying to survive in a world she didn't ask to be born into.

I stayed because I couldn't imagine doing anything else.

She lost her mom. Her person. And I love mine too much to even imagine the depth of that kind of loss. I watched her walk through it. I watched her fall apart. And somewhere in the middle of that, I think I realized I don't know how to be anything other than hers anymore.

I don't know when it happened. But I know it's true.

The plane doors open with a hiss, and Harper doesn't move until I gently tug her hand.

"Come on, baby," I whisper—soft, instinctive.

I don't even think about the word. It just comes.

She stands, silent, her eyes never really focusing.

She looks smaller in my hoodie than she should.

Like grief has eaten half her body weight and all of her fire.

I help her with her carry-on. She doesn't fight me. She hasn't fought me in days. Not when I brushed her hair back. Not when I bought her meds or forced her to eat toast. Not when I wrapped my arms around her in the dark just to make sure she remembered someone was still breathing beside her.

When we step into the terminal, the air shifts. It's like reality hits both of us at once.

Vancouver is home, but it's also loud. It's movement and expectation and my life before all of this. Before her mom. Before that hospital hallway. Before I saw Harper fall to her knees in front of a closed casket and broke a little right alongside her.

Now we're back. And the world didn't stop for her grief. It didn't stop for mine either.

My phone buzzes again. Another text from Julian.

The press is spiraling. We need to talk. Now.

I tuck the phone back in my pocket. I'll deal with it later.

I glance at Harper again—she's staring out the airport windows like she's trying to remember what home is supposed to feel like.

Her lashes are damp. I loop my arm around her waist, gently.

She leans into me.

Not like a girlfriend. Like a lifeline. And I let her.

The cab ride is silent.

She presses her forehead to the window, watching the city blur past in shades of gray and wet. The buildings are streaked with rain, the sidewalks slick with it, people in long coats ducking under umbrellas or rushing between bus shelters.

She doesn't speak. Not even when we pull up outside our apartment building and the driver gets out to grab the bags.

I thank him, tip him too much. She barely blinks.

We take the elevator up in silence. Our bags thump dully against the floor.

The overhead lights hum. I can hear both of us breathing. That's it.

When the doors open and we step into the apartment, it feels like we've walked into someone else's life.

My place is clean, quiet, undisturbed. I'd asked Aurora to stop by and water the plants while we were gone, and she did.

Everything is still in its place—couch pillows, shoes by the door, my hoodie hanging from the back of the chair.

But we aren't the same.

Harper walks in slowly, like she's expecting the floor to shift under her.

Her hand brushes the edge of the counter, just barely, like she's grounding herself.

And then she stops in the middle of the living room and looks around, dazed.

I watch her turn her head to the couch. The kitchen.

The hallway. The same place she kissed me.

The place she took care of me after I got home from the hospital.

The place where I whispered, "You can stay,"

"Do you want tea?" I ask quietly, setting the bags down. My voice sounds too loud.

She doesn't answer. Just stands there.

"Harper?" I move closer, softer now. "Baby?"

She flinches when I say it. Not because of me. But because it's too gentle. Too familiar. Too alive. She blinks like it brings her back to the surface and nods once, barely.

"Okay," I say, already moving. "You go sit."

She doesn't sit. She follows me to the kitchen and leans against the fridge while I fill the kettle.

Her eyes are still distant, but she's here, sort of.

In this strange, ghosted way that makes my chest ache.

I wish I knew what to say, how to make it better.

But there's nothing to fix. This isn't a wound with stitches.

It's a storm, and all I can do is keep her dry.

"She used to make chamomile," she murmurs, voice raw and cracked from silence. "When I couldn't sleep."

I glance up from the stove. She's looking at the counter now, not at me. Her arms are crossed over her chest, gripping her elbows.

"She called it fake medicine. Said it probably didn't do shit. But she still made it."

I reach into the cabinet and pull out the chamomile box I bought last fall. Slide it across the counter between us like a peace offering.

"Let's be fake doctors together," I say softly.

Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. The kettle hisses quietly.

"Thanks," she says, and I don't think she means for the tea.

We sit on the couch, mugs in hand, knees almost touching. She doesn't drink hers. Just holds it against her chest like it's something warm to believe in.

I watch her for a long time. The way her eyes stay trained on the window. The curve of her fingers around the mug. Her throat moving when she swallows nothing.

The tea goes cold between her palms. Neither of us moves.

I should be checking my phone. There are at least a dozen missed calls I've ignored since the plane landed.

I know Julian's losing his mind. I know PR is scrambling.

