CHAPTER 3. Carter
I stare at Thomas, my mouth hanging open. My heart hammers against my ribs so violently I wonder if he can hear it over the howling wind outside.
Sixteen years.
He’s been in love with me for sixteen years?
The same sixteen years I’ve spent pining after him like some tragic Jane Austen character?
This can’t be real. It has to be a cosmic joke. Or maybe we’re both suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning, because the universe isn’t this kind. Especially not to me.
“Are you out of your damn mind?” I say, because it’s the only thing my short-circuiting brain can manage to produce.
Thomas flinches like I’ve slapped him, and his face—oh god, his face—crumples for just a second before he shuts down behind that guarded look I know too well.
The temperature in the car seems to drop another ten degrees.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice tight.
I want to tell him I love him too, but the words are stuck—buried under years of hope, hurt, and everything I’ve tried not to feel.
I need to speak. I mean to. But apparently, my body’s chosen this exact moment—possibly the most important one of my entire life—to completely shut down all motor function.
Thomas takes the silence as an answer. He shifts back, pressing against the car door to put as much space between us as the backseat allows.
Snow keeps piling up on the rear window, sealing us inside our own private snow globe of emotional disaster.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and there’s a tremor in his voice I’ve never heard before. “I messed everything up.”
My heart’s beating so fast I’m half convinced I’m having a cardiac event. This is not how I imagined this conversation going—not in any of the thousand scenarios I’ve played out in my head over the years. In those versions, I was calm, articulate, ready with the perfect response.
But apparently, the real me can’t even string four words together when it actually counts.
“Fuck,” Thomas whispers, staring at me, panic creeping into his expression. “You don’t feel the same way anymore, do you?”
The question finally jolts me out of my stupor.
So he knew. He knew I was in love with him.
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, except it clearly isn’t—his voice is tight, and he’s breathing too fast. “I get it. I hurt you. I disappeared for a year. Of course you moved on. You should’ve moved on.”
Moved on? What the hell is he talking about? I’m still stuck on the part where Thomas Moore—straight Thomas, gold-medal friend-zoner, and my brother’s best friend—just said he’s been in love with me for half my life.
It’s dark in the car now, but I can still see the tears sliding down his cheeks. He tries to brush them away, like maybe I won’t notice.
Thomas Moore is crying.
Thomas—who didn’t cry when he broke his arm in three places on that ski trip in tenth grade. Who didn’t cry when five guys from the rival school jumped him after a soccer game. Who, in the twenty-plus years I’ve known him, has never once shed a single tear in front of me.
And now he’s falling apart.
My own eyes burn with more unshed tears. All the anger I’ve been holding onto—all the hurt and resentment—starts to crumble.
But before I can say anything, he sucks in a sharp breath—like he suddenly can’t get enough air—and exhales in a shaky rush. His eyes are wide now, his whole expression pulled tight with panic.
“Thomas?” I say, heart climbing up into my throat. “Are you okay?”
He shakes his head, unable to get any words out. His breathing turns ragged—short, shallow gasps that sound like they hurt. His free hand comes up to his chest, and there’s fear in his eyes.
“Are you having chest pains?” I ask, already reaching for my phone. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”
He shakes his head again, more forcefully this time. “No, it’s just a—” he manages between gasps, “panic attack.”
Relief hits me, but I don’t let myself relax. I’ve had panic attacks—they’re awful, like your own body turning against you—but I’ve never seen Thomas like this.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
He nods.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. “Then you’re gonna be fine.”
I shift closer, take his hand, and rest my other palm on his back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. “Just breathe with me, alright? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Nice and easy.”
Thomas tries, but his breathing’s still uneven. His whole body shakes under my hand, and more tears slip down his cheeks. He looks terrified—and seeing him like this twists something in my chest.
Jesus. Is this seriously the moment I’m thinking about telling him I love him? He can barely breathe. And I’m almost sure it’s because he thinks I don’t feel the same.
God, the whole situation would be ridiculous if I weren’t so worried about him. But how the hell am I supposed to fix this?
“You’re safe,” I murmur, still tracing circles on his back. “This’ll pass. I promise. Just keep breathing with me.”
