There’s a heaviness in my chest. Today. That's all we have left before I fly back to Oklahoma and reality crashes down on whatever this thing is between Dakota and me. His arm is draped over my waist, but when I turn to look at him, his eyes are already open, staring at the ceiling with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
"Morning," I say, my voice still rough with sleep.
"Hey." Just one word, but it lands between us like a stone. None of his usual warmth, no "morning, Miss Green Eyes" or playful grope under the sheets.
I slide out from under his arm, feeling suddenly exposed despite wearing his oversized Renegades t-shirt. The clock on his nightstand reads 7:38 AM. Time—the enemy we've been ignoring all week—is suddenly very much present.
"I need to check some weather data," I mutter, reaching for my phone. It's a lie. The first of the day, and it's not even 8 AM. I don't need to check anything; I just need a moment to rebuild the walls he's been systematically dismantling since we met.
Dakota sits up, sheets pooling around his waist. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and normally he'd make some joke about sex hair and morning stubble. Today, he just runs a hand through it and sighs.
"Caffeine Beach?" he asks, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
"Sure." I clutch my phone like it's a lifeline. Data. Numbers. Predictions. Things I understand.
We move around each other in a dance that suddenly feels choreographed rather than natural. He showers first while I pretend to be absorbed in my email. I shower next, lingering under the hot water, trying to wash away the feeling that something fundamental has shifted overnight. By the time I emerge, dressed in shorts and a lightweight blouse, he's waiting by the door, keys in hand, face a blank canvas.
The walk to the boardwalk is excruciating. Our shoulders brush occasionally, but Dakota keeps his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He's wearing his game-day expression—focused, distant, unreachable.
"Big game coming up, huh?" I venture, desperate to break the silence stretching between us.
"Yeah. Conference semifinals on Friday." His voice is flat, professional. The voice he probably uses for sports reporters, not for the woman he's been whispering filthy promises to all week.
"You'll do great." I sound like a fan, not someone who's had him inside me in ways that make me blush to remember in the morning.
He nods but doesn't elaborate. The boardwalk is waking up around us—joggers with their dogs, early tourists clutching maps, locals power-walking with the determination of people who've seen it all before. I find myself cataloging these details like I'm preparing a weather report. Mild morning temperatures, chance of emotional thunderstorms increasing throughout the day.
Caffeine Beach sits at the edge of the boardwalk. It's a local favorite that Dakota introduced me to on our second day together. The smell of freshly ground beans and warm pastry hits me as he holds the door open, one small courtesy that momentarily cracks his distant facade.
"The usual?" he asks, and I nod, grateful for this tiny thread of normalcy.
I find us a table by the window while Dakota orders. Two college-aged girls at the counter recognize him, their eyes widening as they nudge each other and giggle. Normally, this would amuse me—watching women react to him like he's some rare celestial event—but today it just underscores the reality I've been avoiding. Dakota Miles exists in a world of adoring fans, championship games, and a life rooted firmly in Charleston. My life is 900 miles away in Norman, with tornado warnings and radar systems that don't care about hockey playoffs or hazel eyes that change color depending on his mood.
"One almond milk latte with an extra shot," Dakota says, placing the mug in front of me. "And a chocolate croissant to share."
"Thanks." I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic, studying the pattern the barista has created in the foam—a simple leaf that's already beginning to dissolve. Like us, I think, and then mentally kick myself for the melodrama.
Dakota sits across from me, his own black coffee steaming between his hands. His fingers tap against the side of the mug.
"So," he begins, and my stomach drops at his tone. "You head back tomorrow?"
"Yeah. My flight leaves at 11:20." I take a sip of my latte. "I have to be back at work on Monday. We're entering severe weather season, and the team needs all hands on deck."
He nods, taking a long drink of his coffee before responding. "The playoffs could take us through the end of May, if we make it all the way."
The unspoken implication hangs between us. Two months where our schedules and locations make any continuation of this—whatever this is—nearly impossible.
"That's assuming you make it to the finals," I say, attempting a teasing tone that falls flat.
His eyes finally meet mine, a flash of the old Dakota peeking through. "We'll make it."
"Such confidence." I manage a small smile. "Is that why they call you Lucky?"
"They call me Lucky because I am." He breaks off a piece of the croissant, flaky layers separating between his fingers. "At least on the ice."
Something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten. "And off the ice?"
Dakota's gaze drifts past me to the ocean. "That's more complicated."
I take another sip of my latte, buying time. I came to Charleston for a vacation with my bestie, not a vacation romance with a professional hockey player known for his aversion to commitment. Yet here we are, dancing around what happens when fantasy collides with reality.
"We could try long-distance," I suggest, the words escaping before I can analyze their wisdom. "FaceTime, weekend visits when our schedules align."
His expression shifts, a cloud passing over the sun. "Harmony..." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Long-distance is a bitch. I've seen what it does to some of the guys on the team. All the missed calls, the fights over nothing, the jealousy when you can't be there for big moments."
"So you're saying it's not worth trying?" My voice comes out sharper than intended, the hurt bubbling up despite my best efforts.
Dakota breaks off another piece of croissant but doesn't eat it. "I'm saying I don't want to make promises I can't keep. The season gets crazy. There are road trips, media obligations, charity events. Some weeks I barely have time to sleep, let alone maintain a relationship with someone in another state."
The analytical part of my brain understands his logic. The statistical probability of success for a long-distance relationship between two career-focused individuals is undoubtedly low. But the part of me that's spent the last week wrapped in his sheets, laughing at his terrible jokes, and feeling more alive than I have in years isn't interested in statistics.
"You know what I do for a living, right?" I set my mug down with more force than necessary. "I predict things. Complicated, chaotic, atmospheric things. I look at data points and calculate probabilities for events that could destroy lives if I get them wrong."
He frowns, not following my point. "Yeah...?"
"So I understand uncertainty better than most people." I lean forward, lowering my voice. "But I also understand that some things are worth the risk, even when the forecast looks grim."
Dakota's expression softens momentarily, and he reaches across the table to touch my hand. The contact makes me realize how much I've come to crave his touch.
"It's not about worth, Harmony." His thumb traces small circles on my wrist. "You're worth it. That's not the question."
"Then what is the question?" I challenge, fighting the urge to turn my hand over and lace our fingers together.
He withdraws his hand, leaving my skin cold. "The question is whether either of us is set up for this right now. Your career is in Oklahoma. Mine is here. We met a week ago."
"Six days," I correct automatically.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Six days," he concedes. "Not exactly a solid foundation."
I know he's right. The rational part of me knows that what we're experiencing is likely nothing more than vacation-induced intensity. Yet the same analyst in me also recognizes outliers, anomalies that defy conventional patterns.
"You're withdrawing," I say quietly. "I can feel it happening. Since last night, you've been pulling away."
Dakota's jaw tightens. "I'm being realistic."
"No, you're being scared."
His eyes flash, the hazel darkening to amber. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. "The great Dakota 'Lucky' Miles, fearless on the ice but terrified of genuine connection. Your teammates call you the team's resident fuck boy for a reason, right?"
It's a low blow, repeating what he told me himself during one of our late-night conversations, but I need to break through the wall he's constructing between us.
"That's not fair," he says, voice dropping an octave. "You don't know my life."
"I know what you've shown me," I counter. "This week, you showed me someone who isn't afraid of intimacy. Someone who talks about more than just hockey and hookups. Someone real."
His expression flickers. I think I've reached him, but then his game face slides back into place.
"This week was real," he admits. "But so is the fact that our lives don't align. I have the biggest games of my career coming up. You've got—what did you call it?—severe weather season. Neither of us can afford distractions."
The word 'distraction' hits me like a slap. Is that all I am to him? A pleasant diversion before the real work begins?
I retreat into the safety of facts and figures. "Did you know that long-distance relationships actually have about the same success rate as proximate ones? Around 58% according to some studies."
Dakota's expression shifts from frustration to something like pity, which is infinitely worse. "Harmony..."
"And technology makes it easier than ever. There are even apps specifically designed to help couples maintain intimacy across distances." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Of course, the success variables include communication frequency, visit regularity, and commitment clarity."
"Are you seriously giving me statistics right now?" He shakes his head. "This isn't a weather pattern you can predict."
"No, it's not," I admit, deflating slightly. "Weather is actually more predictable than human emotions. At least storms follow physical laws."
A heavy silence falls between us.
"I just think," Dakota finally says, carefully measuring his words, "that we should enjoy this last day without expectations. Let's not ruin what we have with promises we might not be able to keep."
The scientist in me understands his perspective. The woman who's spent nine days falling for him wants to argue, to fight for the possibility that we could be the exception to the statistical rule. But his expression—guarded, resolved—tells me this is a battle I won't win today.
"Fine," I say, wrapping my fingers around my now-lukewarm latte. "No expectations. No promises."
Relief and something like regret flash across his face. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," I warn, meeting his gaze directly. "Because while I won't push for promises, I'm not giving up on us entirely. I've spent my career studying unpredictable phenomena. I know that sometimes, against all odds, patterns emerge from chaos."
Dakota's lips part slightly, surprise evident in his expression. Whatever response he was expecting, it wasn't this.
"You're not what I expected, Miss Green Eyes," he says softly, using the nickname he gave me the night we met.
"Good," I reply, feeling a strange calm settle over me. "Because predictability is overrated."
He laughs then, a genuine sound that cracks through the tension. It's not a resolution—the uncertainty of our future still looms large—but it's a moment of connection in the midst of withdrawal.