There’s something in his tone—strained, careful—that causes my pulse to quicken. It’s as if he’s warning me. Like he needs space to collect himself after what happened between us tonight.
“Okay,” I say softly.
He nods and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me standing in his bedroom, surrounded by hockey trophies and faded posters, trying to make sense of the ache in my chest.
The shower starts—hot water hitting tile—and I change into my pajamas on autopilot. Soft cotton pants and a thin tank top suddenly feel too revealing, too intimate for sharing a bed with a man who’s been driving me slowly insane for days.
The water keeps running. And running.
I sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the steady sound, and my mind wanders down dangerous paths. What would happen if I kissed him? Really kissed him—not some accidental moment or fake relationship necessity, but just pulled him close after his shower and kissed him.
How would he react?
He said this was fake, made it clear we’d go back to Dallas and pretend none of this happened. But tonight, when I was in his lap, when he whispered for me to stop moving with that rough desperation in his voice—that didn’t feel fake.
None of this feels fake anymore.
But is he ready for real? Is he over Hannah, or am I just a convenient distraction from whatever heartbreak he’s still carrying? Could he actually want something more with me, or am I reading too much into heated glances and stolen moments?
The questions spin in my head, unanswered and increasingly urgent, while the shower continues its endless stream.
Twenty-five minutes later, I give up waiting.
I pad downstairs in my bare feet, needing air, needing space—anything other than sitting in that tiny bedroom imagining things I probably shouldn’t.
The kitchen is dark except for the soft glow from under the cabinet lights. Tom sits at the island with a glass of red wine, reading something on his tablet. He looks up when I enter, his expression kind but unsurprised.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Something like that.” I hesitate in the doorway. “But I can go back up—”
“Stay.” He gestures to the stool beside him. “Want some wine? It’s a good bottle.”
I accept the glass he pours, taking a sip of something rich and smooth that probably costs more than I’ve ever spent on a bottle of wine.
“This is good.”
“Beautiful night,” he says, nodding toward the window where snow falls in fat, lazy flakes.
“It is.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and I realize this is the first time I’ve been alone with Tom. He’s been quietly observing all weekend, the steady presence that grounds this chaotic family.
“Mitchell’s been different since you got here,” he says finally.
My wine glass pauses halfway to my lips. “Different how?”
“Lighter. Like he’s remembering how to be himself again.” Tom’s voice is measured, thoughtful. “That boy came home for Thanksgiving looking like a ghost. Hollow. Going through all the motions but not really there.”
The words hit harder than they should. I think about the careful way Mitch talked about his ex-fiancée, the controlled way he mentioned seeing her around town.
“Heartbreak’s a hell of a thing,” Tom continues. “It changes a person. Makes them afraid to trust again, afraid to hope.”
I take another sip of wine, letting the warmth spread through my chest. “What changed? Between Thanksgiving and now?”
Tom looks at me with those steady eyes that miss nothing. “You did.”
The simple statement hangs in the air between us, loaded with meaning I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack.