Page 42

HARPER

The light is unreal.

It's the kind of sky that only happens after rain—the clouds still hanging heavy in the distance, but the sun's found a way to break through behind them, painting everything in this soft, impossible purple.

The kind of light that makes the world feel cracked open and raw in the best way.

Like it's saying, Here, look. Really look.

I do.

I sit on the ledge of Millie's living room window, knees tucked under me, camera in hand, the glass fogging up slightly from the warmth inside.

Outside, the city glows wet and alive. Rainwater reflects the lavender sky in puddles on the sidewalk, and the buildings across the street are slick and dark like watercolor paper that hasn't fully dried.

Someone walks past with a red umbrella and I click the shutter, the sound quiet and satisfying in the hush of the apartment.

Another shot: a kid splashing in a puddle while his mom waits with a resigned smile. Another: the glint of taillights curving through the intersection like a ribbon. And then I turn the lens slightly to the right, to capture the way the droplets race down the glass.

I don't know why it makes me feel closer to her—my mom—but it does.

Maybe because she always told me the best light came after rain. That cameras weren't just for preserving memories, but for noticing them while they were happening. That you didn't need a perfect subject. Just something honest. Something that made you feel.

I hear the faint rustle of her towel, the scrape of a drawer opening, the muted sigh she always lets out after practice—like the weight of the day hasn't quite let her go yet.

She's so close I can feel the warmth of her presence before I see her.

And then, slowly, I turn. Camera still in hand.

Millie's standing near the window now, her damp hair curling gently over her shoulders, wearing nothing but that towel and a raised brow. She catches me watching her and smirks. "Are you aiming that thing at me, Harper Lane?"

I lift the camera to my face, look through the viewfinder, and adjust the focus until she sharpens—bare shoulders, flushed cheeks, that little dimple in her left one from her smirk. "Maybe."

She rolls her eyes, but her voice is warm. "Creeping on me in my own apartment? Is this what we've come to?"

I lower the camera and grin. "You're kind of a perfect subject."

"Oh, am I?" She crosses her arms, which only makes the towel dip slightly lower and—god. She knows what she's doing. "I thought you said you liked capturing honest moments, not thirst traps."

"I'm multitasking," I say, deadpan, and that makes her laugh, soft and low.

Then she walks toward me, bare feet silent on the floor. I keep the camera up, not snapping photos, just watching her through the lens. Framing her. Seeing her.

"You should probably stop doing that," she murmurs, voice quieter now as she steps closer.

"Why?"

"Because I know exactly what that look means."

"What look?"

She smiles again, this time slower, softer. "The one that says you're not thinking about photography anymore."

She's right.

Because I'm not. Not really. I'm thinking about how close she is, and how I can still feel the humidity from her shower clinging to her skin, and how she's looking at me like I'm something worth pausing for too.

I lower the camera. "Maybe I'm not."

Millie leans in then, not quite kissing me—just hovering. Letting the moment breathe. I can feel the ghost of her breath against my jaw, and it makes my knees do that awful, fluttery thing I wish I could pretend I'm immune to.

"I have to leave in twenty minutes," she says, lips close enough to brush mine when she talks.

"We can do a lot in fifteen," I whisper.

"Not enough," she replies, her mouth curving against mine in the faintest tease. "And if you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to end up late. Again."

I smile, leaning back just enough to look at her. Really look. "Worth it."

She groans and presses her forehead against mine. "You're dangerous."

"You started it."

She gives a breathy laugh, and then finally—finally—kisses me.

It's nothing like our earlier kisses, the quiet ones in grief's shadow, the ones wrapped in blankets and pain.

This one is charged. Warm. Her fingers slip under the hem of my borrowed hoodie and settle at my waist like she's grounding us both.

It's still gentle. But it's alive.

When she pulls back, her eyes search mine. "You sure you want to come tonight?"

I nod. "Of course I do."

"Even with all the media stuff?"

"I don't care what they say."

