Page 46

HARPER

I am sore in places I didn't know had nerves.

My knees ache, my ass is bruised, my elbows are protesting, and my back is staging a slow rebellion.

There's a damp chill seeping into my leggings from the last fall, and I think there's actual ice in my sock.

I'm pretty sure I pulled something important trying to avoid a four-year-old's flying spin move that looked more like a pirouette and a murder attempt had a baby.

And still—I don't think I've ever been happier.

There's something wild about that. About how joy can slip in through cracked windows, about how warmth can find you even when the grief is still fresh, still sharp.

About how this ache in my body doesn't feel like suffering—it feels like proof.

That I was here. That I laughed. That I let myself fall, over and over, and every single time, someone reached out a hand and helped me up.

Millie did. Over and over again.

I sit now on one of the benches just off the ice, tying my skates like it's something I've done for years, even though I only learned the difference between inside and outside edges two hours ago and I still don't know how to stop unless I crash into something.

Or someone. Preferably Millie. She's a very soft wall when she wants to be.

She's on the rink now with Nico and Fizzy, both of whom have declared themselves her personal trainers-slash-nemeses.

She's letting them race her backwards—somehow, backwards—and still not win.

Fizzy's yelling something about sabotage, and Nico is just laughing like it's the best day of his life. I think maybe it is.

Lia is curled up beside me on the bench, wearing my beanie now, which is too big on her and keeps slipping over her eyes.

I keep tugging it back up for her, and she keeps giggling and letting it fall again.

It's a game now. One of dozens we've played today.

I lost every single one and I don't even care.

My body is bruised.

My heart is full.

I watch Millie out there—her cheeks flushed, her braid damp with melted snow, the scar on her chin catching the light when she throws her head back laughing.

Her hands move when she talks, even when she's skating, and every time she glances over to check on me, something low in my chest sparks to life. Like a lighter flicked in the dark.

God, she's beautiful. But it's not just that. It's the way she is in the world. Loud and soft at the same time. Sharp when she needs to be and impossibly gentle when it matters most. The way she holds space for every single person in her orbit. The way she holds me.

Summer plops down beside me with a dramatic groan, pulling off her gloves and holding her hands over her cheeks. "Okay, no one told me Fizzy's legs were made of actual lightning."

"You didn't know that?" I say, grinning.

"Last time I raced her she was seven and I could still beat her with one skate off. Now I'm pretty sure she lapped me twice."

"She's fast," I say, and she nods solemnly like she's her daughter's official hype woman.

"She's a Bennett," Summer says with a wink, then ruffles Lia's hair before jogging back out onto the ice.

The whole rink is glittering now, soft with overhead lights and the fading orange of early evening sun leaking through the tall windows. Everything's glowing. Everything feels like magic.

I lean back against the wall, close my eyes for just a second, and breathe it in.

When my mom died, it felt like everything went quiet. Like a door slammed shut behind me and I was left in a room I didn't know how to leave. There were days I didn't recognize my own breath. Days I forgot what it felt like to laugh without guilt hanging from my tongue.

But this—this isn't quiet. This is loud with joy. With laughter. With Fizzy's high-pitched screaming and the sound of skates on ice and Millie's whistle when she does a perfect turn. This is what it sounds like to be held. To be wanted. To be okay, even if it still hurts.

Because it does. It still hurts. I don't think that ever goes away. But I'm not carrying it alone anymore.

"Hey."

I open my eyes to find Millie in front of me, cheeks flushed, a little breathless. She leans over and tugs off my beanie from Lia's head—earning a dramatic protest—and sticks it back on mine with a crooked grin. "Come on, Lane. One more lap."

I groan, dramatic. "Millie. I think my knees have filed for divorce."

She grins. "Just one. I'll hold you up."

"You always say that, and then you laugh when I fall."

"I don't laugh every time."

"You laughed so hard you cried when I went down like a cartoon banana peel."

"That was objectively funny," she says, leaning in closer, lowering her voice until it's just between us. "But also? You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen on ice."

I blink.

And suddenly I'm aware of everything. The weight of her hand on my thigh. The sharp cut of her jaw. The flutter in my ribs. The way she's looking at me like she knows exactly what she's doing. Like she's already picturing a thousand more winters just like this one. Like we're building something.

