Chapter 31 Eli
THIRTY-ONE
ELI
The drive from the airport to the house feels like stepping into another world. No snow, no wind biting at my face—just the late afternoon sun spilling through the windows and the smell of ocean and salt in the air.
Mom’s humming along with the Christmas station, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, while my little sister keeps firing questions at Max from the passenger seat.
“So, if you’re not from Michigan, where are you from?”
“Do you like snow that much?”
“Is Eli good at hockey, or does he just tell us he’s good?”
Max handles it all with this quiet patience I didn’t know he had. His deep voice rumbles every time he answers, steady and kind, and it’s doing things to my heart I’m absolutely not prepared to unpack in front of my family.
When she asks if he’s my boyfriend, though, he glances at me, green eyes flicking to mine before he says, “Something like that.”
Mom hums under her breath like she’s satisfied with the answer.
I can’t help the way my smile spreads. By the time we pull into the driveway, the sky’s blushing pink and gold, and everything in me feels too full—like if I exhale, happiness will spill right out of me.
The air is humid and sweet, carrying that coastal scent I always forget I miss until I’m home again.
Mom’s still humming along to the Christmas station as she parks, and my sister’s halfway out of the car before the engine’s even off. “Come on, slowpokes!” she calls, racing up the porch steps.
I roll my eyes but can’t stop smiling. “She’s been like this since Thanksgiving,” Mom says, shooting me a fond look as she gets out.
Then she glances back at Max. “And don’t mind the mess.
We did a little decorating, but the real chaos starts tomorrow when Eli’s dad drags out the rest of the boxes. ”
Max gives a quiet, polite nod, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks so out of place in the warmth—Michigan in human form—but he’s trying. That thought alone makes my chest go tight.
Inside, the house smells like cookies and cinnamon and something buttery in the oven. Home. It wraps around me instantly.
Mom waves toward the stairs. “Eli’s room is all ready for you two. Fresh sheets, clean towels, the works. I figured you’d want to rest a bit before dinner.”
I catch the subtle way Max goes still beside me—just a tiny hesitation, like he’s not sure what to do with the idea of us sharing a room so casually acknowledged.
Once Mom and my sister disappear toward the kitchen, I turn to him. “Hey,” I say softly, “if you’d rather take the guest room, I can ask her to make it up. It’s no big deal.”
His eyes meet mine, green and steady. Then his hand comes up, cupping my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheekbone like I’m something fragile. “No,” he murmurs. “I want to stay with you.”
I grin, heart thudding. “Careful, Calder. Keep talking like that, and you’re gonna start sounding like an actual boyfriend.”
His mouth curves into the faintest smile. “For the next three weeks?” he says. “That’s exactly what I plan to be.”
And just like that, my house—my safe, sunlit, ordinary home—feels like something entirely new.
I can’t stop smiling as I lead him upstairs, past the wall of family photos Mom insists on updating every year.
There’s one of me missing my front teeth and holding my first hockey stick, another of my sister in a tutu with frosting on her chin.
Max glances at them as we pass, something unreadable flickering through his expression—softness, maybe. A hint of longing.
When I push my door open, it hits me how me it still is.
The navy walls, the glow-in-the-dark stars from middle school, the framed posters of teams I used to idolize—all of it screaming teenage nostalgia.
My old roller blades hang from a hook beside the closet.
There’s even a medal draped over my desk lamp from when I was nine and thought second place was the end of the world.
Max pauses in the doorway, taking it all in. “Wow,” he says, voice low with something that sounds a lot like amusement. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were born for the rink.”
“Don’t act like you’re not impressed,” I shoot back, kicking my duffel toward the closet. “This is a shrine to greatness.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head, but it’s the good kind—the one that tugs the corner of his mouth upward.
When I turn around, he’s still standing there, cap in his hand, eyes tracing every inch of my room like he’s memorizing it. “What?” I ask, trying for casual.
“Nothing,” he says, setting the cap on the dresser before crossing to the bed. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever see where you came from.”
