Chapter 8 #3
This is becoming one of them.
***
Movie night begins shortly afterward.
According to Jillie, every snowstorm requires: hot chocolate, blankets, movies, and emergency snacks.
The emergency snacks seem suspiciously identical to regular snacks.
I decide not to mention it.
The three of us pile onto the couch.
The fort remains nearby.
Jillie insists it must stay.
Apparently, it is now protected historical architecture.
Halfway through the movie, I notice something.
Sadie is laughing.
Again.
Not the polite laugh she gives customers.
Not the careful one she uses when she's tired.
This one is real, unguarded.
She leans forward slightly, hair slipping across one shoulder.
Eyes bright.
Happy.
The sight hits harder than it should.
Because lately I've started collecting moments.
Little ones.
The way she hums while decorating cookies.
The way she always gives Jillie the last cinnamon roll.
The way she pretends not to smile when she's amused.
The way she laughs. Especially the way she laughs.
And suddenly a realization lands with uncomfortable precision.
I know too many things about her.
Not because I've been trying, but because I've been paying attention.
A lot. More than I should. More than someone in a fake relationship probably ought to.
Across the couch, Sadie glances over.
Catches me looking.
For a second neither of us looks away.
Something shifts. Not dramatically. Just enough. Just enough to make the room feel smaller. Just enough to make my pulse notice.
Then Jillie climbs directly across both of us to retrieve popcorn.
The moment shatters instantly.
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Because somehow that little girl has become remarkably talented at interrupting dangerous thoughts.
And unfortunately, I'm starting to have a lot of them.
***
Jillie is asleep again within minutes.
Honestly, it feels unfair.
One strange dream.
Thirty seconds of conversation.
Then she's gone.
Meanwhile, Sadie and I are left sitting on opposite sides of a sleeping seven-year-old pretending we weren't about to completely change the direction of our lives.
The fire crackles softly.
Neither of us moves.
Mostly because moving would require acknowledging things.
And I am not currently interested in acknowledging things.
Especially certain things.
Like how close I came to kissing her.
Or how much I wanted to.
The problem isn't that it almost happened.
The problem is that neither of us looked surprised.
That's the part I can't stop thinking about.
Not shock. Not panic. Not regret.
Recognition.
As if we'd both quietly arrived at the same destination without realizing it.
Across the couch, Sadie's fingers drift absently through Jillie's hair.
A small gesture.
Gentle. Automatic, the kind mothers probably don't even think about.
I watch it anyway.
Because lately I seem incapable of looking away.
Maybe that's what this whole thing comes down to.
Not attraction.
Not chemistry.
Not even the fake relationship.
It's attention. I've been paying attention to them for months.
To Jillie's stories.
To Sadie's smiles.
To bakery mornings.
To school concerts.
To grocery carts.
To family photos.
To matching scarves.
To hot chocolate.
To ordinary moments.
And somewhere along the way, ordinary became my favorite thing.
That realization should probably terrify me. Instead, it feels suspiciously like relief.
The fire pops.
Sadie glances over.
Our eyes meet again, this time neither of us looks away immediately.
Neither of us needs to.
The almost-kiss is already sitting between us.
Neither spoken nor ignored.
Just...there.
Waiting.
The strange thing is that it doesn't feel like something beginning.
It feels like something we've been slowly walking toward for a very long time.
And that's the thought that follows me long after the fire burns low.
Long after I carry Jillie upstairs.
Long after Sadie disappears into the guest room.
Long after the cabin falls silent.
Because for the first time in years, I don't find myself wishing for a different city.
A different team.
A different future.
I find myself wishing this night had lasted a little longer.
Just white silence.
For the first time in months, my mind isn't crowded with hockey.
Not contracts.
Not trades.
Not statistics.
Not the future.
Just them.
Jillie laughing inside a blanket fort.
Sadie smiling over a coffee mug.
The three of us sitting together like we'd been doing it for years.
The realization arrives slowly, then all at once.
I don't want this to be temporary.
Not the bakery.
Not Briar Cove.
Not them.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels suspiciously like certainty.
Because somewhere between grocery stores and school concerts and snowstorms, something changed.
For the first time in years, I'm not imagining a different life.
I'm imagining a life that stays exactly where it is.
And that's when I finally understand the truth.
I don't just want to protect them.
I don't just want to stay.
I want to keep them.
The thought follows me upstairs.
And for the first time in a very long time, it doesn't feel impossible.
It feels like home.