I know my team probably wants to string me up for abandoning them mid-season, playoffs looming.

And I know—somewhere out there in the dark corner of the internet—people are whispering about me and Harper.

Fake.

Lied to all of us.

PR stunt.

Just friends.

Desperate dyke trying to stay relevant.

It doesn't matter that none of it's true, or that all of it is, depending on when you start the clock.

What matters is Harper, and how she's sitting beside me like her grief is an extra limb she doesn't know what to do with.

What matters is that she came back with me, even though she didn't want to.

That she didn't scream when I packed her bag or made her eat.

That she let me touch her shoulder. That she's here.

She exhales slowly, her breath fogging the mug. I watch the slow rise and fall of her chest, the edge of my hoodie riding up where she's curled beneath it. The sleeves are too long, swallowing her hands. She looks so small in it—like a kid again, but hollowed out.

"You should probably check your phone," she says after a while. Her voice is thin. Brittle. "I heard it buzzing in your bag earlier."

I don't answer right away. I set my mug on the coffee table, then shift a little so I can look at her more fully.

"I will," I say. "Later."

She turns her head toward me, and for a moment, our eyes meet. There's something in her gaze—tired, soft, almost careful—that makes my heart do that awful, hopeful thing.

"Is it bad?" she asks.

I sigh, leaning back into the couch. "Someone at the wedding heard us talking. Overheard something. I don't know what or how, but... they told someone. It got out."

She blinks, slow. "That we're not really dating."

"Yeah."

She nods once. Then again. Like she's adding it to the pile of things she has to carry. I glance over at her, careful. "Some people don't believe it. Some do. The media's eating it up, obviously. Julian's spinning out."

"Are you in trouble?"

A beat. Then two.

I shrug. "Yeah. Kind of."

Harper looks down at her hands. Her fingers flex, then close again around the mug.

"I'm sorry," she says, voice barely audible.

I shake my head. "Don't."

"It's my fault."

"It's not."

"I shouldn't have said—"

"Harper," I cut in, gentler now. "Fuck whoever was eavesdropping. It's not our fault."

She looks up again. Our eyes meet. And this time, something shifts.

The air changes—like the room has been holding its breath and finally lets it go.

She looks at me like I'm something she doesn't quite understand.

Something she's afraid to believe in. And I think I'd do anything to make her believe in me.

"You didn't have to stay," she whispers.

"I know."

"You could've come back without me. Gone back to your team. Handled your life."

"I know."

"But you stayed."

I don't answer. I just reach out and brush my fingers along the hem of the sleeve she's half-drowning in. Her hands twitch at the contact. Her lips part like she's about to speak, but nothing comes out.

"Of course I did," I say, finally. "I wasn't going anywhere without you, Harper."

Her eyes shine again, but she doesn't cry this time. She blinks the tears away. Swallows hard.

"This wasn't part of the plan," she says.

"I know."

"This was supposed to be fake."

"I know that, too."

She stares at me. My hand is still holding her sleeve, barely an inch between us.

"But it doesn't feel fake anymore," she says, so quietly I almost don't hear it.

It feels like the air's been pulled out of my lungs.

My heart trips over itself. I don't speak.

I can't. I just look at her like I'm trying to memorize her face.

Because there it is. The thing I've been afraid to say out loud.

The thing that's been growing between us like a garden we never planned to plant.

She inches closer. Not much. Just enough that our knees brush.

Her leg is warm against mine. I can feel the soft line of her thigh through the fabric of her leggings.

She's wearing socks—my socks, I realize belatedly.

The pink ones with tiny red hearts on them.

She must've grabbed them from my drawer when she packed. It makes something in my chest tighten.

"I'm tired," she says, but her voice trembles, like she's not just talking about sleep.

"Do you want to lie down?" I ask.

She nods. "With you."

That's all she says. But it's enough. I reach for her hand—slowly, so she can pull away if she wants—but she doesn't. Her fingers thread through mine like they remember how. And we stand up together.

She sits down at the edge of the bed like her bones forgot how to hold her.

Her shoulders slope forward, her hands clasped loosely in her lap, and even in the warm light of the bedroom, she looks like she's made of paper—creased, soft around the edges, quiet in the way people are when they've run out of words.

I shut the door quietly behind us. The sound barely registers.

She doesn't look up as I move across the room, toeing off my shoes and shrugging out of the same hoodie I wore on the plane.

I leave it draped over the back of my desk chair.

I still haven't put away the laundry from before we left.

A water glass sits on the nightstand, half full, untouched.

