Chapter 21 Fire and Ice （Kieran）
FIRE AND ICE (KIERAN)
Outside, the air bites clean and cold. Snow squeaks under our boots as I lead her down the path toward the lake.
The sun slips behind the trees, bleeding warm gold across the ice.
I cleared a small rink earlier, set out a couple of lanterns, and stashed a thermos on the bench.
It looks simple and perfect, like a scene caught in glass.
Her eyes widen. “You did this?”
I shrug. “Seemed better than scrolling through Netflix.”
“You’ve got moves.” She tries to sound unimpressed, but her smile ruins the attempt.
“That good?”
“We’ll see.”
I open the storage bench and pull out two pairs of skates I found in the shed.
“Size seven, right?”
She blinks. “How do you know that?”
“You left your boots by the door the other night. I noticed.”
Her mouth curves. “That is mildly concerning.”
“Sit,” I say, pretending not to enjoy it.
She settles on the bench, and I kneel to lace her skates. Her ankle fits neatly in my palm, warm through the layers. Focusing hard on the laces, I hope she can’t hear the rollicking thump of my pulse.
When I finish, she taps my shoulder. “You’re confident I can skate.”
“I believe in you,” I say, amused. “And I brought Band-Aids.”
Her laugh carries across the clearing.
I lace my own skates and step onto the ice first, testing near the dock where I checked the thickness earlier. The lake is solid, smooth under the lantern glow.
“All good,” I call to her. “I’m not reckless.”
“Debatable.” She squints at the ice.
“Come here,” I say, holding out a hand. “You’re safer with me anyway.”
She steps out, wobbles once, then steadies. “Okay. This isn’t terrible.”
She pushes off faster than she should. I catch her elbow before gravity wins, her gloves landing against my chest.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, checking the urge to press my face into her hair, like some sort of smitten boy.
We skate until our breath hangs thick in the lantern light and her cheeks flush a soft pink. She moves better than she thinks, strong and quick, recovering easily when she slips.
When she finally stops, she’s breathless, grinning. “Fine. You skate better than me.”
I huff a laugh, breath fogging between us. When I slide beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch, her pulse jumps at the base of her throat. I want to lean in and taste the cold on her lips, but I wait. Instead, I offer my hand. “Come on. Before our toes turn to ice.”
She takes it without hesitation.
We share the cocoa, then walk back toward the cabin under an indigo sky. The rink glows behind us, lanterns flickering across the frozen lake.
Our fingers are numb and the tips of her nose and cheeks are pink from the cold once we step inside. She kicks off her boots in the mudroom, laughing softly when I bump her shoulder.
“This was fun,” she says, brushing snow from her hair.
The house is cold and quiet, the fire nothing but gray ash.
I crouch at the hearth, stack kindling, and light it while she hangs our jackets by the door.
The match flares, catches. When the fire starts to roar, I move to the kitchen.
“Dinner time,” I announce, opening cabinets.
“We’ve got pasta, olive oil, and vegetables. ”
She leans on the counter, chin in her palm. “You actually know how to cook?”
“I’m not just a pretty face.” I grab a cutting board. “Liam used to bribe me with lasagna if I made the sauce.”
“So it’s genetic?”
“Learned behavior.” I start slicing zucchini and red pepper. “Survival of the hungriest.”
Her warm laugh hits me dead center. “What can I do?”
“Stir. And don’t judge.”
She steps in close, hip brushing mine as she reaches for the wooden spoon. The kitchen is big enough for ten people, but somehow she’s right here—her shoulder warm against my arm, her hair skimming my elbow as she leans in to peek into the pan.
“What’s the plan?” she asks.
“Garlic sauté, pasta, roasted veggies. Carb loading at its finest.”
“So…hockey player gourmet.”
“Exactly.”
She stirs slowly. “You do this often? I thought Mason fed you guys.”
“I cook when I need to think.”
“Think about what?”
“Everything. Hockey. Family. Life after college.”
Her motion slows. “You’re heading to the Defenders, right?”
I shrug. “That’s the plan. Training camp, contract meetings—the whole thing.”
She waits. She’s good at that.
“And…” I add, “MIT emailed yesterday.”
Her head snaps up. “MIT emailed you?”
“Yeah. Engineering Design program.”
“You got in?” she whispers, eyes widening.
“Yes.” I toss the pasta in, letting the steam distract me. “I haven’t told anyone.”
“Why not?”
“Because the second I say it out loud, it becomes a decision. And I’m not choosing it.” I pause. “But deleting the email feels wrong. Like shutting off a light I didn’t realize was on.”