Something that lasts.

I stand slowly, legs shaking, but she catches me with both arms before I can even stumble. "See?" she whispers. "Told you I'd hold you."

I loop my arms around her neck. Let myself lean in a little too close. "You always do."

Behind us, the rink glows. The Bennetts cheer for each other like it's religion.

I can hear Mia's laugh from here. Julian is teaching Nico a trick he probably shouldn't know.

Aurora and Summer are arm in arm, shouting encouragement.

Camille's wiping chocolate off Fizzy's nose and Willow's braiding Lia's hair by the sidelines.

Luna's camera clicks quietly in the distance, trying to catch it all.

She steadies me, laughing under her breath as I wobble like a newborn deer on rental skates, and I can't help but laugh with her.

The sound escapes me without permission—loud and unguarded—and it makes her eyes crinkle at the corners.

She looks at me like she's proud of me just for standing.

Like it's not about skating or not falling but about trying at all.

About choosing joy after grief. Her hands skim down to my hips, holding me like she means it. Like I belong here.

And God, I think I do.

"I should've worn knee pads," I mutter, leaning all my weight into her again as we drift slowly across the ice.

Millie smirks. "You would've looked cute in them."

"Oh, so now you're into dorky, barely functioning skaters with bruises the size of Florida?"

"Apparently." She leans in, her nose brushing mine. "You're kind of my type."

I grin and let go of one of her hands, the other still wrapped around mine as I lift the camera from around my neck. I've carried it all day, mostly for family shots and Lia's Olympic-worthy zigzags, but suddenly, I want to use it for something else. Something softer. Something just for me.

I raise it slowly, the lens already focused. "Hold still," I murmur.

Millie blinks, caught off guard, and I watch as her face shifts—surprise first, then a flush, then something gentler, something shy.

She tilts her head a little, lips parted, a stray strand of hair falling across her forehead beneath the beanie she's somehow made look effortless.

Her hands stay on me, but she doesn't move.

"What are you doing?" she whispers, voice like a secret meant only for us.

"Capturing something I never want to forget."

She swallows hard, eyes on me instead of the lens. "You're ridiculous."

"Smile for me," I say, even though I don't need her to. She doesn't have to do anything. She's already glowing.

The shutter clicks.

And again.

She starts to laugh and tries to hide behind her gloves, cheeks blooming pink from the cold—or maybe from me. "I'm not used to this," she admits, laughing again as I lower the camera and keep it hanging from my neck.

"What?"

"Being the subject," Her voice is soft. Honest. "Without giving anything back."

I slide my hands up her arms, gloved fingers brushing over the thick sleeves of her coat until I find her face again. I cradle it, like I'm framing her in something more precious than glass. "You don't even realize how beautiful you are, do you?"

Millie exhales a slow breath. Her eyes flutter shut like maybe it's too much. Like I might see too much. But when she opens them again, she doesn't pull away.

She leans in instead.

The rink spins quietly around us—kids zooming past in a blur of neon jackets and laughter, Willow calling Fizzy's name from across the boards, Aurora skating backward like she's floating, pulling Lia with her while Nico and Summer race.

But for a second, it's just us. Centered in our own little still frame.

She rests her forehead against mine. Her eyelashes kiss my cheeks as she closes her eyes. I feel the exhale of her breath, warm against the cold air. And then, softly—without ceremony or performance—she whispers, "You make me feel like I'm someone worth looking at."

My throat goes tight. My hands press a little closer, like maybe I can convince her she already is. Like maybe I can hold all the parts of her no one else ever saw clearly enough.

"You are," I whisper. "You've always been."

Millie kisses my temple, a lingering, quiet press of lips that anchors me better than anything else ever could. I close my eyes and just breathe her in—whatever this scent is that clings to her coat, like clean linen and the faintest echo of cedar. And safety.

There's a commotion to our right—Lia barreling toward us on her tiny skates, shrieking, "No kissing!

No kissing my Harper! Mine!"

She launches herself into Millie's arms with the kind of fierce toddler possessiveness that knocks both of us off balance.

I go stumbling, laughing, while Millie catches her niece with a practiced spin and a dramatic gasp.

"Lia!" Millie cries. "You tackled me!"

