Page 13

Ivy

His hockey jersey still smells like him.

I'm tempted to take it with me.

I should have packed it first, buried it deep where I couldn't keep seeing it. Instead, it's been sitting on the bed while I fold everything else, taunting me with memories I’m not ready to let go.

Lazy Sunday mornings. His hands massaging my sore feet after that brutal hike in the woods. The way he brought me cocoa—grinning in that ridiculous blinking Christmas sweater—while we decorated the tree like we actually had forever.

A knock at the door.

Dorian—here to help me haul my furniture from storage to the new place. Take two.

I open it—

And my heart stops. Starts. Stops again.

“Hey,” he says softly.

I can tell Dane looks tired. Rumpled. Like he’s been dragging his hands through his hair all day, trying to figure out what to say. And maybe he can tell my eyes are still red and swollen.

"Hey."

We stare at each other for a long moment. There's so much unsaid between us, I can almost taste it.

"Can I come in?"

I step aside, letting him in. He takes in the boxes, the half-packed closet, his jersey on the bed. Something crosses his face—pain, maybe. Or regret.

"I'm sorry." The words come out raw, honest. No excuses, no explanations. Just those two words that mean everything and nothing.

"Would you like to sit?" I gesture to the couch—still his couch, technically. Everything here is still his.

He nods, perching on the edge like he's not sure he belongs anymore. I sit too, leaving space between us.

"The boxes," he says finally. "You found a place?"

"Yeah. It's small, but my stuff will fit. Eventually."

Silence stretches between us, thick with memories and missed chances.

"That night," he starts, then stops. Takes a breath. "I should have called. Should have come home. There's no excuse for that."

"No, there isn't."

"I'm not here to make excuses." He meets my eyes. "I'm here because I was wrong. About everything."

"Everything?"

"About why you needed me around. About what that meant." He looks down at his hands. "I saw something that made me realize... I've been getting it all wrong."

"How?"

"I thought..." He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. What matters is I hurt you. And I'm sorry."

"We both made mistakes," I say quietly. "I pushed sometimes. When I felt you pulling away, I pushed harder."

"Because I made you feel like you had to."

"No." I turn to face him fully. "Because I was afraid. Of being too much, of not being enough. Of turning into..." I stop, but he understands.

"Your mom?"

"Yeah." I twist my hands in my lap. "Watching her try so hard to keep my dad, to be what he wanted... I swore I'd never be that person. But sometimes, with you..."

"You're nothing like her." His voice is fierce. "Nothing."

"Sometimes I am. When I text too much during away games. When I get jealous of reporters or fans. When I try to control things because I'm scared of losing you."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes." He shifts closer. "Because you love me. Really love me , not some idea of what I represent. And I..." He swallows hard. "I love you too. Even when I'm terrible at showing it."

"Then why did you leave?"

"Because I forgot what matters." He runs a hand through his hair. "I forgot that love isn't about keeping score or being perfect. It's about choosing each other, even when it's messy. Even when we're both screwing up."

I feel tears pricking at my eyes. "And now?"

"Now I know better." He reaches for my hand, stops just short of touching. "I know that needing each other isn't weakness. That asking for time or attention doesn't mean you're trying to control me. That sometimes love means saying 'I miss you' just because it's true."

A tear slips down my cheek. "I did miss you."

"I missed you too." His fingers brush mine. "Every minute. Every second. Even when I was being an idiot."

"You were kind of an idiot."

"Kind of?" His smile is soft, familiar. "I was a complete idiot. But I'm trying to be better."

"Better how?"

"By being honest. By staying, even when it's hard. By remembering that what we have..."

He lifts his hand, palm open, like an invitation.

And that one simple gesture—offering instead of taking—means more than anything he’s said.

I slide my hand into his.

He closes his fingers around mine. "It's worth fighting for."

I glance down at our joined hands, at how perfectly they still fit. "I can't do this again. The not knowing. The wondering if you'll come home."

"I know." He bends and kisses my knuckles. "I promise, next time I'm struggling, I'll talk to you. No running. No silence. Just... us. Figuring it out together."

"And I promise to give you space when you need it. Real space, not the kind where I'm watching the door every five minutes."

He laughs softly. "Deal."

We sit in silence for a moment, hands still linked, the air lighter now.

"So," he says finally. "About these boxes..."

"Yeah?"

"Do you want help unpacking them? Or..." He hesitates. "Or would you rather move them to the new place?"

I look around at our home—because it is ours, even if the lease says different. At the pictures on the walls, the blanket we bought together, the life we'd started to build.

"I want you to help me unpack." I squeeze his hand.

His smile could light up the city. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I lean into him, letting myself feel the solid warmth of his body. "If we're doing this, we need to be all in. I'm calling to cancel the movers and the new apartment."

"Smart girl." He kisses my temple. "I was holding my breath hoping you'd say that."

I close my eyes, letting his scent envelope me. "Just... don't make me need to go over this again, okay?"

"Never again." His arms tighten around me.

And this time, I believe him.

Not because he's perfect.

Not because I am.

And not because we’re fearless.

But because I trust that together, we won’t let fear win again.