It's like time paused here while we were gone.

Or like it moved on without us and we're just ghosts slipping back into a life that doesn't fit anymore.

I sit down beside her, careful not to crowd her space. For a while, neither of us says anything.

Outside, it's raining. Soft against the windows, steady.

I can hear it ticking against the glass, filling the silence with something that doesn't demand anything from us.

She's still in the same black jeans and sweater she wore at the airport.

Her sleeves are too long, her hands barely visible, but her nails dig into the fabric like she's trying to hold herself together.

Her short hair's a little flat from the hood she wore, and there's a crease on her cheek where she must've rested her head against the plane window.

I want to smooth it with my thumb. I don't.

"Do you want me to run you a bath?" I ask softly, not sure if I'm saying it for her or because I just want to take care of her somehow.

She nods after a beat. "Yeah. That sounds nice."

I squeeze her hand and start down the hall.

Her mouth pulls into the smallest frown. "I didn't mean I was going to kick you out of your own room."

"You're not," I say gently. "It's our room right now."

That makes her blink. Something small shifts behind her eyes, like the words touched a bruise she didn't expect but somehow needed.

She looks away again, toward the bathroom door across the hall, then back at me, hesitant. "Will you—" She swallows, jaw working like the words taste wrong in her mouth. "Will you come with me?"

I nod without hesitation. "Of course."

She still doesn't move right away. But then she nods too, small and tentative, and rises to her feet like she's learning how to stand all over again.

I follow her, one step behind, not pushing or guiding, just there.

The lights in the bathroom are dim—one of the bulbs has been flickering for weeks and I never got around to fixing it.

It casts the room in a kind of soft amber glow. Quiet light. Kind light.

She turns the tap, lets the water heat up while I grab two towels from the shelf and hang them nearby. I don't speak. I just wait for her to be ready.

When she starts to pull off her sweater, her fingers tremble. I step forward and catch the hem wordlessly, lifting it over her head like it's nothing. Her arms drop to her sides. She's wearing a tank top underneath, her ribs sharp and visible in the soft light.

She glances up at me, and I don't look away. I peel off my own shirt slowly, no urgency, no agenda. Just matching her. Just showing her we're still even. That this is okay. That I'm not afraid of any part of her—not the broken, not the hurting, not the scared.

We undress in silence. When I step into the shower first, the steam curls around me instantly, the heat sinking deep into my skin. I reach for her hand to help her in. She hesitates only a second before slipping her fingers through mine.

She steps in behind me.

For a long moment, we just stand there under the spray. The water runs down our backs, our arms, the spaces between our fingers. I grab the shampoo, pour a little into my palm, and gently guide her to turn around.

She closes her eyes, and I start to wash her hair.

She doesn't say anything, but I feel the way her shoulders drop just slightly under my touch. I run my fingers gently through her short hair, massaging her scalp in slow, even strokes. Her breathing slows. Her hands hang at her sides, completely still.

"You always do things like this?" she murmurs after a moment. Her voice is a little steadier now. "Shower with your fake girlfriend?"

I huff out a laugh. "Only the ones who asked me to,"

She laughs. For real. It bubbles out of her, unexpected and cracked at the edges, and she catches her own breath like she surprised herself with the sound.

And God, I missed it.

I rest my chin lightly against the back of her shoulder and say it quietly into her skin. "I missed that sound."

She goes still again. Then, so softly it almost disappears in the hiss of the water, she says, "Me too."

I rinse her hair gently, tipping her head back with careful fingers. When the water runs clear, I reach for the conditioner, then for the body wash, and I take my time. I treat her like something sacred, like something I've been trusted with. And I have.

When we switch places, and she offers to do the same for me, I let her.

Her hands are slower, a little unsure, but careful.

Tender. She doesn't meet my eyes when she lathers soap across my shoulders, but I feel her breath against my neck.

I think we both feel it—how fragile and warm the space between us is now. No pretending. No script.

By the time we step out, the mirror is fogged and the room smells like eucalyptus and citrus. She lets me towel her hair dry, then wraps herself in one of my oversized sweatshirts, the sleeves swallowing her hands.

"God, I look like I've been dragged through hell," she mutters, trying to finger-comb her hair.

I smile. "You're so beautiful,"

She rolls her eyes, but her mouth curves into something that could be a smile. And for the first time in weeks, her eyes don't look empty. Just tired. Human. Alive.

I flick the edge of her sleeve. "Come on," I say gently. "Let's get into bed before the chill sets in."

She follows me without a word.