Millie brushes a thumb across my cheek. "I do. I just hate that you're getting caught in it."

I shrug. "I've been through worse."

Her expression flickers with something I can't name—grief, guilt, love, all braided together. "I know. But I still wish I could shield you from it."

"You already do," I say, quieter now. "You're the reason I can breathe most days."

She looks like she wants to say something more, but instead, she presses another kiss to my lips and pulls back with a sigh. "Alright. I'm getting dressed before I forget we have a game."

Tonight is the first time I'm going to see her play since everything.

Since Florida. Since my mom. Since the world found out about us and twisted it into something small and cynical.

I'm not na?ve—I know what people are saying.

That we faked it for attention. That Millie disappeared for ten games because of a PR stunt.

That I'm just some "sad story" they're using for narrative.

Millie hasn't said anything online. No statement. No press conference.

She just posted one picture. It's us on the hotel balcony in Florida.

I'm wrapped in her arms, barefoot and wearing one of her hoodies, head tilted against her chest. She's kissing the top of my head.

Neither of us are looking at the camera.

It's blurry in that dreamy, accidental way, like someone caught a moment they weren't supposed to. That someone being Luna, actually.

The caption just says:

"Real."

Some people believe her.

Some don't.

I don't know why it matters so much to me, except that I hate the idea of her being hurt by something that was never fake. I hate that she gave up so much—her season, her peace—for me, and the world is trying to make her pay for it.

She comes out of the bedroom in her away jersey, hair pulled into a low ponytail, still a little damp. There's something about the way she looks right now—sharp and strong and completely hers—that makes something swell behind my ribs.

"You okay?" she asks, pulling on her socks.

I nod and try to smile, though I can feel the nerves buzzing just under my skin. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous," she teases, and then she tosses me one of her clean hoodies. "Wear this. It's cold in the arena."

I catch it on reflex. It smells like her. Of course it does. I tug it over my head and don't miss the way her eyes soften when she looks at me wearing it.

I hope my mom would be proud to know I'm okay.

That I found someone who makes the world feel worth photographing again.

────────── ????──────────

The arena is already buzzing when we arrive.

The low hum of voices rises the closer we get to the rink, a steady build of music, footsteps, announcements echoing over the speakers. I walk a little behind Mia and Luna, who draw attention like magnets without even trying.

They pause every few feet—people asking for autographs, pictures, hugs.

Luna gives her signature smirk to one guy in a vintage jersey with her name on the back, and Mia signs a little girl's baseball cap like she's done it a thousand times.

Probably because she has. I know this used to be their world before they stepped away from the spotlight, but moments like this remind me they never really left it.

Beside me, Lia clings to my hand.

She's four and fearless in that chaotic toddler way, but there's something in her that's always watchful too.

Her tiny hand is wrapped around two of my fingers, her blonde hair peeking out beneath a navy-blue beanie with little sewn-on ears.

Her noise-canceling headphones are snug over her ears—lavender and sparkly, the ones with a unicorn sticker on the side—and she's watching the crowd with wide, steady eyes.

"You okay, bug?" I whisper, crouching a little to her level.

She nods solemnly, like this is a very serious mission. Then she leans in and whispers back, "Is there gonna be popcorn?"

I grin. "Absolutely."

"Good," she says, then tugs my hand again, pulling me toward the tunnel like she knows where she's going.

She probably does—she's been raised in arenas, after all.

She's Aurora's daughter, and Aurora is named the most talented figure skater in this century.

She's not strange to this place, she's a Bennett after all— but I can tell she's a little shy about all the eyes and cameras on them.

"Harper," Mia calls gently over her shoulder, already halfway through signing a jersey. "Can you keep an eye on her a second? We're gonna take a few pictures."

"Got her," I say, and look down at Lia. "Just us now, kiddo."

She nods, solemn again. "You're wearing auntie Millie's sweater," she says like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

I blink. "Yeah."

"I like when you do," she shrugs, and tugs on my hand again like we're best friends on a secret mission.

