Kait
. . .
I wake up to the smell of leftover pie and the faint thump of Josh’s heartbeat under my ear.
Wait—no. That’s just my imagination running wild because last night on the porch he kissed me like the world was ending and starting all over again in the same breath.
I’m in my own room, tangled in warm sheets that definitely aren’t mine from home, and the only heartbeat is mine hammering against my chest. But the memory of Josh’s mouth—warm, deliberate, tasting like red wine and apologies—lingers like a hickey I can’t hide.
I roll over and stare at the ceiling beams. We’re trying again.
Trying again. The words feel equal parts terrifying and fizzy, like I swallowed a sparkler.
I’m twenty-two, not seventeen. I have a thesis, a part-time office job, and a five-year plan that does not include heartbreak by a long-distance idiot.
Except now the idiot is Josh, and he’s promising new beginnings, and my heart is doing cartwheels while my brain screams to abort the mission.
The door creaks open and Ainsley pokes her head in, hair in a messy bun that looks like it was styled by a tornado. “Rise and shine, lovebirds’ sidekick. Breakfast and gossip in T-minus ten.”
I groan. “I’m not a sidekick. I’m the main character.”
“Main character who made out with her ex on the porch while snow fell like a rom-com filter,” she sing-songs, then disappears.
I drag myself out of bed, throw on leggings and the softest sweater I own, and shuffle into the kitchen.
The scene is pure chaos with Pete flipping pancakes like he’s auditioning for a diner commercial, Micah hunched over his laptop muttering about “algorithmic turkeys,” Jack stealing bacon straight from the pan.
And Josh—God help me—leaning against the counter in gray sweatpants that should be illegal, sipping coffee, hair still damp from a shower wearing a faded t-shirt that clings to his body like a glove.
He spots me and his grin goes lopsided, the same one that used to make me forget curfew.
“Morning, Jamison,” he says, voice all gravel and sunshine.
“Morning, Surfer Boy,” I shoot back, snagging a pancake before Pete can slap my hand. Our fingers brush when he passes the syrup, and yep, there’s the spark. My stomach flips like it’s training for the Olympics.
Hope claps her hands. “Ladies! Town trip. Shopping, lunch, zero testosterone. Ainsley’s driving. Boys, you’re on dish duty and… whatever boys do when unsupervised.”
Jack salutes with a strip of bacon. “Video games and bad decisions.”
Josh’s eyes stay on me as I excuse myself and with one last glance at him, I leave to grab my purse from my room.
Town is a postcard: cobblestone streets dusted with snow, shop windows strung with twinkle lights, a giant Christmas tree in the square that looks like it’s waiting for its close-up.
We hit the boutiques first where Ainsley tries on a hat that makes her look like a Victorian ghost, Hope buys earrings that cost more than my rent, Beth finds a scarf painted with tiny middle fingers.
I score a soft knit beanie that smells like cedar and immediately imagine Josh tugging it down over my ears.
Lunch is at a cozy bistro with exposed brick and a waiter who calls us “ladies” like he’s in a 1950s sitcom. We order mimosas because it’s vacation and carbs don’t count. The second the food arrives—truffle fries, grilled cheeses with fig jam, a salad I pretend to care about—Ainsley pounces.
“Okay, spill. You and Josh. Second chance? Or second heartbreak?”
I choke on a fry. Hope pats my back like I’m a toddler. Beth just smirks, dipping her sandwich in tomato bisque like she’s waiting for the plot twist.
“We’re… trying,” I say, wiping grease from my chin. “New beginning. Different people. Same heart. His words, not mine.”
Ainsley’s eyes go soft. “That’s romantic as hell.”
Hope, ever the realist, leans in. “But long distance? You’re in New York, he’s in LA. That’s three thousand miles of FaceTime and jealousy over frat-party Instagram stories.”
Beth nods. “And time zones. You’ll be asleep when he’s at taco trucks. You’ll be at brunch when he’s surfing. Someone’s always waiting.”
I stab a tomato like it owes me money. “I know. I know. But he’s graduating in a month. He has no concrete plans. Tons of frequent flyer miles. He said—”
“He said a lot of things four years ago,” Hope cuts in, gentle but firm. “I love Josh. We all do. But love isn’t logistics.”
The mimosa suddenly tastes like regret. I stare at my plate, appetite gone. “I’m not nineteen anymore. I won’t wait by the phone. But… what if this time is different?”
Ainsley reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. “Then we’ll be here. With wine and ice cream and murder podcasts.”
Beth raises her glass. “To epic love stories and epic backup plans.”
I clink, but the sparkler in my chest flickers.
Back at the cabin, the guys have apparently turned the living room into a war zone of Nerf darts and empty beer cans. Josh is mid-victory dance, holding a foam sword like he’s king of the nerds. He spots me and his grin falters—just a flicker—before he crosses the room in three strides.
“Hey,” he says, voice low. “Walk with me?”
We bundle up—not overly, just beanies and coats—and head out the back door.
The snow’s melted enough for the trail to be crunchy, not slippery.
He takes my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, fingers lacing through mine, thumb tracing my knuckles.
My heart does that annoying fluttery thing again.
“So,” he starts, “the guys ambushed me.”
“Let me guess. Jack led the intervention?”
“All of them started in as soon as the tires started moving when you guys left, they tag-teamed like the Avengers of bad ideas.” He kicks a pinecone. “They’re worried about the distance. Time zones. My dumb ass history.”
I stop walking. “They’re not wrong.”
He turns to face me, snow catching in his lashes.
“I know. But I’m graduating so soon. I don’t have a job lined up, I have no lease, nothing tying me to LA except sand and overpriced everything.
I’ve got fifty thousand frequent flyer miles burning a hole in my pocket.
I can be here. Or you can be there. Or we can meet in the middle and eat Chicago deep dish until we hate ourselves.
I can move to New York. I have a blank slate, one that has space for you, for us. ”
I laugh despite the knot in my throat. “You’d hate the winters.”
“I’d hate losing you more.” He cups my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks. “I broke your heart once. I was a kid who thought love could survive on vibes and stubbornness. I learned my lesson, Kait. I won’t make that mistake twice.”
My eyes sting. “Promise?”
“Swear on every mile between here and LAX.” He kisses me—soft, slow, a vow. “We’ll make it work. Spreadsheets, calendars, surprise visits. Living together. Living apart. Whatever it takes.”
I lean into him, forehead against his. “You’re still an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he corrects, and I laugh-cry into his coat.
The hike is perfect: hand in hand, boots crunching, breath fogging.
We talk about everything and nothing—his thesis on sustainable surfboard materials, my fairy-tale retellings, the time Beth tried to dye her hair with Kool-Aid and ended up looking like a moldy strawberry.
The trail climbs gently, pines giving way to a clearing at the peak.
The forest spreads below us in a quilt of evergreen and slate, the sky so blue it hurts to look at.
Josh stops at the edge, arms around my waist from behind. “I never stopped loving you,” he says into my hair. “Not for a second.”
I turn in his arms, snowflakes melting on my lashes. “Good. Because I’m not done with you either.”
He kisses me until the cold doesn’t stand a chance.
Back at the cabin, the group’s gathered in the living room, board games spread like a battlefield. We walk in holding hands, and the room goes suspiciously quiet.
Ainsley claps. “Finally!”
Josh squeezes my fingers. “We wanted to say thanks. For worrying. For the interventions. But we’re doing this. Whatever it takes. And maybe next year, Ainsley and Pete won’t be the only couple at Friendsgiving.”
Jack whoops. Beth fake-cries into a pillow. Micah starts a slow clap that catches on until the room’s cheering like we just won the Super Bowl.
Night falls fast. The fire’s crackling, William Shatner’s “Shatner Claus - The Christmas Album”, belting jams, and we’re deep into Monopoly—Josh is the banker and definitely cheating, Jack’s in jail for the third time, Hope’s hoarding hotels like a Bond villain.
One by one, they tap out for the evening, Micah cites “early morning coding session,” Pete carries a giggling Ainsley to bed, Beth declares bankruptcy and face-plants on the couch, giving up and saying only sleep can make her better.
Then it’s just us. Me and Josh, the fire down to embers, the room glowing soft and gold. He tugs me into his lap, hands sliding under my sweater to trace lazy circles on my back.
“Hi,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear.
“Hi,” I whisper back, and kiss him. It’s slow at first—testing, teasing—then deeper, hungrier. His tongue slides against mine, and I’m straddling him before I realize I’ve moved, hips rolling instinctively. He groans into my mouth, hands gripping my ass like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
“Bedroom?” I breathe against his lips.
He stands, lifting me with him like I weigh nothing. “Yours or mine?”
“Mine. The girls, less snoring from that side of the cabin.”
We stumble down the hall, trying to be quiet and failing spectacularly—my hip hits the wall, his shoulder knocks a picture frame crooked.
Inside my room, he kicks the door shut, presses me against it, and kisses me until my knees buckle.
I tug his shirt over his head, palms sliding over warm skin and the faint ridges of abs I definitely didn’t have time to ogle earlier.
“God, I missed this,” he mutters, mouth trailing down my neck. “Missed you.”
I arch into him, fingers in his hair. “Show me.”
He does. Slowly, reverently, like he’s memorizing every inch.
Clothes hit the floor in a whisper of fabric and laughter when my sock gets stuck on his wrist. The bed creaks under us, sheets cool against fevered skin.
It’s not rushed—it’s four years of want compressed into touches and gasps and the way he says my name like a prayer.
His hands roam the entirety of my body as if he’s remembering every inch.
He hovers over my body, his elbows straight, holding him up as he enters me slowly at first, before picking up speed.
He presses in and pulls out. We’re trying our best to be quiet, but the bed is louder than I anticipated as I moan when his hand reaches between us and rubs my clit while he pumps into me, circles his hips and nips at my lips.
Pleasure begins to build as he touches me, fills me, and makes my toes curl as my hips tilt up to meet him thrust for thrust.
My whole world begins to spin, my mouth goes dry and a quickening in my stomach starts as I come undone. He gradually builds up his pace, chasing my orgasm with his own with a feral growl.
Peppering kisses down my shoulder, I melt into him and attempt to control my erratic breathing.
After, we’re tangled in sheets and each other, his heartbeat under my ear for real this time. The cabin is quiet, snow tapping the window like it’s keeping time.
“New beginning?” he asks, voice sleepy.
“Same heart,” I answer, and kiss his chest.
Outside, the world is white and waiting. Inside, it’s just us—older, wiser, and finally on the same page.