I pull back the covers, she climbs in first, turning toward me like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I slip in beside her, careful not to jostle the mattress too much.

The citylight through the window spills a soft line across her cheek, catching the faint pink there—leftover warmth from the shower, or maybe from me.

I don't know. I don't ask. I just lie there, close enough that our knees barely touch under the blanket.

The air between us feels tentative, like it's holding its breath.

Like we're standing on the edge of something neither of us is ready to name.

"Thank you," she says, her voice soft, almost too soft, as if she's afraid of breaking the fragile peace we've found.

"For everything you did, Millie. I swear, I'm gonna p—"

"If you say pay me back, I'll make you regret it," I interrupt gently, trying to ease the heaviness, trying to make her smile, and she gives me that small, weary half-smile I haven't seen in far too long. It's a flicker of something, a sign she's still in there, somewhere under all the hurt.

"Is that a threat or a promise?" she teases, her voice holding just a hint of life in it.

"I guess we'll find out."

Her hand reaches up to push a piece of my hair behind my ear, and when her fingers brush my skin, it's like a jolt of electricity runs through me.

My breath hitches, and I feel the vulnerability in the touch, the softness, the care.

"Seriously, Millie," she says, her voice thick with emotion, "just let me—"

I reach up and press my hand over hers, hold it to my cheek.

Warm skin. Cold fingers. A thousand things unsaid in the space of one touch.

"Baby," I whisper. "I don't want you to pay me back.

Ever. Not for any of this. Not for anything.

I helped because I wanted to. Because you're my.

.. Harper. And that's what you do for the people you care about. You help. You stay. You care."

She blinks. Her eyes are so full, stormy and wet. "But it wasn't your problem." she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why are you so nice to me?"

I pull her hand from my cheek, press it to my chest where the thrum of my heart beats wildly under her touch.

"Because you're my problem, Harper," I say, my voice thick.

"You're my..." I sigh, out of words, "If that means standing beside you through all this, then that's exactly what I'll do.

I don't need anything from you but for you to let me be here.

You don't have to do anything, just let me be the one who carries you when you can't stand.

You don't have to be alone anymore. Not when I'm here. "

Her breath shakes as she lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, but it's filled with so much sorrow I feel it in my own bones. "I don't want your pity," she says, almost pleading, but it's wrapped in shame, as if she believes what we've built—what's happening—could be nothing but pity.

The sound of her words stirs something deep inside of me.

I can't help the snort that escapes my mouth, a laugh that's laced with disbelief and frustration.

"Pity?" I say, my voice low but fierce. "Do you really think this is pity, Harper?

That the way you make me feel—"

I pause to pull her closer, my hand still pressed over hers against my racing heart.

"That this is some kind of charity? No. This isn't pity.

This is real. You don't think I feel the way my chest tightens every time I see you?

You don't think I've spent every damn moment since I met you wishing I could be the one to make your world better?

To take all this pain away?"

Her lips tremble, and I see the tears pooling in her eyes again, but this time they're not as heavy.

They're hopeful, unsure, but there's something else there—something like trust.

"Do you feel that?

" I whisper. "That's not pity, Harper. That's what you do to me. "

Her lips part, barely.

"When I look at you," I say, "everything inside me tightens. My chest, my throat—my whole damn world. And somehow it all feels clearer. Like this," I glance between us, "like you... are the only thing that makes any of this make sense."

Her breath catches, and the silence between us feels thick with all the things left unsaid.

I can see it in her eyes—how she's trying to make sense of what I just said, trying to find a place for it in the wreckage of everything that's happened.

But I know, as sure as I know anything, that this is real.

The only thing fake about us was the name we gave it.

Her voice breaks the silence, soft and fragile, and when she speaks, it's like she's reaching for something she's afraid of. "What if I can't do this? What if I can't let you in all the way? What if I'm too broken?"

I lean in, my forehead resting against hers, and I take a deep breath. "You don't have to be fixed to be loved. You don't have to be anything but yourself. And I'm not going anywhere, no matter what you think you need to be. I'm here. And that's enough."

"Millie..."

"We were supposed to be pretending," I murmur. "That's what we agreed on. But it doesn't feel fake. It hasn't for a while, has it?"

The silence stretches between us—not uncomfortable, just full. Thick with everything we haven't said, everything we're still afraid to say out loud. Her skin is warm where it touches mine, and her hand, still resting over my heart, feels like it belongs there.

"I'm a mess, Millie," she whispers. Her voice cracks on the edges, brittle with exhaustion and self-loathing.

"My life is a mess. You deserve way better than that.