"I saw you kissing!" Lia insists, her voice high and scandalized.

"I kissed her forehead," Millie says with a raised brow. "Very G-rated. Totally niece-approved."

Lia scowls, unimpressed.

"Still counts."

I bite back a laugh and crouch low, camera raised again, snapping a photo of the two of them—Millie holding Lia like a rugby ball, both of them grinning like chaos, both of them mine in this impossible, unexpected way.

Across the rink, I spot Luna and Mia watching with their arms linked, smiling with that familiar, nostalgic ache that only moms wear so well. Luna leans toward Mia, murmuring something I can't hear, and Mia nods, her eyes glossy, her smile soft.

Millie notices it too. She waves at them with the hand not currently holding a small, jealous child and calls, "She attacked me, Mom! I was innocent!" Then she twists to face her sister with theatrical betrayal. "Aurora, control your child!"

Aurora, who's skating backward with all the grace of a former professional, raises both hands in faux surrender.

"Sorry, can't hear!" she calls, dramatically turning and burying her face into Camille's neck, where they're wrapped up in each other like it's the first time and they're falling in love all over again.

Millie lifts Lia into her arms with an easy scoop, pressing noisy kisses to her cheeks until Lia squeals, squirming and giggling so loud it vibrates in my chest. The joy is just..

. infectious. And so real. Her skates click awkwardly against Millie's hips, and she loops her arms around her aunt's neck like she's found her permanent place in the world.

I lift my camera again and snap another picture.

Millie laughing, full and open, with Lia hanging off her, cheeks flushed and eyes squinting in delight.

And I don't know what it is—maybe the way the light catches in Millie's hair, or the way her smile looks like home—but the image freezes something in me.

This moment. These people. This feeling.

It's everything I didn't know how to want before I found them.

When Millie notices the click of the shutter, she turns to me with narrowed eyes and a faux-serious glare. "Are you documenting my downfall?"

I grin, lowering the camera just a little. "Nope. Just your cuteness."

She groans, ducking her head as Lia pats her face with her gloved hands. "She's blushing!" Lia shrieks like it's the biggest scandal of the season.

Millie mutters something into her niece's coat, and Lia giggles harder.

I take another photo. I can't stop myself. I want to remember this day from every angle. I want proof that joy lives here. That I did too.

From across the rink, Fizzy calls out, "Lia! Come help me beat Nico! We're playing hockey!"

Lia gasps like she's been summoned for battle. "Duty calls," she whispers to Millie, then looks at me, very serious, like a tiny bodyguard. "I'll be watching you."

I press a hand to my heart. "I feel safer already."

Millie lowers her to the ice and gives her a gentle push toward her moms, and Lia skates off like she's on a mission, blonde ponytail flying behind her, yelling, "Fizzy! I'm on my way!"

The chaos recedes a little, and Millie turns to me again, brushing snow off my sleeve and then reaching to fix the beanie that's falling slightly sideways on my head.

Her fingers linger a second longer than they need to.

It's quiet between us now. The hush of the ice and the low buzz of joy around the rink feel like background music to something softer, something just ours.

"C'mon," she says gently, looping her pinky through mine. "Let's get you off the ice before you snap an ankle and I have to carry you bridal-style."

I let her guide me, step by step, her hand steady on my lower back while mine grips hers like a lifeline.

We move slowly, and every now and then she mutters instructions like, "Weight on your heels, not your toes," and, "Look up, not down," but mostly we laugh every time I nearly fall, which is often.

The moment our skates hit the rubber mat at the edge of the rink, she doesn't let go. Not right away.

She just stands there with me, our bodies still close, our breath visible in the cool air curling between us.

"I like seeing you like this," she says, voice quieter now. "Here. With me. Happy."

"I am," I say. And it's not performative. It's not a lie. My thighs are screaming, my palms are bruised, and I'm pretty sure my camera caught every unflattering angle of me eating ice like a beginner—but I'm happy. The kind that fills your whole chest. The kind you don't get every day.

Millie searches my face, like she's trying to memorize it, and then she leans in slowly and presses a soft peck on my lips. Natural, like we've been doing this for years. And with her, it feels like that. So easy.

Her forehead stays against mine for a moment longer, and we just breathe—her inhale, my exhale, the shared air between us. Her gloved thumbs brush over the curve of my jaw like she's anchoring herself there, grounding us both.

"I like you like this too," I whisper, eyes still closed. "Soft. Steady. A little smug about my bruises."

She chuckles, low and warm. "I'll kiss each one better. Scout's honor."

"You were never a scout."

"I could've been," she says, pulling back just enough to catch my gaze. "I'm very persuasive. And I look great in a sash."

I laugh, and the sound feels unfiltered—raw in the best way. "I believe that."

Millie tucks a strand of hair behind my ear that's escaped from beneath my beanie. Her touch is gentle, and something about the way she looks at me—open, tender, like I've always been hers even if we're still figuring out what that means—makes the center of my chest ache in the most beautiful way.

We watch the rink for a moment longer. Lia is now tangled up in her cousins, a blur of pink and giggles as Fizzy tries to spin her too fast and Nico attempts to regulate them both like a tiny on-ice referee.

Aurora and Camille are standing off to the side with their arms wrapped around each other, swaying slightly to a song only they can hear.

Luna and Mia are taking photos, their cheeks red from the cold, their eyes still damp from earlier.

It's the kind of joy that feels old and new at the same time. Familiar like a heartbeat. Sacred like a secret. And I know, in that moment, I want to remember this for the rest of my life.

"Ready to go?" Millie asks softly, fingers still laced with mine.

"Only if you promise to carry me until we reach our bed. My thighs are going to give out before we hit the door."

She laughs, pressing a quick kiss to my temple. "Deal."

We say our goodbyes, and it's a whole thing.

Fizzy won't let go of my waist until I promise I'll be back in the morning, Nico insists on showing me how to properly lace skates next time, and Lia gives me a red sticker shaped like a heart and tells me to keep it forever.

Millie holds my hand the entire time, her thumb brushing circles against my skin like muscle memory.

It's dark by the time we step outside, the cold crisp against our faces.

We're both bundled—Millie in a puffy black coat and me in her hoodie beneath my own jacket, still smelling faintly of her body wash and home.

Our steps are slow, my muscles sore and her hand firm around mine as we walk toward the car.

By the time we get to the apartment, the sky is velvet black and our laughter is softer—more private. Millie kicks off her shoes by the door, and I peel myself out of my layers with a groan loud enough to make her grin.

"You survived," she says, taking my jacket for me and hanging it up beside hers. "I'm proud."

"Barely survived," I correct, toeing off my boots. "I think I bruised parts of me I didn't know existed."

She watches me from across the room as I move toward the kitchen island, leaning back against it with a sigh.

The place is warm, cozy. Familiar now in a way that sneaks up on me.

The fairy lights still drape along the window.

One of her sweatshirts is slung over a chair.

Our mugs from this morning are still in the sink, evidence of a quiet we share too well.

She walks over, slow and quiet, and then—like it's nothing, like it's everything—she slips her arms around my waist from behind and presses her face into the curve of my neck.

Her nose brushes against my skin, and I feel her exhale, long and steady. Like this—this right here—is the first time she's let herself breathe all day. "You smell like ice," she murmurs, voice muffled. "And kids. And possibly pain."

I huff a quiet laugh, tilting my head to the side to make more room for her. "All accurate. Don't forget bruised pride and half a sticker stuck to my thigh."

Millie's shoulders shake with silent laughter, her hands sliding over my stomach like she wants to memorize the shape of me. "You make it work."

I twist slightly in her arms to face her, my hands finding the hem of her hoodie and slipping beneath it to rest on the warm skin of her waist. She still smells like the rink and home and something distinctly her. It hits me all at once—how safe I feel here. How dangerous it is to feel safe.

"We faked the hell out of this," I say, a little dazed. "I mean... we were good. Before."

Her eyes flick up to mine. They're soft and certain, the kind of blue that looks almost unreal in the low kitchen light—like the edge of morning sky before the sun fully arrives. "We were," she says. "But it stopped feeling fake a long time ago."

"When?" I ask, quiet now, because suddenly it matters more than I can explain.

Millie shifts, just enough to pull back and look at me fully. Her arms stay around me, hands still curled against the counter on either side of my hips like she's bracketing me in, like she's giving me room without letting me go. "Honestly?" she says. "I don't think it ever really was."