The way he says it—quiet, almost reverent—hits me straight in the chest. “Well,” I say, stepping closer, “welcome to the chaos.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, the old mattress creaking under his weight, and drags a hand down his face. “Chaos suits you.”
“Yeah?” I flop down beside him, my shoulder bumping his. “Then I guess you’ll survive the next three weeks.”
His eyes find mine again, and there’s that pull between us, the one that never really goes away. He reaches over, fingers brushing the hem of my hoodie like he’s grounding himself. “Three weeks,” he repeats, voice rough.
I smile, softer now. “Full boyfriend package, remember?”
That earns me another one of those rare smiles—the small, real ones that make his whole face change. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess I did promise that.”
I lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Then you better deliver, Calder. I’ve got high standards.”
He laughs, a low rumble in his chest that makes me grin wider. For a moment, it’s just the two of us in my childhood room—sunlight spilling across the floor, distant clatter from the kitchen, his hand finding mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And for the first time since I brought him here, I realize he fits. Right here, in this house, in this version of my life. I’m going to hold onto these three weeks as if they are the last I’ll ever live, and I’ll deal with the fall out after.
“So what would a boyfriend do now? If he had his boyfriend alone and all to himself in his childhood bedroom for the first time?” he asks, and my stomach flips.
The way he says boyfriend—low, rough, like the word tastes new in his mouth—does something to me. For a second, I forget how to breathe. My heart does that dangerous stutter-step, the one that always comes right before I fall a little further.
I try to play it cool, tilting my head and offering a grin that feels steadier than I am inside. “Depends,” I say lightly. “Is this boyfriend the wholesome, ‘meet the parents’ type? Or the type who’s going to make me forget my own name while Mom’s downstairs making cocoa?”
That earns me a quiet, wicked little laugh from him. He leans back on his palms, looking at me with those green eyes that make my knees weak. “Maybe a little of both,” he says.
Heat pools low in my stomach. God, he looks good like this—still in his travel clothes, sitting on my old bed like he belongs there. As though he’s been here a hundred times before.
“Show me,” I murmur, turning toward him. “Show me which kind you’re gonna be right now.”
His gaze flicks down, then up again, locking on mine.
He reaches out, palms warm on my knee first, then sliding to my hip, drawing me a fraction closer before pulling me into his lap to straddle him on the bed.
The touch isn’t rough, not yet—it’s deliberate.
“For three weeks,” he says softly, “I’m going to be whatever you need me to be. ”
Something in my chest gives, just a little. My hand finds his, fingers slipping between his, then sliding up his arm to the back of his neck, into the soft hair there. “Then start now,” I whisper.
His forehead comes to rest against mine, his thumbs tracing slow circles at my hips. “This,” he says quietly, “is what a boyfriend does.”
And then he kisses me—slow, sweet, nothing to rush. Just the two of us, pressed close in my childhood room, tasting like travel and anticipation and something dangerously close to forever.
I lean into him, fingers curling in his shirt, my thighs bracketing his hips.
He’s solid beneath me, all heat and restraint, the kind of steady that could ruin me if I let it.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I know I’m in trouble.
Because this isn’t just three weeks anymore.
He’s not just the guy I fantasized about; he’s the one I want to keep.
To love, out loud and proud. This trip will either be the best decision I’ve ever made… or the one that breaks me wide open.
His hands slide up my back, palms spreading wide before finding the nape of my neck.
The weight of his touch is sure, deliberate.
He tilts his head and kisses me again, deeper this time—tongue sweeping against mine, a low sound rumbling from his chest that I feel all the way down my spine.
I rock against him without meaning to, a small movement that makes him groan and tighten his grip on me.
“Eli,” he mutters, half warning, half plea.
“Yeah?” I breathe, smiling against his mouth.
Whatever he’s about to say gets swallowed by another kiss—hungrier this time, like we’ve been building to this since the first night the snow fell. My hands fist in his hair. His teeth graze my bottom lip, and I swear I could live right here, in this heartbeat.
