Chapter 18
Crosby
My house is dark when I slip inside, that muted predawn dark where night hasn’t quite let go and morning hasn’t decided to announce itself.
I ease the door shut behind me, careful with the latch, and stand there for a second in the stillness. My jacket hangs on a stand where I put it yesterday, a pair of Birdie’s running shoes tucked neatly beneath the bench.
I don’t move right away but I listen.
No footsteps. No music bleeding through her door.
Good.
The world is still asleep, and more importantly, so is my sister.
I toe off my shoes and pick them up, carrying them like contraband as I cross the living room. Everything looks the same as when I left, all boxes unpacked and artwork hung. Birdie was a miracle worker helping me with the rest of the house.
My body is tired in that deep, earned way that has nothing to do with training and everything to do with Juno.
Images of last night assault me and I don’t mind. It was perfect. A little reckless perhaps, but on the other hand, I can say it wasn’t a bad decision, and there is no regret.
Sex, yes. More than once. Unapologetically so.
But it was hours of talking and laughing. A freezer raid at one a.m. and sharing a pint of vanilla in her kitchen with mismatched spoons. She sat on the counter, swinging her bare foot against my thigh while she told a story about a documentary shoot gone sideways. I laughed so hard, my ribs hurt.
We didn’t get a lot of sleep, but what we did get was sound and peaceful. It all ended with a soft kiss at her door when I finally left. There was no urgency to it. No attempt to stretch the moment and make it heavier than it needed to be.
Not a promise.
Not a goodbye.
Simply… see you.
We didn’t make plans. No dates, no “tomorrow,” no checking schedules or negotiating windows of time. We stood there for a beat, close enough that I could feel her breathing steady again, then she stepped back and smiled like she wasn’t trying to make it mean anything more than it already did.
It was clear we both understood that naming it too soon would change it and that we were fine with letting it sit—unlabeled, unclaimed.
And that is why it feels so real, and that thought alone fills me with excitement for what our future might hold.
I move through the darkened kitchen carefully, tiptoeing, when a shadow moves. “Oh, you bad boy… sneaking in.”
“Jesus!” I yelp, jerking back so hard I almost drop my shoes.
Birdie’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like she’s been there all along. “Good morning,” she says sweetly.
“What the hell are you doing lurking in here?” My pulse skids from the near heart attack she just handed me. “You trying to kill me?”
Birdie doesn’t even flinch. She tilts her head, eyes bright and a faint smirk already forming. “You’re the one sneaking in like a burglar at O-dark-thirty.”
“I am not sneaking,” I say automatically, even as my shoulders stay tense, my body still halfway braced for a threat that’s already been identified as my sister.
She lifts one eyebrow—slow, pointed—and lets her gaze drop to my hands.
“You’re carrying your shoes,” she says, “so you don’t make any noise.”
I glance down like I’ve noticed this inconvenient fact for the first time. “I’m merely trying not to track dirt in.”
“Puh-leeze,” she drawls, pushing off the counter and closing the distance between us. “You’re being very shady and secretive. Which means…” She squints at me, head cocked, like she’s solving a puzzle she already knows the answer to.
I straighten, instantly defensive. “None of your business.”
Her mouth curves, victory flashing across her face. “Oooh. That means it’s a girl.”
“It does not mean that,” I snap.
She grins wider. “That wasn’t convincing.”
“I said it’s none of your business.”
Birdie turns away like the conversation is already over and reaches for the coffee maker. The click of the machine sounds absurdly loud in the quiet house. She pours water into the reservoir, grabs two mugs from the cabinet, all of it with the casual confidence of someone who knows she’s won.
“Relax,” she says, not even looking at me now. “You don’t have to be shy or embarrassed. I know you have sex.”
“I’m aware,” I retort, scrubbing a hand over my face as I step farther into the kitchen. The overhead lights stay off, the space lit only by the faint glow under the cabinets and the early gray seeping through the windows.
She glances back at me, eyes dancing. “Good. Because for a second there, I thought maybe you were sneaking in because you’d joined a monastery.”
“Can we not do this?” I ask.
“Oh, we’re absolutely doing this,” she says cheerfully. “You came home smiling. Quiet-sneaking. Pre-coffee hours. All the signs are there.”
I scoff, flattening my mouth. “I am not smiling.”
She hums, entirely unconvinced, and presses the button. The machine whirs to life, filling the silence between us.
“Was it a one-night thing?” she asks lightly. “Because if it was, no judgment. If it wasn’t, also no judgment. If you don’t know yet—”
“Birdie.”
She holds up a hand. “Still no judgment.”
I glare at her, but it doesn’t carry much weight when she’s already pouring coffee like she owns the morning.
