Chapter 16
Marcy
The fairground looks like something plucked straight from a snow globe.
Strings of lights arc between poles, their glow soft against the falling snow.
The air smells like cinnamon, fried dough, and pine.
A band plays folk music on the gazebo, the notes carrying over the sound of children shrieking with laughter.
It’s the kind of thing I used to watch in movies and tell myself wasn’t real. Too perfect. Too safe. But here it is, and I’m walking through the middle of it with Landon, Wes, and Joon like it’s just another Saturday night.
Wes throws his arms out wide. “Ladies and gentlemen, behold—Black Pines Winter Fair. Greatest thing to ever happen north of the county line. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong,” Joon deadpans.
“Blasphemy.” Wes clutches his chest and winks at me. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous no one ever wants to ride the Ferris wheel with him.”
Joon mutters something under his breath in Korean, and Wes cackles like he’s won the lottery. Landon only shakes his head, but I catch the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
“Have you ever been to one of these?” Wes asks, falling into step beside me.
I shake my head. “No. Closest thing to a county fair when I was a kid was something set up in a Walmart parking lot.”
“This,” Wes says grandly, “is culture.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound slipping out raw and surprised. Landon glances at me then, something soft flickering in his eyes before he looks back toward the rink.
Blades carve silver trails across the ice. A girl in a pink parka spins in wobbly circles while a boy races backward, arms windmilling when he nearly collides with an elderly couple holding hands.
“Absolutely not,” I say when Wes’s elbow digs into my ribs, nudging me forward.
He clutches his chest, staggering back a step. “What do you mean, absolutely not? This is the best part.”
“I’ll fall. Or worse.”
“You won’t.” Landon’s voice is quiet, certain. He doesn’t look at me when he says it, just watches the skaters with that unreadable expression.
Wes elbows him. “You gonna teach her, Captain?”
That earns him a sharp look, but Wes just smirks.
“Captain?” I ask.
“Hockey,” Wes supplies. “High school team. He was a beast on the ice. Scouts came to watch him and everything.”
“Wes.” Landon’s tone carries a warning, but Wes ignores it.
I glance at Landon. “Really?”
His jaw tightens, like he’d rather be anywhere than standing in this conversation. “That was a long time ago.”
Which somehow makes me want to see it even more.
Wes grins like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “One lap. Come on, Marcy. You’ve got Landon here to catch you. Safer than airbags.”
My stomach flips at the idea, but I hear myself say, “One lap.”
Landon’s gaze snaps to mine. There’s something unreadable in it—caution, maybe, or surprise. But he just nods once. “Deal.”
The skates pinch at my ankles, the laces cutting red lines into my skin through my jeans. My ankles wobble inward with each step across the rubber mat, arms windmilling for balance. Three feet away, Landon glides onto the ice in one fluid motion, pivoting to face me without a single misplaced edge.
“You okay?” His eyes flick to my white-knuckled grip on the railing.
“No.”
His lips twitch upward. He extends his arm, palm up. “Give me your hand.”
My fingers hover above his for half a second before landing. Even through two layers of wool, heat radiates from his skin to mine. His other hand finds the curve of my waist as my blade touches ice.
The surface betrays me instantly. My feet shoot forward while my upper body pitches back—but Landon’s fingers curl around mine, his grip an anchor in the sudden chaos.
“Easy.” His voice drops low, a rumble I feel more than hear. “Bend your knees. Let the blades glide.”
“I’m going to die.”
“You’re not.” He steps closer, the wool of his coat brushing against me. “I’ve got you.”
My pulse hammers in my throat, and I can’t blame it entirely on the fear of falling.
We start moving, if you can call it that. I shuffle. He glides. Every time I falter, he adjusts—never impatient, never letting me fall.
“Used to run drills on this rink,” he says after a minute, voice low enough it feels like a secret. “Before school. After practice. Air so cold my lungs burned.”
I picture him younger, faster, chasing a puck across the ice with the same focused intensity he carries now. It fits perfectly.
“Why’d you stop?” I ask.
His silence stretches, filled only by the scrape of our blades against ice. “Life happened.”
I want to push for more, but his expression warns me not to. So instead, I say, “You’re really good.”
He huffs out something close to a laugh. “And you’re not as bad as you think.”
“Liar.”
“Stubborn,” he counters, but there’s warmth in his voice.
For the first time, I realize I’m actually gliding. Not well, not fast—but moving. His hand never leaves mine. His other drifts from my waist when I find my balance, but always hovers close, ready to catch me.
I glance up, meeting his eyes. The rink lights catch in them, green bright against the winter dark. My stomach flips.
By the time we circle back, my thighs burn and my face feels stretched tight, frozen in place. My fingers scramble for the railing, gripping cold metal like a lifeline.
“You did it,” he says, his voice low near my ear.
“I survived it,” I manage between gulps of winter air.
The corner of his mouth twitches upward, then breaks into a full smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. “Same thing.”
We trade our skates for boots and find our way to the bonfire.
The flames pop and crackle, sending a constellation of orange embers spiralling upward.
Snow creeps halfway up the bench legs, but my face burns from the heat.
I peel the soggy wool mittens from my fingers, the skin beneath pink and puckered.
As I stretch my hands toward the fire, his knuckle grazes my pinky—so light I almost think I’ve imagined it.
But then it happens again, deliberate this time, the rough edge of his thumb finding the soft hollow between my fingers. My lungs forget their rhythm.
Slowly, carefully, he threads his fingers through mine.
The world goes still.
It’s not dramatic—not a kiss, not a confession. Just his hand, rough and steady, wrapping around mine like it belongs there. But it feels monumental.
My heart thunders. My throat tightens. I can’t look at him, but I can’t let go either.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge it. Just keeps staring at the fire like nothing’s changed. Except everything has.
I’ve spent months avoiding touch, dreading it. And now all I can think about is how warm his hand is, how right it feels, how my chest feels lighter even though my pulse is racing.
“What do we have here?” Wes’s voice cuts through the moment. “Two sickening little love birds.”
I startle, instinctively trying to pull away. But Landon’s grip tightens—subtle, certain. He doesn’t let go.
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
Wes drops onto the other bench with his cocoa. “Seriously, though. Happy for you, rookie. But if you start making googly eyes, I’ll hurl.”
“Deal with it,” Landon mutters, his thumb brushing lightly across my knuckles, sending another jolt through me.
Wes smirks at us over his cup. “Fine. I’ll allow it. But if I have to call in sick tomorrow, don’t blame me.”
I laugh, and Landon’s hand stays wrapped around mine, steady as the fire.
Later, the gazebo lights blur into stars as we sit by the dying flames.
A child’s laugh rings out somewhere behind us, followed by the scrape of skates against ice.
When Landon shifts beside me, his thumb traces a small circle against my palm, and I find myself leaning into him, the wool of his coat rough against my cheek.
I don’t flinch when a log collapses in the fire, sending sparks skyward.
I don’t scan the crowd for exits. I just watch the flames dance, feel his pulse against my wrist, and breathe—a full breath that fills my lungs completely for what feels like the first time in years.