It’s the way he looks at me like I’m something worth keeping.
But I want it too much to make myself stop. Whatever this is between us, whatever we’re building in the space between fake and real—I’m not ready to let it go.
Even if it means risking everything.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Steady Ground
Mitchell
The pond behind our house has been frozen solid for a week, the ice thick enough to hold a truck. The conditions are perfect for skating—just the kind of winter day that makes you remember why people choose to live in Minnesota, despite the cold trying to kill you for six months out of the year.
Clare stands at the edge of the ice, looking like she’s about to face a firing squad.
“It’s not going to bite you,” I say, lacing up my skates on the wooden bench Dad built when we were kids.
“Says the man who’s been skating since before he could walk properly.”
“I could walk fine. Skating just came naturally.”
She gives me a look that could melt the ice beneath us. “Show off.”
“Haven’t even gotten started yet.”
The truth is, I love being on the ice. I always have. There’s something about the speed, the precision, and the way your body can effortlessly glide across the polished surface that makes everything else fade away. On ice, I know exactly who I am and what I’m capable of.
Watching Clare wobble toward me in borrowed skates that are probably older than Sophie, arms windmilling for balance, Irealize I want to share that feeling with her. I want to be the one who teaches her to trust the ice, trust herself, and trust me.
“Okay,” she says, gripping my arm with both hands like I’m a life preserver. “I’m ready.”
She’s not ready. Not even close. But the determination on her face, the way she’s willing to look ridiculous for the sake of trying something new, does things to my chest.
“Just relax,” I say, skating backward while she clings to me. “Feel the ice under your feet.”
“Hard to feel anything when I’m trying not to die.”
“You’re not going to die. I’ve got you.”
And I do. My hands span her waist, keeping her steady while she finds her balance. She’s wearing that same oversized sweater from yesterday, the one that makes her look small and soft and utterly perfect. Having her this close while she trusts me completely is doing dangerous things to my self-control.
“There,” I say when she manages three wobbly strokes without my help. “You’re getting it.”
“I’m not getting anything. I’m just not falling yet.”
“Same thing.”
She laughs, the sound echoing across the frozen pond, and for a moment, she forgets to be scared. That’s when her skates decide to go in opposite directions, and she pitches forward with a yelp that’s half panic, half laughter.
I catch her before she can hit the ice, pulling her against my chest with more force than necessary. The impact sends us bothoff balance, and we go down in a tangle of limbs and laughter, landing in a snowbank at the edge of the pond.
She’s on top of me, her hair falling like a curtain around our faces, and suddenly we’re not laughing anymore. We’re just breathing hard, staring at each other in the frosty winter air.
“You okay?” I ask, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
“Yeah,” she whispers, but she doesn’t move. Neither do I.
There’s snow in her eyelashes and on her cheeks, and without thinking, I reach up to brush it away. My thumb traces the curve of her cheekbone, and she leans into the touch as if she can’t help herself.