And then—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Eli! You better not be unpacking without me!”
My sister’s voice tears through the haze like a splash of cold water.
Max freezes under me, his breath stalling in my mouth.
One of his hands stays at my neck, the other clenched tight at my waist. For a second, he doesn’t move—like he’s torn between kissing me again and bolting for the window.
Then, slowly, he exhales through his nose, thumb brushing the back of my neck.
“You should probably get that,” he says, voice rough, low enough that it’s just for me.
I stay there for a heartbeat longer, my chest rising against his, before I nod. I press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth—soft, apologetic. “To be continued,” I whisper.
The corner of his lips curves up, reluctant but real. “You better believe it.”
I slide off his lap, legs a little shaky, and run a hand through my hair, trying to look less…
thoroughly kissed. When I open the door, my sister’s standing there, all grins and chaos, and Max is still on the bed behind me—shoulders tense, eyes dark, looking every bit like a man who doesn’t want to stop but knows he has to.
And even as my sister barrels into the room, all chatter and questions, I can still feel his fingers ghosting at the back of my neck. A silent promise that tonight, when the house is quiet again, we’ll finish what we started.
Dinner smells like home—garlic bread, roasted vegetables, the kind of slow-cooked sauce my mom insists can’t be rushed.
By the time Dad walks through the door, the house feels full in that way it always does when we’re all together—voices overlapping, music from the kitchen speaker, the sound of my sister humming as she sets out plates.
“Hey, there’s my goalie!” Dad’s voice booms through the hall before I even see him. I barely have time to stand before he’s pulling me into a hug that lifts me off the floor. His cologne smells the same as it did when I was a kid—clean, woodsy, like freshly cut lumber and aftershave.
“Dad,” I laugh, half choking as he squeezes. “You’re gonna crack a rib.”
“Good, means you’ve still got one to spare.” He sets me down and then looks past me—toward Max. “And you must be the famous Calder. I’m Brett.”
For a second, I see Max brace, shoulders tight like he’s waiting for a punchline that might hurt. But my dad just extends his hand with a grin that’s all warmth. “Welcome to our madhouse. Hope my boy hasn’t driven you insane yet.”
Max’s mouth curves into something small and uncertain before he takes the handshake. “Not yet, sir.”
“Give it time,” Dad says, clapping him on the shoulder like they’ve known each other forever. “You play?”
“Used to,” Max answers, and there’s something in his tone that makes my chest ache. Not sadness exactly—more like the shadow of it.
“Well, we’ll get you out back to toss a ball around then,” Dad says with a wink, tugging his coat off and hanging it by the door. “Still got the old net up. Probably full of pine needles, but it’ll do.”
Mom laughs from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “Ignore him. He’s just trying to relive his glory days from the neighborhood rec league. Dinner’s ready, boys—wash up before you sit down.”
Dad grumbles good-naturedly, muttering something about never being too old for a comeback, and Mom swats him with the towel as he passes.
We gather around the table, the four of us plus Max, and for a while, it’s just noise and clinking silverware and the occasional groan from my sister when Dad tells one of his old jokes. It’s easy. It’s home.
But when I glance across the table, Max isn’t eating.
Not really. He’s watching—Mom passing Dad the salad tongs, Dad brushing her hand as he takes them, my sister smuggling an extra roll onto her plate while pretending she didn’t.
His eyes move from one to the next, softening just enough for me to see it. The awe. The disbelief.
And suddenly, I get it.
He’s never had this. Not like this—this easy kind of love that fills the space between sentences and sits down at the table with you.
My chest tightens, and I nudge his foot under the table. When he looks up, I give him a small smile. Just something to anchor him.
He blinks, and then his hand finds mine beneath the table, fingers brushing once before stilling. So I squeeze back, silent but sure, and keep the conversation moving. About hockey, about the flight, about anything normal.
Because if I let myself look too long at how his eyes keep darting to my parents, like he’s trying to memorize what love looks like when it’s loud and unhidden, I’ll lose it.
And I can’t. Not yet.