A breath slips out of me, something shaky and stunned. "Even when you hated me?"

She snorts, and the sound is warm, familiar.

"I never hated you. I was overwhelmed by you, maybe.

Annoyed by how your stuff kept ending up all over my apartment.

" Her eyes crinkle at the corners. "But yeah— even then.

Even when you were snooping around my bookshelves and leaving your sweaters everywhere. "

I laugh. It bubbles up too fast and too real, and I bury it in her shoulder for a second before pulling back. "Do you remember the first time we said we'd do it? The deal?"

"You mean when I asked you to pretend-date me so the media would stop painting me like a storm they had to survive?" Her smile tugs sideways, crooked and fond. "Yeah. I remember."

I tilt my head. "Why me?"

Millie glances past me, to the photo on the wall of me and my mom.

Her voice softens. "Because I saw that picture, right there, and I said your name out loud before I even realized it.

You looked... open. Brave. Familiar." Her eyes find mine again.

"Maybe a part of me already knew it would be you. One way or another."

The quiet that follows isn't empty. It's full. Of all the things we've lived. All the near-misses. All the truths we haven't said out loud.

"You're not a secret anymore," I say eventually. My thumb finds a patch of skin above her waistband, a soft stroke right at her hip. "You used to worry about what people would think."

"I still do," she murmurs. "Sometimes. Not because I'm ashamed.

Just... I've spent so long trying to be what everyone needed me to be.

Safe. Predictable. A version of myself that wouldn't start fires.

" She shakes her head, eyes glassy. "But tonight, out there on the ice?

With you? That was the first time I didn't care who was watching.

I didn't care about the cameras or the headlines.

All I cared about was you. And my family.

And how it finally felt like I belonged. "

"That's huge," I whisper.

She nods slowly, her gaze dipping to where our fingers have found each other. "I think I forgot I was allowed to take up space like this. Allowed to be loud. Messy. Honest. In love."

The words hang between us like a drop of water about to fall.

In love.

We both go still.

Love, for me, has always been a kind of unreachable place. Something I watched other people fall into with ease. I've heard it before—said it, even—but it never felt like this. Never felt like safety. Never felt like coming home.

It never felt real.

"I didn't think I'd ever get this," I say, and my voice cracks down the middle. "This kind of feeling. This kind of you. I thought I was too much. Too heavy. Too... broken."

Millie's hands release the counter and find my waist, grounding me.

Her brows knit, but not with pity—with something fierce.

"I'm sorry," she says, and her voice is low and certain.

"I'm sorry someone made you feel like you were hard to love.

Because loving you, Harps?" She shakes her head a little, like she can't believe I don't already know.

"It's the easiest thing I've ever done."

My throat burns. I try to speak but all that comes out is a sound—a mix between a laugh and a sob. "You're not just saying that?"

She leans in, nose brushing mine. "I'm not just saying it."

I close the space between us before I can think too hard, pressing my mouth to hers like a thank-you, like a prayer, like maybe if I kiss her long enough, she'll understand all the pieces of me she's already holding together.

It's not desperate—it's deep. Steady. Like we both already know what it means.

She kisses me back with the kind of certainty that makes it easy to believe in forever.

When we pull apart, I keep my forehead against hers. Our breaths mix in the air between us. Her hands never stop touching me—thumbs on my hips, her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt like she needs to know I'm real.

"I love you," she says again. This time, she doesn't even blink. "I'm in love with you."

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"You showed up in my house with hundreds of boxes and no bed, looking for any place to stay. And you did. You stayed. I'm not letting you go."

"I love you," I whisper. It slips out quiet and raw. Like I've been carrying it for a long time. "I love you, Amelia Bennett. And I think maybe I have since the night I came home to find a whole bed in my new room, back when my life felt like it was falling apart. You caught me."

She laughs, a sound full of affection, and pulls me in again, tucking me into her chest. We stay like that, just holding each other in the middle of the kitchen, with the fairy lights glowing and the hum of the city outside the window.

Our mugs are still in the sink. Her sweatshirt is still draped over the chair.

The life we've built is all around us, humming under the surface.

And maybe love isn't something I have to reach for anymore.

It's here.

It's her.