About pretending any of this was fake.
“She’ll keep them,” I say finally. “Mom doesn’t throw away photos.”
Clare nods, still not meeting my eyes. There’s something fragile in her posture. It makes me want to cross the room and pull her against me until that careful distance disappears.
But that’s the problem. Every time I touch her, every time we cross another line, it gets harder to remember why we drew those lines in the first place.
I’m already in too deep. I have been since the moment she agreed to come home with me. Maybe even before that.
The smart thing would be to take a step back. Put some distance between us before we do something we can’t undo. Before I forget that she’s not really mine to keep.
“We probably shouldn’t,” I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
She goes very still. “Shouldn’t what?”
“You know what.”
Clare sets down the brush slowly, finally looking at me. There’s something wounded in her expression, quickly hidden but not quickly enough.
“Oh.” Her voice is carefully neutral. “Okay.”
That single word hits me like a body check to the solar plexus. Because there’s disappointment underneath the acceptance, hurt she’s trying to hide behind professionalism.
I want to take it back immediately. Want to cross the room and show her exactly why we absolutely should.
But I’m trying to do the right thing here. Trying to protect both of us from the inevitable crash when this fantasy weekend ends and reality sets in.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “Trust me, that’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
The question is quiet, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache. She’s not pushing, not demanding an explanation. She’s just asking, like she genuinely wants to understand.
And I wish I could give her an answer that makes sense. Wish I could explain that every time I touch her, every time she looks at me like I’m something worth keeping, I lose a little more of the careful control I’ve built my life around.
“Day after tomorrow, we go back to Dallas,” I say instead. “Back to being coworkers.”
I remember the first time I saw her at work. It was during rookie orientation when she first started. She was explaining media protocols to a group of terrified nineteen-year-olds, andthis one kid kept asking increasingly stupid questions about Instagram policies. Instead of getting frustrated, she just smiled and answered each one like it was the most important thing in the world.
When the kid finally asked if he could post shirtless gym selfies, the whole room erupted in laughter. Clare just grinned and said, “Sure, if you want to spend your rookie year known as ‘that guy who posts thirst traps’ instead of for your actual hockey skills.”
The kid turned red, everyone cracked up, and she moved on like nothing happened.
I remember thinking she was beautiful—not just pretty, but genuinely beautiful in that effortless way some women have. And kind. The kind of kindness that comes naturally, not because you’re trying to impress anyone.
Then Hannah popped into my brain, and I pushed the thought away. Locked it down tight where it belonged.
“Right.” She nods like she’s trying to convince herself. “Professional boundaries.”
“Professional boundaries,” I agree.
But the words feel like a lie even as I say them. Because nothing about the way I feel when I look at her is professional. Nothing about this weekend has been about boundaries.
It’s been about breaking them down, piece by careful piece.
“I should get some sleep,” she says, already moving toward her side of the bed.
I watch her settle under the covers, turning away from me, putting as much distance as possible between us in the narrowspace. Everything in me wants to close that gap, wants to pull her back against me and forget about tomorrow, about complications, about all the reasons this is supposed to stay fake.