For several minutes, I keep telling him he’s okay, that I’m here, that he’s safe. Slowly, his breathing starts to even out. The shaking fades. That panicked look in his eyes begins to ease.
“You feeling any better?” I ask quietly.
Thomas nods, his face tight with embarrassment. “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry. I feel kind of ridiculous.”
“You’re not,” I tell him, still holding his hand. “You can’t control panic attacks. They just happen.”
“I know,” he says, then gives a small, self-conscious smile. “Still feels kind of dumb, having one because I got rejected.”
I go still. He really thinks I rejected him. Thinks that everything he told me—everything it took him months to say—was met with silence because I didn’t feel the same way.
“I didn’t reject you,” I say, meeting his eyes in the dim light. “I’m—” I pause, heart hammering, hoping to God I’m not hallucinating this. “I’m still in love with you, Thomas.”
He looks at me like he’s not sure he heard right, sitting completely still.
“I never stopped,” I add, pulse pounding in my throat. “Not even when you disappeared for a year.”
He’s staring at me now, frozen.
“And there’s no one else?” he asks after a second, his voice barely above a whisper.
“There’s no one else,” I repeat, quieter this time. “There’s never been anyone else. Not really. Every relationship I’ve had ended because they weren’t you.”
It feels raw, putting this into words—like peeling back a layer I’ve kept sealed for years. But I don’t care anymore. I’m done pretending. I’m done holding anything back.
Thomas shifts, fingers tightening around mine. Then he exhales hard and leans in, pulling me into his arms.
“I’m so sorry, Carter,” he says, voice cracking against my neck. “I’m so fucking sorry. For running. For being a coward. For hurting you.”
I nod, because I can’t speak. My face is wet again—but this time, I’m smiling.
“I love you,” Thomas whispers. His hands come up to my face, thumbs brushing away my tears as he rests his forehead against mine.
“I love you too,” I say, still smiling. He smiles back—and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look this happy.
This is the boy who helped me with my math homework in middle school. The guy who drove me home from parties when I’d had too much to drink. The man who’s been the center of my world for as long as I can remember.
Thomas’s gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts back to my eyes. His grip tightens around my hand, and he leans in just a little. I don’t move. I just watch him, waiting—for him to choose this. To finally take that step on his own.
Then he does. He kisses me, and for a second, I feel off balance—like the car shifted beneath us.
His lips are cold at first but warm quickly against mine. The kiss is careful, searching—like he’s still making sure this is real.
I answer by sliding my hand to the back of his neck and pulling him closer, deepening it.
Two decades of longing collapse into this moment. His lips are softer than I imagined, but more certain too. He tastes like coffee and mint and something else—something that’s just him.
He lets out a sound—low, caught between a sigh and a groan—and the vibration of it against my mouth sends a jolt down my spine. His hand finds my waist, pulls me in tighter, until I’m nearly in his lap.
We break for air, foreheads pressed together, our breath mingling in the cold.
“I’ve wanted to do that since high school,” he whispers, his breath warm against my lips.
“Me too,” I admit, still smiling—giddy, a little disbelieving. Earlier than that, honestly. But that’s a story for another time.
The look in his eyes—lit up with wonder and want—makes my heart skip.
“I wasted so much time,” he says, the regret creeping back in.
I shake my head, not letting either of us get pulled into the past.
“We have time,” I tell him. “We have right now. And everything after.”
He nods—just once—and that’s all I need.
Then I’m kissing him again—harder this time, pouring years of want into it. His hands slide up my back, into my hair, holding me like I might disappear. I press in closer, needing to erase every inch between us. Needing to make up for all the years we lost.
The car windows have completely fogged over, our breath turning the world outside into a blur.
The storm’s still coming down hard, the temperature dropping.
We’re stranded, waiting on a tow truck that might not show for hours.
My brother’s birthday dinner is happening without us.
There are a thousand things we should probably be thinking about.
But none of it matters. Not with his mouth on mine.
The kiss deepens—it’s no longer soft or careful. It turns hungry, desperate, like everything we’ve held back is breaking loose all at once. Years of want slam into us, tearing through hesitation, leveling the fragile line we spent half a lifetime holding.
Thomas’s hands slide down my back, grip my hips—and in one swift motion, he’s pulling me properly into his lap.