And the house.
And apparently my personal life.
She slides a mug across the counter toward me. “So,” she says, leaning back against the island, arms crossed, studying me like I’m a case file. “Who is she? One-night stand? Two-night stand? Mystery woman who lives in a high-rise and owns more throw pillows than furniture?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, eyes squeezed shut, as if pressure alone might shove this conversation straight out of my skull. My heartbeat is still a little too fast, my nerves a little too raw for this—whatever this is.
“Please stop,” I beg.
She doesn’t. Of course, she doesn’t.
“Was she hot?” Birdie asks, mug cradled between her hands like she’s settling in for story time. “Don’t answer that. I already know the answer is yes.”
I blow out a slow breath through my nose, counting it. One. Two. Three. This is the problem with Birdie—she treats every boundary like a polite suggestion.
“Birdie.”
She turns fully toward me, eyes bright and curious. Her mouth curves slightly. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.” The denial comes too fast. Too defensive.
“You are,” she says, delighted now, like she smells blood in the water.
Heat creeps up my neck anyway, traitorous and unmistakable, causing me to rub at it. I open my mouth to deny it again, to throw out a dismissive or deflective or suitably gruff rebuke—
And instead, the truth slips loose.
“It was Juno.”
The name hangs there between us, heavy and exposed. Birdie freezes, eyes as round as an owl’s. “Oh,” she says softly.
I stare at the floor, jaw tight, already regretting it.
Birdie’s expression finally changes, eyebrows shooting up. “Oooh,” she repeats, drawling this time with meaning.
Then—
“Oh my god!”
Birdie stares at me for half a second—long enough for everything to click into place—before she bursts out laughing. Not a polite chuckle. Not a snort. Full-on, doubled-over laughter that has her bracing one hand on the counter to stay upright.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, breathless. “You slept with Juno.”
I wince. “Keep your voice down.”
She stops laughing, straightening enough to really look at me, incredulity flashing across her face. “Who’s going to hear me?” She throws her arms wide. “It’s only you and me, dude.”
“Christ, why do you have to be so annoying?” I mutter.
Birdie chuckles. “Juno,” she says again, slower this time. Like she’s tasting it. “Sweet, competent, terrifyingly perceptive Juno.”
“That’s not—” I start, then stop. Because that pretty much describes her.
Birdie’s grin softens, turning knowing instead of wicked. “You know she clocks everything, right?” she says.
I don’t respond, which reveals my hand.
Birdie hums, shaking her head. “Wow… I did not have that on my bingo card.”
“It wasn’t planned,” I say, quieter now, staring into my coffee cup like it might offer absolution.
“Nothing is ever planned when it comes to feelings.”
“This isn’t—” I stop short, the words catching in my throat. I take a breath and force myself to reframe, like that will make it truer. “We talked. A lot. It just… happened.”
Birdie doesn’t immediately respond. She studies me instead, really looks this time, like she’s lining up what I’m saying against what she knows. “And?” she prompts.
I shift my weight, my shoulder brushing the cabinet behind me. “And it was good,” I say, choosing the word carefully, like it might explode if mishandled. “We were already friends. The flirting finally… tipped over.”
It sounds flimsy the second it leaves my mouth. Like I’m trying to fit our feelings into a more manageable box.
Birdie hums as she pours herself coffee, unhurried. “What are you hoping to get out of this?”
It’s a good question and she’s my sister, so of course she’s going to ask it.
I open my mouth. Close it again.
The silence answers for me, meaning I’m not sure what I want from it. I only know I want it. “We agreed it has to stay separate,” I say finally, sipping my coffee. “From hockey. From her film. No interference. Keep it quiet. Keep it… light.”
Birdie snorts, stirring her coffee. “You don’t do light.”
“Yes, I do,” I say automatically.
She looks at me over the rim of her mug, unimpressed. “No, you don’t. You go all in or not at all.”
“This is different.” I hear the insistence in my own voice and don’t like it.
She arches a brow. “Is it?”
I lean back against the counter. “We’re having fun.”
The words feel thin, even to me.
I can tell my sister doesn’t buy them either. “You’re saying that like you believe it.”
“We’re both on the same page,” I insist. “Neither of us is looking for anything serious.”
She smiles slowly. “Famous last words.”
I scowl. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I like Juno,” she says simply. “And I like you. I don’t want you to screw it up.”
“I’m not going to.”
“And I don’t want you to get hurt,” she says, staring at me pointedly.
“I won’t,” I assure her.
She studies me a long moment, weighing the truth of whether I truly believe that. “Be careful. Don’t scare her off. And don’t lie to yourself.”