She studies me in a way that makes breathing feel complicated.
“It’s silly,” I rush to add. “I’m not going to do it. But…it’s nice knowing it’s there.”
“You could still choose it.”
“Maybe.” I meet her eyes. “But once I tell Liam, he’ll say it’s incredible and then tell me all the reasons I can’t do it. And he’ll be right. If I’m going to skate pro, MIT isn’t compatible.”
She tilts her head. “And if you told Erin?”
“Erin would make a spreadsheet,” I say. “Logical. Structured. Perfectly argued. And I’d nod along because she’s always right.” A breath. “And then I’d say no anyway.”
She gives me a small smile. “So you’re hiding it because you don’t want them to help you say no.”
“Exactly.”
We fall into an easy rhythm after that: her tasting sauce off a spoon, me pretending not to stare when she licks her lower lip. The scent of thyme and olive oil fills the cabin.
When we finally sit down at the table, the fire’s throwing steady heat and the room smells like home. She twirls pasta on her fork, takes a bite, closes her eyes. “Wow.”
“Not bad for cabin rations.”
“You could open a restaurant.”
“Sure. The Pucking Pasta Bar.”
She laughs, low and real. “You’d have a line out the door.”
I don’t tell her the truth—that I could sit here forever, listening to her laugh, and forget that the world outside exists.
The plates are empty, and the fire’s burned down to steady orange light. She leans back in her chair, eyes half lidded, fingers tracing the rim of her wineglass. “That was a good first date.”
“High praise from my favorite engineer.”
She laughs. “You say that like you know more than one.”
“I don’t need a sample size to know you’re my favorite.”
Her smile flickers, shy and sure all at once. I reach across the table and brush a crumb from her lower lip with my thumb. She freezes. I don’t move.
The air stretches, thins.
“Careful,” she whispers. “That looks like flirting.”
“It is,” I say.
I stand, circle behind her chair, and let my hands rest on her shoulders. “You’re tense,” I murmur, even though I’m the one shaking.
“Kieran.” My name slips out on a breath—half warning, half invitation.
My thumbs trace the curve of her neck, slow, careful. “There are a lot of ways we can make each other feel good without rushing anything,” I say against her ear.
She’s quiet. One beat. Two. Then her chair slides back, and she stands in a single fluid motion, turning to face me.
“I don’t know if you can help,” she says, tone deceptively thoughtful.
My brows lift. “No?”
“There’s this…feeling.” Her eyes hold mine, steady. “I’ve had it all day.”
“What kind of feeling?”
She steps into my space, her fingers brushing the hem of my shirt before slipping under it just enough to graze skin. “The kind where everything feels a little too warm. Too aware. And every time you come near me, it gets worse.”
My pulse stutters.
“See?” she murmurs, fingertips sliding up my chest, slow and exploratory. “There it is again.”
Her breath skims my jaw. I can feel the smile she’s trying not to show.
“And now,” she adds quietly, “it’s getting very hard to pretend I don’t want you to do something about it.”
I swallow hard. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.”
She rises onto her toes, hands curling in my collar, her mouth a breath from mine. “Good,” she whispers. “I’m cold.”
The first brush of her lips is soft, testing.
The second steals every coherent thought from my head.
Her lips fasten over mine, making a quiet sound that undoes me completely.
For a moment, we both still, holding our breaths.
I lift her onto the counter without breaking the kiss, snaking an arm around her waist and drawing her in.
Her knees frame my hips, and she pulls me closer.
Every part of me screams yes, and the part that loves her most whispers not yet.
At first, it’s cautious and tentative, like treading in water. Soft, exploratory brushing of lips, a breath that passes between us, impossible to tell who inhaled and who exhaled.
“Wren,” I manage, rough and broken.
She looks at me, pupils wide, lips kiss-swollen. “Yes?”
“If we keep going…” My voice fails, drops to a growl. “I’ll want more.”
“I’m serious, Kieran. I don’t know what I’m doing, only that I need you closer.”
I apply more pressure, and her mouth opens, darting her tongue to trace my lower lip. Her whimpers echo inside my body, my hand sliding into her hair.
I press my forehead to hers, trying to breathe. “You have no idea how bad I want you.”
“Show me.”
The kiss deepens, turns hungry, desperate. My self-control frays, one thread at a time. I slide my hands under her top and find bare skin—warm, perfect. She gasps, and I stop.
“Yes?” I ask, barely able to get the word out.
She nods, eyes locked on mine. “Yes, Starboy. Take me to bed.”