Page 14 of Remain

“Hi, Mrs. Levin,” I chuckle. “It’s really good to see you.”

“You too, dear.” She studies my face like she’s flipping through a photo album in reverse. “You look like your mother,” she says finally. “Not how she looked at the end. How she looked when she laughed.”

The words hit clean and sharp.

I swallow. It’s a compliment I’m happy to receive. “Thank you.”

She nods once, satisfied, then turns her attention to Erik. “And you? You’re late.”

“Barely,” he scoffs.

“Barely is still late,” she replies, but there’s affectiontucked into it. “The donations came in early. It’s a good year this year..”

Erik pulls an envelope from his coat pocket and holds it in the air. “This is ours. Ages four to eight.”

She taps it once with a finger. “You always were practical.”

He smiles like it’s a compliment he’s earned.

Mrs. Levin’s gaze slides back to me. “You shopping, or supervising this one?”

“Shopping,” I quip. “With this one.”

“Hm,” she hums and nothing else.

Erik grabs a cart, metal rattling softly as he pulls it free. He rests his hands on the handle like it belongs there, like he belongs here. “All right,” he prepares himself. “The Christmas Kindness Drive budget says ages four to eight. Where do you want to start?”

I hesitate, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing. Close enough that I can smell his clean soap and something woodsy underneath it all. It’s familiar in a way that feels almost rude.

He is breathtaking. Even under unforgiving fluorescent lighting, the kind that exposes everyone else, he somehow looks better for it. His face is all sharp planes and quiet confidence, angular enough it feels unfair, like he was carved with intention instead of born. The stubble along his jaw isn’t just there; it traces downward, dark and thick along his throat, inviting in a way that makes my thoughts go slow and very unhelpful.

“Sav, where do you want to start?”

I come back to, slightly embarrassed. “Younger kids,” the words tumble out of me, as I turn down the first aisle sharply. “Let’s start with the four year olds.”

Immediately, I regret it.

The space is tight, shelves pressing in, volunteers weaving past with careful smiles. Erik follows, his presence filling the narrow aisle behind me, solid, unhurried, and unavoidable.I reach for a stuffed bear just as he shifts. His chest brushes my shoulder, barely, but it’s enough for me to feel something.

“Sorry,” he murmurs near my ear, his breath warm.

“It’s fine,” I affirm, my pulse disagreeing.

We fall into a rhythm with checking lists, stacking toys into the cart, bumping fingers like it’s accidental when it definitely isn’t.

“So,” he says casually, lifting a box of wooden blocks. “You still in the city?”

“Yes.” I pause. “Brooklyn now.”

He nods. “Makes sense.”

“How so?”

“You always liked places that pretended they weren’t part of something bigger.”

I blink. “That might be the most accurate thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He smiles. “You publishing books yet, or still fixing other people’s commas?”