We walk slowly toward the glass, and I glance around.

The lights haven't gone down yet, but the arena is nearly full.

There are families in jerseys, kids holding signs, couples sharing nachos, and people already looking at me.

Whispering. A few phones aimed in my direction.

I don't know what they're saying—if they believe the rumors or think I'm some fake, or worse—but I try to ignore it.

It's easier with Lia's small hand wrapped in mine.

"Is auntie Millie gonna win?" she asks, peering up at me.

"I think so," I say, trying not to smile.

"She always does," Lia says with a shrug. Then she lets go of my hand, only to adjust her headphones with both fists and pat the pocket of her jacket where she's hiding some kind of crumpled snack. "She says she's faster than Mummy but I don't think so,"

I laugh. "You're very cute, you know that?"

"Yup." She lifts her arms toward me like she's expecting it.

I pick her up without hesitation and rest her on my hip.

She smells like peanut butter and something floral—probably Mia's perfume rubbed off on her—and she leans her head on my shoulder like she's been doing it for years.

I didn't realize how much I missed holding someone like this.

The small, weightless comfort of a tiny body pressed to yours, trusting you completely.

I think of my mom again. How she used to kiss the crown of my head when I was little, say I was her best picture, her favorite subject.

I wonder if she'd like seeing me like this—hoodie too big, Millie's number stitched across the back, a kid curled into my side like she belongs there. Like I belong there.

And somehow, I don't feel nervous anymore.

The seats are waiting for us—front row, behind the bench. I settle into mine with Lia in my lap, and she tugs the blanket Mia packed for her up over both of us. Luna and Mia join us a few minutes later, both looking effortlessly cool despite the cameras still flashing at them as they pass.

"She hasn't let go of you once," Mia murmurs with a fond smile as she sits beside me.

"Is that okay?"

"Are you kidding? She loves you," Luna says, sitting on my other side with popcorn already in hand. "You're the only one she listens to without being bribed."

I smile down at Lia, who's now digging in her jacket pocket to offer me a half-melted gummy bear.

"I saved the red one for you," she says.

I take it. Of course I do. "Thanks, bug."

Lia beams like she's just handed me treasure.

Then she tucks herself back against me, pulling the blanket higher up over both of us until only the tips of our noses are peeking out.

Her socked feet settle into my lap, and she starts humming under her breath, a tuneless little sound that somehow fits perfectly with the rising hum of the arena.

"She likes when people don't talk too loud," Mia murmurs, nodding toward the headphones snug around Lia's ears. "But if you sing one of Willow's songs,' she'll probably marry you."

"I've been proposed to twice already," Luna adds with a wink. "She gave me a dandelion and everything."

"Mine was a fruit snack," I whisper.

"She's in deep," Mia says, mock serious.

Lia taps my chin gently with one small finger. "Do you think auntie Millie will wave at me?"

I nod. "Definitely."

"She doesn't always," she confesses, whispering like it's classified. "But sometimes she points her stick. That means hi. And she says it means I love you,"

"She'll point it tonight," I promise.

And sure enough, five minutes later, when Millie skates past the bench during warmups, her stick lifts in a small, deliberate arc. It's subtle—barely a twitch—but Lia sits up straight like she's just been knighted.

"She did it! She said hi!" Lia says, looking up at me, wide-eyed and triumphant, then back at the rink, "I love you!"

"I saw," I grin. "I think she saw your beanie."

Lia tugs it down a little lower over her ears, then holds out her tiny fist for a bump. I tap it with mine, and she nods once, very official. "Mission complete," she says seriously. Then promptly leans against me again like the adrenaline wore off.

The arena is filling now. The sound is rising and falling in waves—announcements, cheers, a bass-heavy pop remix thumping through the speakers.

There are camera flashes, jersey colors everywhere, signs waving in the stands.