Jesus, I—" She closes her eyes, shoulders curling in like she's bracing for impact.

"Someone leaked information. They heard us at the wedding.

My friends' wedding. I was supposed to help you and I made it worse. "

I exhale, slow and steady, like I'm trying to will her panic into stillness. My thumb strokes the inside of her wrist. "You didn't make anything worse."

"Yes, I did," she says, and her voice splinters. "The media's tearing you apart. Again. I've been watching the headlines. I know how bad it is. They're saying you're a liar. That you used a girl for attention. All because I couldn't keep my voice down—"

"Stop," I say gently, cupping her cheek now, anchoring her in place. "Please, Harper. Just stop."

Her eyes flick open and lock onto mine. Stormy grey and full of fear. Shame. But underneath that—something softer. Something fragile and aching and real.

"You're not the reason people talk," I murmur.

"They've always talked. Even when I gave them nothing to feed on.

Even when I shut my mouth and kept my head down.

And yeah, I used to care. I used to think my whole life was supposed to be about hockey.

About staying perfect and clean and quiet, so no one could take it from me.

"

I pause, brushing a strand of her hair off her forehead.

"But then I met you."

She swallows hard.

"And suddenly hockey wasn't the only thing I wanted.

It stopped being the most important thing.

" My voice drops. "I missed half the season, Harps.

Half. That's something old me would've never done.

Not for anything. But the moment I realized you needed me—I didn't even hesitate. I just got on a plane."

Her eyes widen just slightly, her lips parting.

"I don't regret it," I add, barely above a whisper. "I don't regret a single second. Not the fines, not the games, not the noise. If I had to do it all again, I'd do it ten times over, just to sit next to you in that waiting room. Just to hold your hand while your world fell apart."

She doesn't say anything at first. Her expression softens, cracks around the edges, like she's not used to being loved this quietly, this fully, without expectations. Her fingers curl lightly around mine.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," she says, and her voice is so small I almost miss it.

"I know," I say. "Me neither."

Her thumb grazes my knuckles. "But it doesn't feel fake anymore."

I nod slowly. "No. It really doesn't."

The room is so still. The air warm and close. Her breath ghosts against my cheek, and the weight of everything we've shared—grief, comfort, sleepless nights, fragile moments like this—it lingers between us like something sacred.

"I keep thinking about what happens next," she admits, her voice trembling. "When all this is over. When you go back to your team. When the season's almost done and I'm just... me again. Alone."

I shift closer until our knees touch beneath the blanket, until I can wrap my arm around her waist and pull her gently against me. Her head rests on my shoulder like it was always meant to fit there.

"You're not going to be alone," I murmur into her hair, my voice quieter than the room around us. "In fact—you're not going anywhere. This is your home now, Harper."

She lets out a breath that's half laugh, half ache, and leans back just enough to meet my eyes. "You couldn't wait for me to get out of here," she says, the edges of her mouth twitching into something that tries to be teasing but can't quite hide the sadness beneath.

I roll my eyes, giving her a small smile as I tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear. "Yeah, well. Now you're staying here. Forever."

Her lips twitch again, but this time the smile breaks through, soft and disbelieving. "Forever?"

"Yeah." I press my palm gently to her cheek, and she leans into it like she doesn't even know she's doing it.

"You don't get to leave me now. We've already built a life here—dirty laundry on the floor, coffee mugs in the sink, you stealing my sweaters.

I don't even notice the quiet anymore unless you're not in it. "

Something shifts in her face, then—like the words sink deeper than she expected, deeper than she's used to letting anything sink. Her eyes flicker, something like fear in them, or maybe wonder. Like she doesn't quite believe someone could want her to stay.

"I don't know how to do any of this," she says quietly. "How to trust that it's not going to disappear. That someone like you could really want someone like me."

"How could anyone not want you, Harper? You're incredible, You're...," I whisper, tightening my hold. "I just... this—whatever it is we're building—it's the most real thing I've ever felt and I'm not letting you go,"

She tilts her face up toward mine, eyes searching.

"I missed you," she says, and the words feel like the deepest truth she's managed to voice all night. "Even when you were right next to me. I missed you so much."

I press my forehead to hers again, eyes closing, heart pounding. "I missed you too."

And for the first time in what feels like forever, she smiles. Small. Wobbly. But real.

"I missed that sound," I murmur, brushing my thumb under her eye to catch a falling tear. "God, I missed it."

She laughs, soft and shaky, and leans into me like she's finally, finally letting herself fall.

And I'm right there to catch her.