Chapter 8
EIGHT
BOONE
I’m still kissing her when my brain decides I should probably stop.
Not because I don’t want to be doing this. God, I want to be doing this. But because the part of me that’s spent a lifetime stepping back, making room, keeping myself out of the center of things is suddenly very loud.
I pull away first.
Barely.
Just enough that my forehead rests against hers, my breath uneven, my hands still at her waist like they don’t know where else to go.
“I—” I start, then stop, because the apology is already lining itself up. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. This is complicated.
Erica shifts closer instead of pulling away.
“Don’t,” she says quietly.
I blink. “Don’t… what.”
“Don’t apologize.” She looks up at me, eyes steady. “It’s okay.”
Something in my chest loosens. Not all the way. But enough.
“Okay,” I say, because she asked me to believe her.
Silence stretches between us, charged but not awkward. The fire pops behind us. Snow rattles against the windows like it’s trying to remind us the world still exists.
I clear my throat. “So.”
She smiles faintly. “So.”
“I was wondering,” I say, and this feels harder than the confession earlier, somehow. “If you’d go on a real date with me.”
Her brows lift. “A real date.”
“Yeah.”
She glances toward the window, where white still swirls endlessly. “Boone. We’re snowed in.”
“I know.”
“And tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.”
“I also know.”
She laughs softly. “You realize that makes this worse, right.”
I shrug. “Or better.”
She studies me, then tilts her head. “What does a real date look like when you can’t leave the cabin.”
I feel my mouth curve. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
“That’s confidence.”
“I’m improvising.”
She exhales, then nods once. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll go on a real date with you.”
Something warm and electric sparks in my chest.
“Tomorrow,” she adds.
“Tomorrow,” I repeat, like it’s something precious.
That night, I lie awake longer than I should, staring at the ceiling and listening to the wind howl outside.
I think about heart-shaped pancakes and whether we have anything remotely red in the pantry.
I think about whether a date can be romantic if it’s quiet, if it’s simple, if it’s just… showing up.
I hope so.
Because that’s all I know how to do.
By morning, the storm has eased but not lifted. Snow blankets everything, soft and blinding. The internet light on the router blinks stubbornly dark.
I get up early anyway.
I dig through drawers until I find old papers I can sacrifice—notes, junk mail, the edge of a half-filled notebook. I fold carefully, clumsily, until I end up with something that vaguely resembles roses if you squint and don’t think too hard about it.
In the kitchen, I shape pancakes into hearts that are… lopsided, but enthusiastic. I heat up the last of the strawberry preserves and hope that counts as festive.
When Erica comes out, bundled in a sweater with sleep still in her eyes, she stops short.
“Oh,” she says softly.
I rub the back of my neck. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
She smiles, and it’s real, warm. Appreciative. But there’s something tight behind it, too.
We eat together by the fire. Georgie struts in wearing the red bandana collar I fashioned from a scrap of fabric, clearly pleased with herself.
Erica laughs and scratches her chin. “You look very festive.”
Georgie preens.
As breakfast winds down, Erica grows quieter. Her gaze keeps drifting toward her phone.
“You okay?” I ask.
She hesitates, then nods. “Mostly. I just… I have an upload deadline today.”
My stomach dips. “And the internet?—”
“Is very much not working.” She sighs. “I didn’t think I’d care this much, but I really do.”
I stand without thinking. “Let me see what I can do.”
She looks up. “Boone, you don’t have to?—”
“I want to.”
An hour later, I’m crouched near the router with cables spread out like a surgery gone wrong, then outside in the cold adjusting the satellite dish with numb fingers. I swear at the snow, at the sky, at the fact that ice has opinions about where it wants to be.
Finally, a single bar flickers to life.
Inside, Erica watches the upload bar inch forward like it’s a living thing.
When it completes, she exhales shakily and turns to me.
“You did it,” she says.
She crosses the room in three quick steps and kisses me, gratitude and relief and something deeper all tangled together.
I kiss her back, slower this time.
When we part, she rests her forehead against my chest.
“You’ve already done so much,” she murmurs. “And I’m still really excited for our date.”
I smile, brushing my thumb along her jaw.
“I’m only getting started,” I say.
And for the first time, I believe it.