I spot at least three with Millie's name in glitter and one that says, "FAKE MY ASS—SHE'S SMILING AGAIN. "

I want to laugh. I don't. But it sticks in my chest, warm and weird and sharp all at once. Mia's watching the rink, but I catch Luna glance sideways at me.

"She's got a fan club," Luna murmurs. "You might too, after tonight."

"I don't need one."

"You've got one," she says easily, passing me the popcorn. "Your first fan is right there," she gestures to the ice just when Millie scores a goal in warmups.

I take a small handful, more to have something to do with my hands than anything else. Lia picks out the pieces with the most butter and drops them in my lap like she's rationing. "Only the good ones," she explains.

I look around again. There are people whispering, sure. I can feel it—eyes flicking my way, that subtle shift in energy when people think they're being discreet but they're not. Some people smile, others nudge their friends and say something I can't hear. And then—

"Leech."

It's sharp. Male. Somewhere behind us and to the left. One word, low and mean and thrown like a stone. It hits harder than I expect.

I freeze. Just—still. I don't turn. Don't react. Just stare forward like maybe if I don't move, it didn't happen.

But Luna hears it. Of course she does. She shifts slightly, her body angling toward mine just enough for her voice to reach me without anyone else noticing. "Hey. Don't give them your night, Harper."

I blink. Swallow.

"They don't know you. They don't get to know you," she says, quiet but unshakeable. "Let them talk. Let them stew. You've already won."

I let out a slow breath. Nod once. Lia is still curled into me, oblivious. Or maybe not—her hand tightens a little on my hoodie. She doesn't look up, just pats my stomach twice like she's trying to keep me grounded.

Mia doesn't say anything, but she rests her hand briefly on my knee and squeezes. And for a second, I don't feel small at all.

Lia's bouncing full force now, both fists in the air, beanie slightly askew over her blonde curls. I fix it absently, but my eyes don't leave the tunnel. My heart's in my throat.

"Number 13... Millie Bennett!"

The eruption that follows isn't just loud—it's seismic.

It feels like the sound alone could knock the breath from my lungs, like every body in the arena rises to their feet at once.

Signs wave. Phone screens glow. A chant starts somewhere near the student section and rolls across the rink like thunder.

Millie skates out in a streak of navy and white, blades slicing clean through the ice as if it's just an extension of her.

She doesn't slow for the noise, doesn't hesitate.

Her ponytail swings with the turn of her helmet, and she glides into a fast, low loop around her zone like she's been waiting to belong to this ice again.

She lifts her stick once in the air as her name fades from the speakers, and the boards rattle from the reaction. Her name is on dozens of signs. Her number on hundreds of backs. I spot a little kid in front of us with glitter paint on her cheeks and BENNETT 13 stenciled across her forehead.

Lia nearly launches herself out of my lap cheering. "That's my Millie!"

Mine too.

I glance down at Lia, whose beanie has slipped halfway over her eyes, her tiny fists pumping the air. I pull it back into place and she smiles up at me, cheeks pink from excitement.

"She looks like a superhero," she says.

"She kind of is," I murmur, eyes never leaving the ice.

And she does. She really, really does.

Millie's first shift comes fast. The whistle blows and she's over the boards with that effortless hop I've watched a thousand times before on my laptop, curled up under blankets beside my mom. But this time, it's real. This time, she's here, after everything, and she's playing again.

And I'm not okay.

Because I see it.

The way the other team's forwards eye her. The way they adjust their gloves tighter, shoulder pads bumping as they speak into each other's ears, quiet and sharp. I know that look. I've taken pictures of it before—when players target someone on purpose. When they decide who they want to hit.

They want her.

I shift in my seat. My camera's in my lap, but I haven't lifted. My hands feel cold even under the blanket.

The puck drops. The play explodes to life.

Millie doesn't hesitate—she charges, angles her stick low, and steals a pass like it was meant for her all along. The arena reacts instantly, Millie, Millie, Millie echoing from the far sections. She cuts inside, and for a heartbeat, it's beautiful. She flies.

Then someone slams into her.

Hard. Shoulder to shoulder—an open-ice hit timed to punish, not steal the puck. Her body jolts, skates scraping a sharp arc against the ice, and the crack of the impact doesn't just echo—it tears through my chest. My stomach drops. Not illegal. Barely. But intentional. Cruel.

Millie goes down.

She pops back up almost immediately, blades catching under her, knees bent, posture reset like she's done this a hundred times—and she has. But my body doesn't care. My lungs forget how to work.

Because I'm not here, not really.

I'm back there.

Her helmet rolling away from her like it belonged to someone else. Her hair soaked in sweat and blood. Luna's scream—raw, animal—somewhere behind me. The crowd frozen, not cheering, not reacting. Just watching. Waiting for her to move. Waiting to see if she'd get up.

She didn't.

Not for a long time.

The memory snaps like a mousetrap, cold steel in my chest. My hands are shaking. I'm freezing even under the blanket. My heart pounding in my ears. She's not okay she's not okay she's not—

The crowd erupts.

The sound hits so suddenly it shocks me. A wave of cheers crashing against the boards. Whistles and stomping and chants like thunder, and it startles me so hard I flinch. I feel Lia shift in my lap, then suddenly she's gone, little legs wiggling free of the blanket as she jumps to the ground.

"Lia—" My voice catches, but I reach for her automatically. She's already bouncing, blonde ponytail flying, her oversized beanie slipping down as she punches the air and shouts at the top of her lungs:

"AUNT MILLIE! I love you!"

She screams it with her whole body, hands cupped around her mouth, face lit up like a firework.

It's joy—pure, uncomplicated joy. The kind that makes people turn and smile even if they don't know what they're looking at.

The kind that makes me remember how it felt to love something without being afraid of losing it.

I glance at the ice. And there she is.

Still in motion but slowing near the boards, looping around behind the net before gliding toward our section like she's drawn to us by gravity. Her eyes lift. And even with her helmet on, I can see them—bright, electric blue under the stadium lights. Locked on mine.

It's not possible.

Twenty thousand people. Dozens of rows. Cameras, noise, chaos.

But she sees me.

She skates until she's right in front of me, pulling up with a smooth, practiced stop that kicks up a spray of ice along the boards. I'm breathless. Frozen. My hand finds my camera on instinct, but I don't lift it yet.

Millie looks up. And she mouths it—"For you, my love." Or maybe she doesn't. Maybe I want to believe she says it. Maybe I've imagined it, because I'm half-feral with missing her and watching her and adoring her so much it aches.

But I don't imagine the next part. The way she taps her chest once. The way she winks, that same cocky, impossible little thing she always does when she wants me to laugh even when I'm drowning. Then she blows me a kiss. Slow. Purposeful.

The crowd loses it. Cameras turn. Phones rise. The announcers are probably losing their minds. But all I see is her.

She presses her gloved hand to the glass and Lia, without being told, without even hesitating, races to the boards beside me and slaps her little palm up too—on the exact same spot. Like they've done this before.

Together, they form the sloppiest, sweetest little heart between the glass. Millie's black glove and Lia's pink mitten. Two sizes too different. But it works.

A collective aww rolls through the section like a wave. A woman behind us sniffles. Mia is whisper-laughing "Oh my god," and Luna nudges my elbow with a crooked grin.

And that's when I finally lift my camera.

I don't think. I just move.

The lens snaps into focus. The shutter clicks once. Twice. I capture it—the moment she chose me, again, in front of everyone. The messy, bright, chaotic kind of love that doesn't hide.

Click.

Millie skates away, back into the play like she didn't just break my heart open and patch it back together with one look.

Lia climbs into my lap again, smug and glowing.

"She saw me," she says proudly, tugging the blanket back over our legs.

"She always sees you, baby," Mia whispers against her,

"And she saw Harper too," she smiles big.

"Yeah," I nod, watching my girl in the ice. "Yeah— she always sees me too."

She's okay.

She's going to be okay.